The storm had not yet broken, but its presence hung heavy in the air. Dark clouds rolled like smoke above the capital's towering spires, casting long shadows through the stained-glass windows of the Imperial Court. Inside, the hall echoed with murmurs, the tension simmering just beneath layers of velvet and gold.
Cassian Caerwyn sat with measured calm, his silvery ash-blond hair brushed neatly back, eyes the color of misted glass surveying the chamber. His House banner—a silver stag crowned in thorns against a twilight-blue field—hung behind him, a symbol of endurance and loyalty, of borderland steel.
He folded his gloved hands over his lap, ignoring the stares.
An Omega. In the front arc.
The nobles' silence was more telling than words. Their gazes flickered like candlelight—some curious, others openly dismissive. A few bristled with barely veiled disdain. Yet none dared speak. Not yet. The storm hadn't broken.
Across the hall, Leontius Caerwyn sat rigidly beside the Duchess Ariadne, his jaw clenched, golden eyes narrowed in disdain—or was it confusion? His presence was like a flame behind glass: contained, but volatile.
"Begin," came the voice of High Chancellor Faelan Orris, seated just left of the throne.
The scrolls unfurled. Discussions began. Trade, border patrol, Aether-tax reform. Petty disputes flared and fizzled. Cassian listened, lips still, weighing everything.
Then two Alpha lords began to argue—over a river trade route, no less.
One stood, snarling. The other bared his teeth. Neither gave way.
Cassian rose.
The chamber stilled.
An Omega. Interrupting Alphas.
"Enough," Cassian said, voice smooth as winter rain. "We are not beasts quarreling over bone. If you wish to claw each other, do so outside the court."
A pause.
Then, movement beside him. "Secretary Alwen," he said.
A young Beta stepped forward and handed him a folder.
Cassian scanned it—and paused.
Ashen Coil.
It was a whisper. A warning. The words printed on the document seemed to burn colder than the storm outside. He said nothing, but something in him shifted. Not fear—anticipation. Recognition.
From across the crescent table, someone watched.
A man seated apart from any House, his face unreadable. Dark-haired. Silver-eyed. An observer, unnamed. Not announced.
Their eyes met for the briefest moment.
No words passed.
But the court stormed with them in silence.