The entire room was lavish to the point of excess, every inch of it screaming wealth and status. The throne itself was not simply plated but forged from pure gold, its polished surface reflecting the faint light like molten sunlight frozen in place. Ornate carvings shaped like lions and vines trailed along its legs, as if mocking anyone who dared approach.
Even the paintings on the walls were masterworks—each framed in dark mahogany and depicting historical conquests—and the banners hanging high bore embroidery with threads that shimmered faintly. The fabric wasn't local; Corven recognized the southern silk weavers' work at a glance. Every detail here was a reminder that this city's coffers were fattened by the shadows of its black market.
"Guards!"
The viscount's voice rang out sharply, echoing in the chamber like a whip crack.
