The uproar still echoed across the hall—shouts, murmurs, whispers of disbelief. But Valttair remained standing, his sword gleaming with unyielding light. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the storm like steel.
"Euclid has been decided," he declared. "Trafalgar will take the seat. The matter is closed."
The clash of voices faltered, then fell silent. One by one, the family members lowered their gazes under the weight of his tone.
A gray-bearded uncle broke the silence first, bitterness in his voice. "You place a Gate under the care of a boy who has barely seen sixteen winters? Are you mad?"
From another table, a cousin added sharply, "What does he know of ruling? You gamble with our strength, Valttair."
An older aunt leaned forward, crimson earrings swaying. "Your wives have heirs more fitting, yet you humiliate them all by naming the bastard."
Murmurs of agreement swept the side tables.
