The sun did not rise over the Northern Palace with the golden splendor of the Imperial crown.
Instead, the sky was a bruised, sickly gray... a pale expanse of light that seemed filtered through a shroud.
It was an ominous dawn, washed out and uncertain, as if the heavens themselves were hesitant to witness what was to follow.
Throughout the palace, the bells began to toll. They were deep and resonant, their vibrations shaking the frost from the stone windowsills.
The sound was neither celebratory nor mournful; it was a rhythmic, ritualistic clanging that announced the convening of the High Tribunal.
It was the sound of history being forged in real-time. In every corner of the empire, from the highest noble's chambers to the lowliest servant's quarters, people paused. They held their breath, suspended in a state of tense anticipation. The empire was waiting.
