The High Magistrate stood at the epicenter of the tribunal, a figure carved from the very traditions he represented.
His robes were of a heavy, midnight-blue velvet, so ancient the gold embroidery along the hem had frayed into a dull, spectral shimmer.
In his right hand, he gripped the Staff of Law, a gnarled piece of weirwood topped with a crystal that seemed to trap the gray morning light.
When he spoke, his voice was a deep, tectonic rumble that carried to the furthest reaches of the vaulted ceiling.
"By the authority vested in the Imperial Throne," he began, his pace slow and deliberate, "and by the sacred, unyielding Laws of Nevareth, this tribunal is hereby convened."
The Invocation was a ritual as old as the stones of the palace itself. It was designed to strip the room of individual personality and replace it with the cold machinery of the State.
