The High Magistrate's staff struck the stone floor with a hollow, rhythmic thud that signaled a momentary reprieve.
"This tribunal will recess for one half-hour," he announced, his voice echoing with the practiced indifference of a man who had overseen a thousand such pauses.
It was standard procedure, a necessary breath in the lungs of the law.
To the observers in the gallery, there was nothing alarming about it. It was, in fact, the ultimate illusion of control.
The chairs shifted, the heavy rustle of silk and wool filling the chamber as the tension partially deflated. Low murmurs began to ripple through the noble clusters.
Servants entered with silver trays of water and dampened cloths, moving with the mechanical business of waiting. It looked like any other day of high court. It looked like order.
Soren did not move. He remained seated on the high throne, his hands flat against the cold stone armrests, watching the room with a gaze that saw too much and not enough.
