The Stormborne king moved with controlled, lethal calm. His gaze swept the hall once—cold, assessing, absolute. Every minister bowed deeply, the weight of his presence pressing down on them like a gathering storm.
He ascended the dais and took his throne.
King Valerian did not speak at once.
He let the silence stretch.
It pressed down on the Grand Hall like a gathering storm cloud—thick, heavy, suffocating. Ministers who had been bold enough to lift their heads after bowing now kept their eyes firmly lowered. Even the most seasoned among them felt it: the tension coiled beneath the king's stillness, restrained but volatile.
Valerian rested one hand against the arm of his throne, fingers unmoving. His gaze swept the hall slowly, deliberately, taking in every face. When his eyes lingered, ministers stiffened, hearts pounding as if awaiting judgment.
Only then did he speak.
"Where is Cornelius Raventhorn?"
A ripple went through the hall.
Tiberin's eyes narrowed.
