The journey was a blur of silent roads and intimidating guards. But nothing prepared Maya for the sheer scale of the palace.
The main gates were monumental—a vast, intricate fortress of black wood and polished brass, guarded by figures carved in stone. As she was led through the massive portal, she felt utterly, terrifyingly small. She was dwarfed by the architecture, the sheer, crushing weight of royal power.
She was a tiny speck of foreign sand dragged into a mountain of marble and gold.
Every step deeper into the inner courts felt like walking into a trap. The air was thick, not with market spices, but with the cold, sterile scent of age and ambition.
She was dressed in the finest she owned, yet she still felt like a pauper, a curiosity, and possibly, an intruder.
Finally, she was ushered into the Grand Court. The room was immense, lined on both sides with hundreds of ministers, scholars, and nobles, all dressed in stunning, rigid formality. The collective scrutiny of a hundred judgmental eyes focused on her was a physical force.
Maya stood on the central marble platform, alone, exposed, and vulnerable, facing the unblinking, hostile gaze of the entire royal government.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the cold, measured footsteps of the man who would determine her fate.
The Prime Minister had arrived.