The morning air was heavy, the kind that pressed on the chest and made breathing an effort. The echoes of yesterday’s execution still lingered in the city streets — whispers carried through taverns, markets, and noble parlors alike. The blood of the appointed Crown Prince had soaked into the execution block, and now, the kingdom braced for the next storm: the trial of Lord Peter Nightshade.
The Council chamber was already crowded long before the king arrived. Nobles stood shoulder to shoulder, their silks and jewels unable to hide the nervous sweat on their brows. The commoner representatives sat stiffly in their seats, unsure whether to feel vindicated or horrified.
When King Paul entered, every conversation died in an instant. His expression was carved from granite, his voice clipped a
