The council chamber buzzed like a hive disturbed. Ministers and nobles argued over trade routes, rising tensions with the Iron Empire, and whispers of rebellion in the northern strongholds. Luther listened without shifting his expression, his fingertips steepled beneath his chin. The polished obsidian table reflected his gaze back at him, cold, focused, unwavering.

He noted which lords spoke too eagerly, which avoided eye contact, which were beginning to align themselves with Queen Adara’s faction. Rumors were blades in this room, sharp enough to draw blood without ever leaving a mark. The more the voices clashed, the more he understood exactly who sought advantage in the chaos.

Scrolls were placed before him, reports stamped with urgency. Supply lines strained. Pirates threatened the southern ports. And beneath it all, veiled criticisms of his “bastard princes” crept like poison through every suggestion masked as concern.

He didn’t rise. He didn’t need to. One slow, controlled breath was all it took to calm the storm coil tightening in his chest. His blue eyes swept the room once more, a silent warning in their winter hue.

Luther finally spoke, voice low but carrying power that silenced the entire table.

“Enough. We will restore order, starting with the truth you all seem so afraid to speak.”