The next morning, the grand halls of the imperial palace stretched before Vyan as he approached the trial that awaited him. The accusation of murder hung heavy with whispers, yet he walked completely unbothered and confident, as if nobody's scrutiny could touch him.
Clyde trailed behind. His presence was unusually quiet, and Vyan could practically feel the tension radiating from him.
"Do you think this plan will work?" Clyde asked, his tone more conversational than concerned, but Vyan caught the nervous edge in his aide's voice.
"Why wouldn't it? This is a noble tradition, after all," Vyan mused.
Clyde huffed a laugh, though it lacked true amusement. "It's absurd, really. The idea that you would take this path—"
Before he could finish, a figure caught his eyes at the far end of the hall. Her dress, once a regal shade of brightness, was now wrinkled and black, her lively face drawn and pale.
