The Weight of Silence
The council chamber smells of beeswax candles and old ambition, a combination Karim has come to recognize as the particular perfume of men who want something they cannot simply take. Morning light slants through the tall arched windows, catching motes of dust that drift above the long obsidian table like tiny, indifferent spirits. Karim stands two paces behind and to the right of the throne, exactly where protocol dictates the head mage should stand, hands folded into the wide sleeves of his indigo robes, spine straight enough to make his old tutor weep with pride.
His stomach, however, is doing something considerably less dignified. A low, persistent roll, as though the floor beneath him has decided to breathe.
He blames the fish from last night. He blames nerves. He blames anything but the truth crouched in the back of his mind, because there is no room today for that truth. Not with Duke Cassian's voice already slicing through the chamber's hush like a blade through silk.
"Your Majesty, the matter of succession grows more urgent with each passing season." Cassian rises from his seat with the theatrical slowness of a man who has rehearsed this moment in front of a mirror. He…
