The Great Hall, once radiant with celebration, had descended into a graveyard of stunned silence.
Swords glinted cold against the marbled floor—one held by the throat of the emperor, the other by the empress—both forced to their knees before the throne they once ruled. Their dark green ceremonial robes, symbols of their imperialism, now felt almost mocking in contrast to the turn of events unfolding before their eyes.
It didn't take long for realization to ripple through the ranks of nobility like a whisper born from a nightmare. This wasn't a coronation. This was an execution of power.
A coup.
Planned meticulously by none other than Princess Althea.
And brought to life with the hands of the Grand Duke of Ashstone—Vyan.
Small gasps rose, followed by the first shuffles of retreat. Panic scratched at their throats, and several nobles turned, thinking perhaps they could flee before the storm reached them.
They couldn't.
Slam.
