By dawn, the city was buzzing. It started in the bakeries and the barracks, a low-level static of gossip that filtered through the palace gates like smoke.
'The new King killed a senior Authority official.'
'He didn't wait for a tribunal.'
'He touched him, and the man simply stopped breathing.'
Inside the palace, the atmosphere had shifted from the hushed solemnity of grief to a rigid, watchful caution.
Servants moved with lowered eyes, their footsteps lighter on the stone than they had been for decades. Guards stood straighter, their hands resting more firmly on the hilts of their swords. The frantic energy of the transition had crystallized into a singular, sharp focus.
Cassian stood in his room, a single sheet of parchment in his hand—a summary of the morning's intelligence reports. He was dressed in a dark, structured tunic of midnight blue, the only ornament being the silver sovereign seal pinned to his chest.
