The ballroom of the High Palace was a cathedral of light and glass, designed specifically to overwhelm the senses.
Five thousand candles flickered in tiered chandeliers of crystal, casting a glow that turned the polished marble floor into a mirror of gold and white.
But for all the opulence, the atmosphere was frigid.
The air didn't hum with the usual mindless chatter of the court; it vibrated with the low-frequency static of a kingdom divided.
Every laugh was too high, every bow too shallow.
Standing at the edge of the dais, the Cathedral's official envoy—a man named Bishop Joe—did not wear the celebratory white of a royal engagement for priests during event like this. He was draped in the somber violet of penitence.
When the time came for the ceremonial invocation—the blessing that was supposed to tie the King's choice to the divine will—Joe stepped forward. He did not raise his staff. He did not call upon the Light of the Core to sanctify the union.
