The Grand Hall filled up for the morning audience was a cavern.
Cassian sat on the high dais, his hand resting on the carved lion head of his throne. The gold-inlaid leather of his armor creaked with every micro-movement of his shoulders.
For the past two years, since Elias entered the castle, the throne room had possessed a specific weight; it had been balanced by the presence to his left.
Elias had always occupied the adjacent chair, offering those small glances, the slight tilts of his head, and the silent, grounding reassurances that made the sheer pressure of the crown bearable.
Now, Elias's chair was empty.
The velvet was pristine, uncreased, and entirely devoid of life. Elias was in the lower administrative wing, he had no time for the transactional vanity of morning audiences.
A minor lord from the Merrow border approached the base of the dais, bowing low before launching into a standard grievance regarding timber quotas.
