The whispers in the hall were no longer mere gossip; they were a storm.
The mention of the Holy Empire—the theocratic powerhouse that had been at a cold-war standstill with the Viremount Empire for decades—sent a chill through the room that surpassed the Duke's icy aura.
"The Holy Empire?" Alaric's voice was low, a dangerous growl that seemed to vibrate the very stone Julian sat upon. "You would invite our enemies into our sanctuary? You would let their 'Purifiers' lay hands on a citizen of Viremount just to satisfy your paranoia?"
Aurelian stood tall, the sunlight from the high windows catching the gold embroidery of his robes. He looked down at his brother with a cold, detached pity.
