The Grand Ballroom, moments before filled with the chaotic, drunken revelry of a thousand aristocrats, was now so silent that the erratic ticking of the Emperor's pocket watch could be heard from the dais.
Aeron stood on the first marble step, the unfolded ledger resting in his bare hand.
"You are mad," the Emperor sputtered, his face shifting from purple to a sickly, ash-grey. "You forge documents to usurp your own father? The treasury is vast! Arindale is prosperous!"
"Arindale is bankrupt," Aeron corrected, his voice a low, vibrating hum that echoed flawlessly against the gold-leafed ceiling. He didn't yell. The terrifying calm of his delivery made the words cut deeper. "You have emptied the reserves to fund fifty years of peacocks, champagne fountains, and velvet drapes. And when the vaults ran dry, you did not temper your vanity. You sold our sovereignty."
Aeron turned slightly, ensuring his voice carried to the rows of stunned Dukes, Earls, and foreign dignitaries.
