Every eye around the table shifted away from Alderon and landed squarely on Yerel.
The room held its breath. Emrys leaned forward, his thin fingers trembling slightly against his parchment files, while Orvian watched Yerel with the desperate, wide-eyed hope of a drowning man looking for a lifeline. The anxiety in the council chamber was almost thick enough to taste, a raw, collective dread that the House Valtrane was quietly swallowing the kingdom's foreign ties whole while the central court sat bound by royal oaths.
Yerel didn't flinch. He sat back in his seat , looking completely unbothered by the sudden weight of the entire council's desperation. A smooth, gentle smile rested on his lips, the exact, practiced expression of a gracious, composed heir who had everything under control.
He let the quiet stretch for two long seconds before he finally moved, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.
