When the king stepped into Mindis Hall, Tales was breathing with difficulty.
His knees were braced against the carpet of Mindis Hall, feeling waves of coolness.
Many footsteps came from ahead. One led the way with steady steps, while the others rustled behind.
Tales clearly heard his own breathing and realized for the first time how piercing it was.
"Rise, everyone," a familiar voice called out, as heavy as ever.
"This is a banquet, not an Imperial Council—the old men are annoying enough as it is."
No one dared respond.
For a moment, the Duke of Star Lake seemed to have returned to six years ago, when he had first arrived at Mindis Hall in a daze.
Back then, King Kessel had met him for the first time. The solemn atmosphere had seemed ready to crush the floor tiles, leaving the little beggar of that time miserable and speechless.
Tales stared fixedly at the carpet—there shouldn't be iron spikes beneath it—and the duke bitterly realized that after six years of tempering and refinement, when the same scene appeared again, the weight he felt had not diminished in the slightest. If anything, it was even heavier.
King Noon, King Chaman, and all the formidable enemies who had made him so wary—none of them could make him feel this way.
Why?
Why was it like this?
Tales still kept his head lowered.
Whether guests or attendants, guards or servants, people murmured their greetings one after another, their salutations rising without pause.
Yet none of it relaxed Tales's nerves.
At last, those plain yet expensive boots stopped before him.
The tip of the Star Scepter touched the carpet, as if taking root in the ground.
After what felt like a century, a palm appeared before Tales.
The bronze-colored ring symbolizing Royal Authority gleamed