As Prince Wilander finished speaking, the chief clerk rang the silver bell in his hand.
"Voting will now begin."
Attendants carried velvet-lined wooden boxes through the aisles. The nobles picked up the quills on their desks, dipped them in ink, and wrote their decisions on specially prepared parchment.
The scratching of quills became the only sound in the hall.
Marquis Ironwall, Marcus, sat stiffly back down, his hands pressed against the armrests, his knuckles starkly outlined.
He did not look at Wilander. Instead, he stared at the mural on the dome depicting "The Late King Opening the Seas." The hero in the painting brandished a trident, cleaving through towering waves, a fleet sailing behind him.
How ironic.
The legacy his ancestors had built with glory and blood was now about to be snatched away by some ignorant young upstart with a handful of gold suns and promises.
The core members of the Imperial Faction beside him also maintained the decorum expected of nobles. One count elegantly folded his ballot in half and dropped it into the box, even giving the attendant a slight nod. Another slowly polished his monocle, but the faint trembling of his fingers betrayed him.
Their smiles remained graceful and proper, but beneath those smiles lay nothing but icy coldness.
Diana sat in the seat reserved for Dawn Territory, with Count Lyman not far away. She neither affected elegance like the Imperial Faction nobles opposite her nor remained impassive like Count Lyman. She simply straightened her back, picked up her quill as Earl Dawn, and firmly wrote "In favor" on the parchment.
This was not merely a vote for an ally. It was a vote for the future Uncle Wilander had described, for the hope that the Duchy could break free of the old order and find