Silent Court.
Prince Wilander Orange's residence stood on an isolated island in the southwestern corner of the Royal Capital, like a beast that had lain dormant for years and was slowly opening its eyes.
This once-forgotten island had become the eye of the storm of power once again.
The moss that had once overgrown the stone bridge connecting it to the main island had been scrubbed away, replaced by the heavy, orderly tread of black-armored patrols. The clang of metal boots against stone echoed over the canal like some merciless rhythm.
Every seat around the long conference table in the prince's council hall was occupied.
Those present were all minor and middling nobles-not just Baron Warren, but dozens of viscounts, barons, and powerful knights with prosperous fiefs from Coastal Province and the lands surrounding the Royal Capital.
At that moment, these nobles were sitting on pins and needles.
Their fiefs lay close to the Royal Capital, leaving them nowhere to run. Ordinarily, they dared neither openly oppose the surging True Source Sect nor offend the long-feared Church. They could only retreat into their estates, turn a blind eye, and struggle to preserve a crumbling order.
However viciously the two sides fought behind the scenes, they could only pretend not to notice, like "orphans" abandoned amid the struggle.
The hall doors opened.
Prince Wilander walked in.
He wore plain black clothes without a single decoration, but his innate air of authority brought everyone to their feet.
Behind him came a young man in a dark gray scholar's robe.
The Count of White Tower-Weilin Klein.
That name had become familiar in noble circles lately: the "freak" from Gray Sea Bay.
Veylin walked to the end of the long table, set down a thick stack of parchment, and calmly took his seat.
"Gentlemen."