Spring came somewhat early to Saint Ludwig.
The magnificent capital, hailed as the "Mother of a Thousand Cities," was already bathed in the gentle warmth of the early spring sun.
People newly dressed in light spring clothes bustled along the broad white-stone avenues. Colorful flags outside the shops fluttered in the breeze, accompanied by the distant, lingering horns of cargo ships entering port along the canal. As the ice and snow melted, all of Saint Ludwig once again brimmed with the prosperity and vitality that inspired the admiration of nations.
In the palace gardens, roses put forth tender green shoots, and dew-beaded buds swayed gently in the breeze-a scene of flourishing life, with all things eager to grow.
Yet that vitality came to an abrupt halt at the bronze doors of the Obsidian Hall.
Inside, the hall remained solemn.
Eight high-backed nanmu chairs surrounded a round black-stone table, the heraldic crests of the Empire's eight Prince-Elector families standing in silent dignity on their backs.
Light poured through the tall glass windows, slicing the spring day into dappled fragments.
Those patches of light drifted silently across the marble floor and brushed over the purple-and-gold robes of the eight seated Privy Dukes, casting shadows of varying depths across their rigid faces.
A large, iron-gauntleted hand slammed a battle report onto the table.
The oak tabletop groaned in protest. Black tea splashed, staining the red velvet tablecloth.
"Disgraceful!"
The voice of the imperial chancellor, Duke Konrad Eisenheim, thundered through the hall, deep and searing, charged with anger and power.
The old man known as the Iron Hand sprang to his feet, his gray eyes raking fiercely across every face on either side of the round table.
"This is the greatest disgrace in the three hundred years since the Empire's founding!"
Conrad jabbed a