The eastern wing of the palace had never looked so alive.

Dozens of crystal chandeliers bathed the ballroom in golden light, refracting off columns carved from moonstone and high windows draped in velvet. The walls shimmered faintly with magic—illusionary roses blooming and fading in an endless loop across the frescoed trim. Nobles moved like a living tide across the polished floor, their voices rising and falling beneath the haunting strains of strings and flutes. Laughter here, gossip there. Magic sparked in idle fingers like careless embers.

You stood just at the ballroom entrance, where the eastern corridor met the threshold to royalty. Your post was precise: left of the arched doorway, close enough to see everything, far enough not to be seen.

You'd never been this close to the highblooded.

Through the open archway, you had a clear view into the ballroom. Marble steps swept downward into the heart of the room, where a circular platform sat elevated just slightly—perhaps a foot or two above the floor. A dais reserved for royalty. It was there that the herald now stood, preparing to announce the names that had silenced the entire court.