The Yarzat envoy rose with an unhurried air around him, offering a comfortable bow as the Emperor finally swept into the luxurious reception solar. The man had been made to wait for the better part of half an hour, surrounded by gilded trimmings and heavy silks reserved for the friend of Romelia.
"Your Imperial Majesty," the envoy murmured, his voice as smooth as the oiled hair Marcellus had.
Mesha offered a concise, imperial nod in return. "It has been quite some time, Ser." He glided toward the velvet high-backed chair and took his seat, letting the heavy folds of his state robes settle around him.
"Ser Aron," Keval muttered then from a halfstep behind the throne. The Spymaster gave a sharp, lordly nod that was entirely laced with an inquisitive gaze. Keval's eyes practically peeled back the layers of the envoy's appearance, dissecting everything from the quality of his southern tailoring to the precise angle of his formal boots.
