As Prince Willandar finished speaking, the Chief Scribe rang the Silver Bell in his hand.
"The voting will now begin."
Attendants carrying wooden boxes lined with velvet moved 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 grand hall.
Marquis Marcus, the Iron Wall, stiffly sat back in his seat, his hands pressed on the armrests, the outlines of his knuckles clearly visible.
He didn't look at Willandar. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the mural on the vaulted ceiling depicting the "First King Parting the Sea." In the painting, a hero brandished a trident, cleaving through giant waves, a fleet with sails unfurled at his back.
'How ironic.'
'The legacy our ancestors forged with honor and blood is about to be stolen by some clueless upstart with a handful of Golden Suns and empty promises.'
