The waiting room felt like some kind of royal dungeon.
Everyone sat stiff. Stiffer than Papa's ironed cuffs. Tension hung in the air so thick, you could probably slice it, roast it, and serve it on a silver platter with a side of imperial garnish.
Papa set me neatly beside him on the plush velvet couch, like a precious ornament—something fragile, glittering, and possibly dangerous if dropped. I, of course, was busy gnawing on my golden pacifier. Priorities.
Across from us sat Grandpa Gregor, cloaked in black like he'd swallowed a thunderstorm, and Grand Duke Regis, who looked like he hadn't smiled since the empire's founding. Between them, an untouched pot of tea sat steaming gently, like it knew better than to interrupt.
"The merchants in the western provinces still resist imperial oversight," Grand Duke Regis was saying, voice smooth but tight like a noose. "Several trade routes remain under independent control."
Papa didn't blink. His voice was cool as polished steel.
