The murmurs grew louder among the council members, some nodding with unease.
But Madam Beckett didn't flinch. She simply raised her chin, her voice smooth and cold.
"The Sovereign will rise," she said, her gaze locked onto Silas like frost through glass. "And when he does, he'll remember which voices chose fear—and which stood in faith."
Silas bowed his head stiffly, jaw tight, his silence more telling than any retort.
Before long, a calmer voice rose through the tension like a blade of reason slicing through fog.
Anthony Ashbourne—youngest among the council and perhaps the most idealistic—finally spoke.
"We must hold faith in the Sovereign," he said firmly, his voice echoing against the chamber's cold stone. "The Realm cannot endure if we gather only to serve our own ambitions."
He glanced around the room with clear, unflinching eyes.
"We are Purebloods. Pride means nothing without loyalty."
