The courtroom fell into a suffocating silence. No one dared to speak. The council members exchanged glances—each already certain of their verdict.
Alastair of House Azraral, usually composed and reserved, stepped forward. His tone was flat, but his words cut deep.
"Emmet, what you've done is a stain upon the crown."
"You were never meant to hold the throne—not even in His Majesty Claude's absence. You are simply unfit to be King."
His voice echoed, stirring murmurs among the nobles. The unspoken truth had finally been voiced. The council's direction was now clear.
"I stand with Lord Donovan's legacy," Alastair continued, "and his final order was to kneel before the one who bears the Specter of Doom and the Sovereign Orb." He smirked.
"But you can't hold them, can you?"
Emmet's face tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. "So, the quiet one finally speaks—just to see me fall."
