The royal court convened under an emergency decree. Ryker stood along the shadowed edge of the chamber, watching nobles argue and posture as flames from the high sconces danced across the gilded walls. At the head of the chamber, King Everard sat tall upon the granite throne, his cloak draped with the royal sigil of the phoenix. Though his silver-streaked beard gave him a regal air, the weight of recent events had etched deep lines into his brow. His gaze swept over the assembly—stern, calculating, and unmistakably wearied.
"Raise tariffs on border merchants," viscount Caelin proposed from the council floor, smoothing the front of his deep green robe. "Cut off their influence. We must show strength before our enemies smell weakness."
Ryker's jaw clenched. "Caelin" This was one of the noble that the system had inform him about and had relatively high influence according to the system, though what strike him odd was the fact that according to Brent viscount caelin is one of those noble who, for years, had championed open borders and foreign investment. Now he was advocating the opposite? The reversal was too sudden—too suspicious.
Beside him, Brent leaned in and muttered under his breath, "He's playing both sides. Either that, or someone's holding his leash."
Ryker gave a tight nod. "We need proof. And fast."