Kaelen's POV.
As Varro and I crossed the threshold, the air in the Great Hall seemed to displace itself to make room for us.
"Your Grace."
The voice belonged to a captain of the guard, a man I had seen bloodied and snarling in the trenches only days ago. Now, he was on one knee. Behind him, a dozen others followed suit, their armor clattering against the floor in a synchronized wave of submission.
I kept walking, my eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors of the strategy chamber.
Your Grace. The title was clean and perfect but lacked the satisfaction and magnitude that were meant to embody it.
Varro was a half-step behind me. I could feel him through the bond, a steady, rhythmic pulse that acted as a damper on the Dominion's raw static.
"The reports are waiting, Kaelen," Varro said quietly.
"Then let's begin," I said. My voice was steady.
We entered the chamber. The map of the continent was spread across the central table, weighted down by iron markers.
