The hall of the sunstone palace was a blade of light. Morning sunlight poured through tall arched windows and struck the polished aisle in a strip so bright the inlaid marble looked molten. Harrowgate’s ceremonial chamber smelled of lemon oil and beeswax, a faint tang of roast lamb still clinging from the banquet preparations. The banners of houses hung in patient color—golden stags, a silver wave, a black tower—while the Chancellor’s household knelt on the velvet of the dais like a carved chorus. Eaton Bernard’s jaw was as carved as any part of the room; his hands lay clenched at his knees beneath the weight of his silver seal. Clark Devine stood in the center, robe falling to the floor, voice even as a bell. The Grand Steward’s role was pure theatre—he announced, the Empire decided—and today his tone held the exact balance between ceremony and command. He read the Emperor’s edict as if every word had teeth. "By decree of His Radiance, Emperor Lucian the Second," Clark intoned, "it is proclaimed that Crown Prince Alfredo of House Simpson shall be betrothed and thereafter united in consort to a household of this court in the month of the Harvest Moon. The Emperor wills representation be present to bind the alliance. Let all witness and bear record." Silence spread like a ripple. The Chancellor’s household felt the air compress. Angela Bernard sat like a coiled thing; the Chancellor’s legitimate daughter