The ancient chamber sprawled before Salomonis as the doors swung shut behind him with a resonant boom that echoed across weathered stone. Centuries of imperial judgments had transpired within these walls, decisions that had altered the course of nations pronounced from the imposing dais that dominated the far end. The chamber predated even the Castle of the Sun itself—a remnant of an earlier age incorporated into the newer structure like a precious relic enshrined in gold.
Massive stone pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, their surfaces carved with intricate histories of the empire's formation. Between them, iron braziers cast flickering light across the room, their flames unnaturally still despite the subtle air currents that stirred Salomonis's robes. The floor beneath his feet displayed a massive ritual circle—its inlaid metals gleaming like liquid in the uneven light, arcane patterns and symbols forming concentric rings of power around a central platform where subjects of imperial inquiry traditionally stood.
In the heart of that circle, a stone table had been positioned—solid black marble veined with gold that caught the candlelight like captured lightning. Four figures awaited him there, their shadows stretching across the ancient flagstones like accusing fingers.
Duke Ephesians Lorvantis occupied the central position, his military bearing evident even seated. His blue-black hair caught the dancing light, creating an impression of barely contained energy despite his perfect stillness. The fur-lined cape draped across his broad shoulders seemed to absorb rather than reflect the surrounding illumination, enhancing the predatory intensity of his posture. His fingers rested lightly upon the table's surface, neither tensed nor entirely relaxed—a subtle reminder of the power they could invoke at a moment's notice.
To the Duke's immediate right sat Commander Tallix, his massive frame draped in ceremonial robes of royal purple that somehow failed to soften his imposing presence. Gold embroidery traced elaborate patterns across the rich fabric, each design representing military campaigns he had successfully commanded.
His broad face—marked by a scar that bisected his right eyebrow before disappearing into his short-cropped hair—remained expressionless, yet his eyes tracked Salomonis with the calculating assessment of a seasoned tactician evaluating a potential threat.
Lady Seriphel occupied the position to the Duke's left, her silver-streaked hair framing a face that time had marked but not diminished. Wrinkles that might have suggested grandmotherly warmth on another woman instead enhanced her aura of piercing intelligence.
Her dark attire featured a fur-lined collar that framed her face like a portrait, drawing attention to eyes that missed nothing. Her hands rested before her, fingers interlaced in a gesture that appeared contemplative but suggested coiled readiness.
Lord Veralis completed the quartet, seated at the table's far end. Unlike his distinguished colleagues, the intelligence master cultivated an appearance of remarkable unremarkability—his features so perfectly balanced between handsome and plain that witnesses often struggled to describe him minutes after looking away.
His attire matched this deliberate anonymity, quality materials cut in styles that suggested prosperity without demanding attention. Only his eyes betrayed his true nature—constantly moving, cataloging every detail while revealing nothing in return.
Death Sun guided Salomonis toward the central position before the table with ceremonial precision, his armored hand firmly gripping the Minister's shoulder. The touch was neither gentle nor particularly rough—simply authoritative, as if guiding a wayward child to stand before disappointed parents.
"The Minister of Lysora, as commanded," Death Sun announced, his resonant voice filling the chamber.
Duke Ephesians tapped a single finger against the table's surface—a gesture so minimal yet commanding that it immediately drew every eye. "Remove his restraints," he ordered. "Whatever our suspicions, he remains a Minister of the Empire until proven otherwise."
Death Sun reached for Salomonis's bound wrists, only to freeze as the Minister casually brought his hands forward, already free. The enchanted manacles lay open in his palms, deactivated without visible effort.
"My apologies," Salomonis said with a pleasant smile that failed to reach his eyes. "I found them rather uncomfortable."
The temperature around Death Sun plummeted as his armored form tensed with barely contained rage. The blue gem at his throat pulsed with dangerous energy, his gauntleted hand instinctively moving toward the massive sword strapped to his back.
"At ease, Commander," Lady Seriphel interjected, her voice carrying surprising authority despite its measured tone. "Your services are no longer required for this session. Please wait outside."
Death Sun's helmet turned toward her, the vertical slit revealing nothing of his expression. For a moment, it seemed he might refuse. Then, with a precision that barely contained his fury, he executed a formal bow.
"As the Council commands," he replied, each word edged with frost. He turned without another word, exiting through the massive doors with mechanical strides that echoed across the ancient stones.
As the doors closed once more, Commander Tallix leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the table. "Was that little performance meant to demonstrate that you could have escaped at any time, Minister?"
Salomonis casually dropped the deactivated manacles onto the ritual circle, where they landed with a metallic clatter that seemed to offend the chamber's solemnity. Rather than taking the traditional supplicant's position standing before the Council, he settled cross-legged on the floor, arranging his robes with deliberate nonchalance.
"Not at all, Commander," he replied, his tone implying they were merely discussing the weather. "I simply found them unnecessary. After all, weren't you the ones who began treating me as a second-class criminal despite my position?"
Lord Veralis slammed his palm against the table, the sudden sound explosive in the chamber's acoustics. "This is not a game, Salomonis!" His previously unremarkable features had transformed with sudden intensity, veins visibly pulsing at his temples. "You will address this Council with the respect it commands!"
Salomonis responded with an exaggerated yawn, covering his mouth with feigned politeness. "My profound apologies," he drawled. "The accommodations you provided have interfered with my usual napping schedule. Now, what exactly did you wish to know? I am, after all, obliged to answer by the Seal you wield, Your Grace." He directed this last comment to the Duke with a knowing glance at the golden medallion that hung from his neck.