The council chamber of Astrelia had always been designed to intimidate. Pillars carved from moonstone stretched toward a ceiling painted with ancient victories, and the long crescent table placed its speakers deliberately far apart, as if daring them to shout across history itself. Jay had already lost patience ten minutes in. “The grain tariffs from the southern coast are not negotiable,” an elder droned on. “If the Future High King intends to take stewardship of a nation, he must first demonstrate—” Jay’s hand struck the table. The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder. “I am not a decorative title,” Jay said coldly. His voice carried far too easily for someone barely eighteen. “And I am not here to rehearse speeches you’ve been repeating since before my parents were born.” Silence fell. Several councilors stiffened. A few looked offended. One looked impressed. Luther stood just behind Jay’s chair, calm as stone, hands folded, eyes sharp. He didn’t intervene. He neve