The Capital Building stands tall and still, a monolith of stone and willpower, its steepled arches blotting out the last pale gleam of the moon. Inside, the air hums with quiet urgency. Every footfall echoes. Every whisper feels like it might be recorded, cataloged, studied.
Albert enters through the grand corridor, his security detail fading into the backdrop like trained shadows. Aides bow their heads as he passes, murmuring updates, handing off papers. He barely glances at them. His focus is already ahead, on the council chamber...and what waits within.
Chair Gustav Romanova is seated at the head of the table, hands clasped calmly before him. The rest of the High Council fill their places in neat, polished rows. Across from them, standing in practiced solemnity, are the white-robed clergy of the Church. At their center, Minister Josef Lowell watches Albert with unreadable eyes. Ever the perfect holy man in the public eye.
