At night, the grand hall of the Castle of Schameister, proud herald of the distinct nobility that lived there, was aglow with countless candles, their gentle flames flickering in ornate silver holders, reflected upon the polished marble floor, another proud herald – of unmatched wealth. The room's vastness was enveloped in a soft, amber light, while the high arches, bearing the crests of the house of Schameister and its members, stood as silent sentinels to history, watching the rise of another amongst their ranks. Amidst this glamour, servants bustled, setting the hall for the evening's ceremony, where young Camio would address his vassals.

At the room’s edges, figures draped in colorful velvet and silks murmured softly, their hawkish eyes scanning, judging every little attitude from the new duke while gauging their own places in the new court.

Sir Furcas, a frail elder of the ducal knight talked much of poetry, speaking mostly to Lady Sybella, whose beauty had been the object of art for poets in all corners of the world – and who much understood of their meaning. “I saw a new flower bloom in the garden this morning. It was so very beautiful, truly beyond the harsh reality we here know of this world. Indeed, it was such that I thought the wind might pluck it before the bees could come for it.”

Lady Sybella, her lips curving in a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, responded, “Aye, sir Eryndor, but one can't help but wonder if the flower won’t instead be taken, in the heat of the moment, by some romantic adventurer to his muse.”

In their vicinity, Lord Marchoss, a man whose girth bore testament to his love for feasts, laughed heartily at some jest shared by a fellow lord. However, his mirthful eyes darted occasionally towards his liege, assessing Camio with a mix of drunken amusement and worried calculation. His lands, known previously for their bounty and peace, was now the disputed land of those who wished to crown a new emperor. Even a drunkard could not just let it all go for a day in the tavern.

The ceremony’s trumpet sounded, Camio, draped in the finest silks that depicted the valorous tales of his forebears, from the birth of the empire to his father, and assumed his place in the centre of the hall. The weight of the crown was yet unfamiliar, but he did not allow it to bend him, for his was now the dignity of the Schameister name.

And so, he began, his voice strong as the pillars of the imperial palace, enshrined at the altar of his great house, “Honored vassals, esteemed kin...”

Great a speech and summons to action, but beneath the play of his speech, the silent ploys of politics played on, as the guests made swift judgement of their new liege.

When the night had at last cast its gloomy mood, Camio’s voice halted, recognizing that the time for the speech had ended. Every word had been chosen with care, every sentence crafted to inspire – that part of his job was over. His words hinted at shared power, the promise of a harmonious court, and a prosperous realm – very vaguely defined, one might add. But to those with a keen ear, there were even subtler messages interlaced — veiled threats, cautious offers of alliance, and reminders of oaths sworn.

Sir Furcas, whose wit was aged like the finest wine, had listened with a studied nonchalance. As he knew the duke wished to remind him of his sworn duty, he turned to Lady Sybella, his voice barely more than a whisper, “In every epoch, when the castle’s bells toll a new beginning, there’s always a discordant chime hiding in the shadows. Do you hear it?” His eyes pointed all around. He was, after all, no oath taker – rather a clever free rider.

Lady Sybella's gaze, sharp and discerning, darted around the room along with the knight’s. Every nod of approval, every whispered word, every hand gesture did not escape her. “Indeed,” she whispered back, her voice little more than a mosquito buzzing, “the winds of change carry both promise and peril. And within this hall, not all gusts blow in favour of our pitiable young Duke.”

A hush descended upon the hall when, suddenly, the grand doors of the hall creaked open. A servant, visibly distraught, hurriedly approached the duke. He tried to speak close to his master, but his was a hoarse voice, only heard by Camio – the message causing the young duke’s confident demeanor to falter momentarily. The room, sensing the shift, grew restless. Whispers returned, like a cicada playing its tune. Sir Furcas and Lady Sybella exchanged a knowing look.

Lord Marchoss, whose laughter had previously filled the hall, now looked sobered, his gaze fixed intently on the young Duke.

Camio took a deep breath, regaining his composure. Addressing the assembly, he announced, “It appears there are urgent matters that demand my attention. We shall continue our revelry shortly.” With that, he swiftly exited the hall, leaving behind a room thick with tension, speculation, and the palpable sense that the threads of dissent were already being woven.