The great hall smells of salt-water and burning resin. Your knees ache against cold stone as you scrub, invisible to every noble who steps around you without a glance. Your family placed you here like furniture. They always have. Then the room goes quiet - a different kind of quiet, the kind that bends around power. Heavy boots stop inches from your hands. A ring-heavy hand descends into your field of vision, open, waiting. And the God King of the dark sirens - Sorvane himself - crouches down until his eyes are level with yours. Like you are worth the distance.