The grand hall of Fror’s castle blazed with ostentatious light—hundreds of chandeliers dripping with crystals, tables groaning under platters of exotic meats, fruits, and pastries flown in from distant lands. Everywhere one looked, gold gleamed: on the goblets, the embroidered banners, even the servants’ livery. It was meant to scream power and wealth, a deliberate display by the new occupier of the throne.
But the facade was thin.
The crystal chandeliers flickered because half the candles were cheap tallow instead of beeswax. The gold on many goblets was fresh paint over tarnished silver. Servants darted with strained smiles, their uniforms slightly too tight or too loose —borrowed or hastily altered. The air carried the faint, unmistakable scent of rot beneath the heavy perfumes: food
