The capital of Orestes was a city of dying grandeur, its white marble walls stained with the soot of recent skirmishes and its streets echoing with the hollow footsteps of a defeated populace. The scent of burnt oak and stale sweat hung heavy in the air, drifting through the open corridors of the Royal Palace. Inside the throne room, the atmosphere was thick with a tension so sharp it felt as though the very shadows were vibrating. Constantine stood on the dais, his dark cloak spilling like a pool of ink over the plush velvet carpet. He did not sit on the throne—not yet. He stood beside it, his fingers tracing the gilded armrest with a clinical detachment.
Before him knelt Baron Valerius, a man whose noble lineage was as long as his backbone was short. The Baron was trembling, his eyes da
