The news of Dunharrow and the Riverlords’ assembly reached the Serpent Throne like a bitter draught. In the obsidian halls of Elandor, where shadows clung to every pillar, King Varrow sat upon his throne of black stone, listening in silence as his spies reported.
The air was heavy with incense, though it did little to hide the stench of fear that lingered among the courtiers.
“The Phoenix lives,” whispered the spymaster, a hunched figure with hands like claws. “Not only lives, but gathers banners. The Riverlands rise beneath him.”
A ripple of unease spread through the chamber. Nobles shifted on their feet. Some muttered prayers under their breath.
But Varrow did not stir. His serpent crown glinted in the dim torchlight. Only when silence had stretched to a knife’s edge did he speak.
“
