The Regent’s throne room was colder than usual. Torches guttered in their iron brackets, their flames weak and shivering as though the very air resisted fire. The marble floor gleamed with polished perfection, but its reflection showed only the pale faces of the men and women gathered within.
The Regent sat high upon the throne, its gilded arms gleaming in the dim light. His crown was small, a circlet of silver, yet it seemed to dig into his skull as if reminding him of the weight he bore. His hands curled against the armrests, drumming faint rhythms, sharp and impatient.
On the long table at the chamber’s center lay scrolls, reports, and broken seals. Many were scrawled with shaky handwriting, others stained with dirt or blood. None of them were clear, but all whispered the same thing:
