"Duke Sturmas has arrived, my lord".
The footsteps of heavy boots echo around the bare throne room as the herald's voice dies away to nothing. The duke approaches the lone chair, ornately carved with the histories of the Kingdoms. He slows, stops, and bends his legs into a kneel before the King. The aged face of the monarch scarred with the marks of countless battles, stirs, and observes the Duke.
"Sturmas" the old man murmurs. He rises, his once fine clothing now no more than dull cloths; his crown no more than a rusted ring of metal; his authority no more than a revered memory. Here, the shining beacon that once brought unity to Aygraś stands a relic of days long gone, and days long sought after.
"You know, I trust, the reason for your being here." It isn't a question. It needs no answer, and the Duke knows this. The King's eyes harden, and focus on the face of the Duke before him. The knarled hand, bent from holding a sword all his young life, wanders over the back of the throne. The fingers trace the engravings, the sailing of the Last Furlong and the Flight of Bishaada. They come to rest over the tableau of the treaty of Palasché and the act that made him High King of Aygraś.
"Treachery, Sturmas", the ancient King breathes. "Treachery of the highest order. Have you an explanation?" The King's voice is no more than a whisper. A whisper carrying over the air between them. A whisper now with more authority than a god's decree and more venom than a serpent's hiss. A whisper to change the lives of all who heard it.
The doors open, and through them march the palace guards, high and proud. The sound of the centaurs' hooves jar in the Duke's head, the low chanting of the Shade sets his hairs on end, the hard footsteps of the dwarves resonate in his chest, and the rasp of swords in sheaths chills his blood.
No more was said that night.
