The winter sun cast long, brittle beams through the stained-glass windows of Vincelles Palace, its light fractured into shades of crimson and gold that danced upon the stone floor like dying embers.
King Theodric of Francia, ruler by divine right and sword, sat upon his throne — a tall chair of whitewood inlaid with lapis and iron, the crest of House Veillair glinting beneath his fur-lined mantle.
He had not moved in some time.
Before him, the great hall was quiet save for the murmuring of scribes, the rustle of maps, and the faint crackle of hearthfires.
Tension, unspoken but thick, hung in the air like smoke before a storm.
He was listening.
Listening to the death throes of his kingdom beginning to unfold.
A courier bowed low at the foot of the dais.
His boots were caked in road-grime.
His voice wavered slightly.
