The grand audience hall of King Eric Valdris was not supposed to sound like this.
The vaulted ceiling soared forty feet overhead, supported by marble columns carved with the royal seal of Elysium.
Golden light filtered through enchanted windows, casting everything in a warm, majestic glow that was meant to inspire confidence and stability.
The polished stone floor reflected candlelight from a thousand sconces.
And yet the hall was filled with frantic murmurs.
One elderly merchant, his face deeply lined with age and stress, stepped forward with desperate urgency. "Your Majesty, we beg the Crown to deploy heavy military garrisons along the western roads. Active patrols. Armed escorts for merchant convoys. Whatever resources are necessary. We are not asking for profit, we are begging for survival."
