The steam rising from the porcelain cup was, quite frankly, offensive. It smelled like boiled hay and regret, the specific brand of "bitter health" the royal physicians insisted would help King Alderon's health. He sat in the oppressive stillness of his private study, a room where the shadows always seemed a bit too eager to swallow the candlelight.
Then...
"Your Majesty! A letter! From the North!"
The door swung open hard enough to rattle the frame. The messenger looked like he'd been dragged through the bowels of a blizzard, frost-bitten, salt-stained, and smelling of horse sweat. In his hands was a letter with the unmistakable seal of the House of Valtrane.
Alderon didn't reach for it. He stared. For a heartbeat, he was convinced that if he touched it, the wax would crumble into ash and tell him bad news. He waited, his chest tight, his own breathing sounding like dry leaves skittering across stone.
