As the golden sun dipped beneath the towers of Yarzat, casting long, blood-orange shadows across the palace stones, the court inside was far from still. In the wake of the princedom's most harrowing crisis to date, they had been busy cleaning the aftermaths.
The corpse of the heretical priest, or what remained of it after his miraculous "death before judgment," had finally been sentenced—executed in full accordance with royal decree, if only for formality's sake.
Scribes worked feverishly to document the payment of fines levied upon the rebel lords, their ink-stained hands working on the pillars of Alpheo's great plans. Hostages, the sons and brothers of once-proud noble houses, were led into the audience chamber to receive their gilded shackles: ceremonial court titles, designed to make prisoners look like honored guests.
