The King's butler stepped forward and clapped his hands, sharp and commanding. He was nauseated by those present in the hall. Disrespectful! The sound echoed through the marble pillars like a sacred drumbeat, silencing the throne hall in a breath. How dare they were to scuff at their King!
Every gaze turned to the dais, and the murmurs fell into reverent stillness.
Then the King spoke, his voice not booming, but clear. Timeless. The voice of a ruler who had once conquered nations with mere presence. And these greedy royals must know, he was not dead yet.
"Today, we are gathered to decide the fate of the sorcerers," he began, his eyes sweeping across the assembly. "A fate we once stripped from them with iron and fire. Perhaps too harshly. Perhaps too soon."
He paused.
