Nibadur sighed.
"I see you have yet to understand me."
Zayneth's heart lodged in his throat, a cold lump of dread. "Your Grace, I—"
"Why do you think I am doing all of this?" Nibadur interrupted. He turned, and for a fleeting second, his expression bore a loneliness so vast it seemed it might crush the very room. "I am not measuring the outcome by what I will gain. My reasons are not found in the vanity of a map bearing my colors."
The Spymaster hesitated, why else would he do any of it? Wasn't ambition what moved mankind?
"Because..." he began carefully, "we are in need of a strong hand to steady the realm, and you alone are the one worthy of the scepter."
He met Nibadur's eyes and felt the temperature of the room drop. It was the wrong answer. Zayneth felt a flicker of genuine confusion, was it not the wish of every Great Lord to become King? What other desire existed in the hearts of men? What Prince didn't crave the ultimate crown?
