The grand throne room of Sturgon was quiet, but the air was thick with tension.
Mandira knelt on the cold marble floor, her head lowered in respect. Before her, King Soris Sturgon sat mightily upon his obsidian-carved throne, eyes sharp with judgment. His crimson cape flowed down the sides like a river of blood. The councilmen flanked him on either side, whispering in hushed tones.
"You disappoint me, Archmage Mandira," Soris said slowly, his voice as cold as the stones beneath her knees. "You were in charge of the situation at the dungeon. Yet here we are. No Sir Juno. No Shennong. And dungeons opening across the kingdom like weeds in spring."
Mandira lifted her head slightly, surprised by the king's opening remarks. But what startled her more was what hadn't been said yet.
"Your Majesty," she began carefully,
