After leaving Henri behind, Glen walked down the corridor, passing doors that opened into empty chambers, rooms that were once meant to be full of imperial kin. They should've been alive with laughter, with the chatter of cheerful descendants. Instead, they were dead, silent, cold, and hollow.
For a second, Glen felt a twinge of pity over the emptiness. But just as quickly, it vanished. He didn't care. If everyone in the palace had betrayed him, then everyone would meet the same end, man or woman, didn't matter.
It wasn't about a hunger for power. No, it was about guarding the throne that had been handed to him by the strongest Duke in all of Aetharion.
His steps halted near a long hallway where a grand portrait hung on the left wall. It was of him, standing tall in full regalia, robes cascading down, right hand clutching the Scepter, left gripping the Orb. A magnificent crown sat atop his head, glittering with jewels, plated in pure gold that shimmered like firelight.
