The tall double doors of the king's chamber creaked open.
Argon Von Vaise stepped inside.
He now moved like a glacier wrapped in iron: slow, unshakable, and cold enough to steal the breath from the room.
The man who was trying to lighten the mood with horrible jokes was gone.
Behind him, the doors shut with a solemn thud. Crimson and gold tapestries lined the marble walls, and a single chandelier cast fractured light across the floor, like the flicker of fire on oil.
King Lorian Velmoria stood by the window, one hand loosely holding a crystal goblet, the other clasped behind his back. The crown on his head gleamed, a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in his eyes.
When he turned, his smile was nowhere to be seen.
"I didn't summon you for pleasantries, Argon."
His voice was calm—too calm. Like a sword still sheathed.
"You weren't invited to this palace. So I'll ask once: Why are you here?"
Argon didn't speak at first.
