The marble halls of the Magnaura were quiet, but not calm.
The whispers of scribes echoed faintly beneath the dome, carried by the drifting scent of incense and old paper.
Outside, the afternoon sun glinted off golden mosaics, but the chamber was darkened by heavy drapes; drawn as if to contain whatever storm now gathered within.
Emperor Constantine VIII sat slumped on his throne, one elbow propped on the gilded armrest, fingers tapping the carved lion's mane with a thin, irritated rhythm.
Before him stood what remained of the Tó Varangoi; the imperial axe-bearers.
They were fewer now than in his father's day. Fewer still than before the White Wolf had left their ranks. And the hall felt emptier for it.
The emperor's eyes, rheumy, petulant, framed by bloated lids and gold rings, glared at them with something between contempt and unease.
