The grand throne room of Camelot was silent, with only two souls within it.
Torches flickered along the walls, casting the banners of the royal crest in wavering shadows.
At the far end of the hall, King Cillian sat upon his throne, his posture regal, but his expression filled with quiet exhaustion.
After all these years, the war was still showing no sign of letting up, and his position still wasn't stable.
He needed to put an end to one of the thorns in his side, and fast.
Either the war, the noble council, or Cecilia.
One of those must be gone for his rule to become stable. For him to feel like the true king of Camelot.
Before him, Lord Rowe walked forward, his boots clicking softly against the floor.
When he reached the base of the dais, he bowed low, one knee touching the ground.
"Rise, Lord Rowe," the King said, his tone clipped. "Your report?"
Rowe straightened, his expression grave. "Yes, Your Majesty."
