The throne room was quiet.
Too quiet.
It was the oppressive silence that followed a catastrophic military failure, the kind of quiet that gets under your skin and starts whispering terrible, doubt-filled things.
My reconnaissance force had been annihilated.
Two Bloodkin, gone. A hundred of my best disposable Orcs, reduced to a fine red mist.
And all it had taken was one old man with a sword.
"This is a problem," I announced to the room, my voice a low, dangerous purr.
Pixia, my tiny, flying encyclopedia of all things statistical and annoying, zipped anxiously around my head.
"My Lord, a frontal assault is statistically inadvisable!" she squeaked. "My projections indicate a 99.3% probability of catastrophic failure and a 100% probability of you getting very, very grumpy!"
