The private dining hall was a masterpiece of understated power. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over walls lined with portraits of kings dating back centuries, their painted eyes seeming to follow Jack as he entered.
The table itself was carved from a single piece of obsidian, so perfectly polished it reflected the ceiling like still water.
But it was the man seated at the head of the table who commanded Jack's attention.
King Eric Valdris was not what Jack had expected. Where Aurelius radiated predatory elegance and controlled menace, the king possessed a different kind of authority entirely.
He was perhaps forty-five, with graying temples that were worn down from the weight of crown and responsibility. His clothes were fine but not ostentatious.
