In the high-vaulted halls of Aldwyn, where the sconces burned with pale candlelight, a group of nobles sat huddled in the marbled gallery, their voices low but sharp, like blades hidden beneath velvet. Golden cups of steaming tea sat upon the polished oak table, yet none touched them the fragrance of mint and clove could not mask the bitter taste of the scandal now choking the kingdom.
"He is gone," muttered a long-bearded lord, his voice like gravel against stone. His wrinkled fingers trembled against the rim of his goblet. "The only son of the crown, slain in such a way… it is not a death befitting of a prince."
Across the table, another noble scoffed, his jeweled rings glinting as he waved dismissively. "Befitting? You call it tragic? No, my lord. Tragic is the fall of a hero, or the death of a saint. This" he leaned forward, sneering "is nothing but disgrace, a blot spilled upon royal parchment that no ink may ever cover."
