The air in the King's private audience chamber was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old parchment and the medicinal bitterness of the tea that sat untouched on the table. King Oswald sat in his high-backed throne, his hands clamped onto the silver head of his cane.
Across from him stood Elric. The Duke of the North looked less like a noble and more like a mountain made of iron. He didn't sit, he stood with a stillness that commanded the room. Between them, on the desk, was a thick dossier bound in black leather, a collection of testimonies, ledgers, and maps that Elric had methodically compiled over the last few months.
"Is this all true, Elric?" the King asked, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "Are you telling me that a Great House of this Empire has been functioning as nothing more than a slave colony?"
