"He's dying, Your Majesty. We shouldn't hide behind polite words, the man is barely holding on."
The voice belonged to Marquis d'Arvayne, a man whose skin always looked slightly too tight for his skull, as if his own greed were trying to burst through. He slammed a weathered palm onto the table of the Great Council Table, the vibration rattling the silver inkwells. The air in the Royal Council Chamber was thick, a cloying soup of ancient, dust-laden parchment and the King's preferred heavy tobacco. It was a scent that usually signaled stability. Today, it felt like the smell of a funeral pyre before the first spark.
