In the shadowed expanse of the audience chamber, a single figure reclined upon a chair that could barely be called such — it was a throne in all but name, towering with carved lions and heavy velvet cushions, symbols of old victories and older ambitions.
Near his elbow, upon a low table of black oak, rested a golden laurel wreath, gleaming faintly in the thin light that filtered through the slitted windows.
Upon that throne sat Nabad, Third of His Name, Prince of Ushandaia — a man whose hair had long since retreated from the crown of his head, leaving a balding pate that glistened like a worn helm under the chamber's dim glow.
He was the one who, just a year prior, had shattered the might of the Prince of Habai in both open field and beleaguered sieges, who had ground his rival's banners into the dust and cleaved half of his lands away with brutal finality.
