The throne of the Mythden Kingdom was made of a rare, white-veined marble, supposed to represent purity and the divine right of the Azran bloodline. Now, it was just a cold chair in a room that smelled like a slaughterhouse.
Caleb Quintas stood three paces from the dais, his eyes fixed on the splatter of blood decorating the base of the seat. Just moments ago, Prince Vinn's head had rolled across these very tiles. To Caleb's left, Mikax—the man who had single-handedly upended the geopolitical balance of the continent—was casually wiping a speck of dust off his sleeve, looking for all the world like he was bored.
"King Caleb," Mikax said, his voice slicing through the thick, suffocating silence of the court. "The seat is getting cold. And honestly, the longer you leave it empty, the more these guys start thinking they might have a chance to jump for it."
