The prince of Yarzatthundered into the solar like a battering ram, the heavy oak doors groaning on their iron hinges as they slammed back against the stonework. No knock. No herald. Not a scrap of courtly etiquette to soften the intrusion.
He jolted upright behind his cedar desk, his dark face igniting like dry kindling caught in a furnace blast. The royal temper almost showed, until the King caught sight of the dark hair, flushed cheeks, and heaving chest of his own blood.
The roaring flame guttered out doused by a splash of startled paternal exasperation.
A melting stick of dark red wax hovered in Alpheo's left hand over a freshly rolled missive, a small silver taper trembling in his right. He was mere seconds from pressing the royal signet into the molten seal, an operation months in the hatching, carrying years of hope in worth.
With a practiced, fluid sweep of his sleeve, Alpheo swept the parchment under a stack of dry grain ledgers.
