Reuben sat brooding in the shadowed solitude of his private chamber. The flickering light of a brass candelabrum cast long, wavering shadows on the carved walls, while a storm simmered in his chest. He leaned forward on an ornate chair, its velvet cushions creaking beneath his tense frame, elbows resting on a mahogany table etched with the sigils of the Royal Family—a golden eagle clutching a ring of fire, a symbol of hard-won peace and not easily shattered.
His mother had just left, and the news she brought still echoed in his mind like war drums.
Bandits ravaged the borderlands. Rebels whispered sedition in the villages. And the Estalian armies—disciplined, merciless—were marching steadily toward the gates of Fereya.
