This was the highest number of elves Lugh had ever seen gathered in one place. From among their ranks, he recognized a figure—Vaelith.
She had survived Drakensmar.
Not only survived, but now wore the black, white, gold and silver regalia of a royal guard?
Ophris had gained independence from the elven kingdom of Jazeer millennia ago. If, after more than ten centuries, the royal guards of a human kingdom were saturated with elves, then something was terribly wrong.
There was a conspiracy here, one that ran deeper than he could yet imagine.
A voice spoke from among the ranks of the Royal Guard. It was impossible to tell which one, but the speaker's baritone carried cleanly across the marble ballroom.
"Her Royal Highness."
The others chorused in unison, a cold mechanical echo:
"Her Imperial Majesty, the Queen of Ophris."
As one, the Royal Guards dropped to a knee, their bodies striking the ground in a practiced, rhythmic thud.
