In the Capital City of Velmoria.
The royal chamber of Velmoria's palace was quiet enough to hear the soft crackle of the hearth.
Early morning sunlight slanted in through the tall windows, turning the marble floor orange and tracing faint halos around the people within.
On the bed, Cluckles lay sprawled like a feathery snowball, his red scarf draped dramatically across his chest.
The sage-like chicken's breathing was steady—slow, deep, almost regal. He looked less like a patient recovering from wounds and more like a monk pretending to nap after solving the universe.
At the round table near the window, Lia sat with her hands folded in her lap, pink eyes calm but alert.
Across from her, Velric—the young king of Velmoria and Raven's unwillingly devoted "servant"—rubbed his temples with the practiced despair of a man who had lost control of his own palace.
Then finally, there was Crisaius.
