The royal court was bathed in a serious, heavy atmosphere. The high vaulted ceilings echoed with the murmurs of generals, ministers, and advisors. King Alistair sat on his throne, looking graver than usual. Beside him stood Prince Liam, his face impassive, his eyes sharp and observant.
Derek stood in the center of the room. He wore his commander's uniform, the black fabric crisp, the silver buttons shining under the chandeliers. He felt the weight of the room's attention on him. He was no longer the "skiver" In the court. He was the Commander of the North, and today, he had to prove it.
A spy knelt before the King, finishing his report.
"Your Majesty," the spy said, his voice echoing in the silent hall. "The reports are confirmed. Mercia is mobilizing. Their troops are gathering at the western border of Strathmore. They intend to invade before the first snow falls."
The King leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of his throne. "Strathmore has sent for aid?"
