The air in Zarius's private chambers felt cold. It was thick with the cloying, medicinal stink, a smell that had become his unofficial scent over the last few months.
Zarius was propped up against a mountain of pillows that looked far too soft for a man who usually slept on stone. He looked… well, he looked like hell. There's no polite way to put it. Every breath he took sounded like a rusted gate swinging in the wind.
On the nightstand, looking entirely too cheerful for the current situation, sat a scroll sealed with the golden sun of the Empire. A royal decree. A "gift" from the King.
"A betrothal," Elios grunted, his voice sounding like two boulders grinding together. He was standing by the hearth, though even the roaring fire didn't seem to touch the frost in his eyes. "He's sending a… what? A leftover?"
