The chamber was quiet except for the steady drip of water from the stone ceiling. Kane liked the sound—it reminded him of blood, slow and patient, carving its mark no matter how thick the rock.
He sat in the center of the room, on a throne not carved of gold or velvet, but of blackened iron. Rivets scarred its surface, and the claws of old wolves were fused into its arms. No one dared sit close.
His lieutenants stood in a crescent before him, their armor spattered from the last campaign. Behind them, Nexum delegates in velvet coats fidgeted with their rings, trying to hide their unease. The firelight painted Kane’s face in harsh lines, catching the deep crimson of his eyes.
At his feet, the broken mask of the lieutenant Aria had slain lay on the floor, its steel cracked down the middle.
