The stone hall sat three days' hard ride beyond the empire's western border. Rain hammered the high windows without pause. Water ran in thin sheets down the glass and dripped from the iron brackets that held the lanterns. The air inside smelled of wet wool, cold tea, and the sharp ink of fresh maps.
Ten kings sat around a scarred oak table that had outlasted better seasons. The wood was cut with old knife marks and stained dark where wine and blood had soaked in over the years. Maps of their own lands lay open between them. Red ink marked the villages emptied by fever. Black ink marked the grain stores that had already failed. No one had spoken for a long time after the last report finished.
The western king leaned forward first. His elbows rested on the table. The others waited.
