The morning sun did not bring warmth to the Emperor's private office; instead, it illuminated the dust motes dancing in the frigid air, highlighting the sharp, lethal edges of the man sitting behind the mahogany desk.
Soren was dressed in full imperial regalia, the heavy, silver-threaded furs of the North draped over his shoulders, the obsidian crown of Nevareth resting low on his brow. He looked every inch the sovereign who had frozen a thousand battlefields.
His presence was a weight In the room, cold and commanding. Beside him, Aldric stood like a shadow, his face a mask of grim anticipation.
Soren held a quill in a steady hand. He did not look like a man who had spent the night battling his own heart; he looked like a judge delivering a final sentence. Before him lay a vellum scroll, the ink black and wet.
