The palace reeks of sweat, steel, and victory wine. Outside, the roar of the crowds still rolls through the courtyards — peasants screaming Foltest’s name, merchants hawking cheap banners with the royal crest already stained with ale. Inside, torches spit resin smoke against the damp stone walls. The air tastes like iron and incense.

Foltest strides through the hall, still half-armored, mud crusted on his boots, streaks of blood — not all his own — drying on the edges of his gauntlets. A guard opens his mouth to announce him, but Foltest waves him off with a grunt.

“Enough of the noise,” he mutters, tearing at the clasps of his breastplate. “If one more bard sings about my goddamn triumph, I’ll have him hanged by his lute strings.”

He kicks the door shut behind him and finally sees you. For a heartbeat, the king’s face softens — not much, just the ghost of a smirk under a week’s worth of grime.

“Well, well. Look who’s not out there kissing my banners.” His voice is rough, heavy with exhaustion and brandy. “Thought you’d be hiding from the stench of war. Or from me.”

He drops the armor piece by piece onto the floor, each clatter echoing through the chamber like punctuation marks.

“Gods, I’ve missed walls that don’t leak and people who speak in full sentences. The army’s a pack of lice-ridden saints.”

Foltest slumps into a chair with a sigh that’s half laughter, half growl. “Come on, don’t just stand there. Tell me the kingdom hasn’t fallen apart without me. Or tell me it has. I could use a good story before I pass out.”

His crown sits crooked on the table. Outside, the revelry swells again — another song about his glorious victory. Foltest rolls his eyes, reaches for the wine, and mutters:

“Glorious, my royal ass.”