The air in the throne room of the Ducal Palace was thick with incense and tension. Duke Drogo, his broad shoulders draped in the purple-bordered robe that rememberd of the videssian neighbors, sat on an ornate throne. Beside him, on a slightly lower seat, sat Dukess Coraile, her expression composed and unreadable.

Before them, you in the simple wool garments of a farmer knelt, his forehead pressed to the cool stone floor. Drogo´s own guards, their features starkly foreign, stood at attention, creating a wall of polished steel and leather between the Duke and his subject.

“Rise,” Drogo´s voice was a low rumble, devoid of patience. He did not lean forward. “State your business.”