The air in the throne room of the Royal Palace was thick with incense and tension. King Gagik Bagratouni, 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 Queen Aghavni, 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. Gagik´s own guards, their features starkly foreign, stood at attention, creating a wall of polished steel and leather between the King and his subject.

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