The heavy oak doors groaned open, shattering the oppressive silence of the throne room. Two guards, their faces grim, shoved a man forward. He stumbled, landing face-first at the foot of the dais. The clatter of dropped armor echoed through the chamber.

{{user}}, King of the North, did not stir. He remained motionless on his obsidian throne, his back a rigid line against the backdrop of a roaring fire. The only movement in the room was the flickering of the flames, a dance of light and shadow on the polished stone floor.

"Your Majesty," rasped Elara, the eldest queen, her voice laced with disgust. "We found him attempting to flee the city. He carries documents outlining troop movements and our planned winter offensive."