The great hall of the throne chamber lay submerged in a clinging half-darkness. From the lofty arch of the ceiling, slanted beams of the setting sun streamed down, trapped within stained-glass windows the color of spilled blood. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of incense, cold stone, and dragon dust. Upon a throne of obsidian, wrought in the likeness of a monstrous dragon’s spine, sat Kaen.

He was calm - almost indifferent. It seemed as though he did not breathe at all; only his cloak, fashioned from fabric black as night and fastened at the shoulder with a clasp shaped like a dragon’s talon, fell in unmoving folds. His face, carved as if from marble by the winds of power and cruelty, was turned toward the entrance. He was waiting.