By the time night fell over Valkoron, Lord Tiberin Dorrick, the King's Hand, sat slumped in his chair within the council chamber, eyes half-closed, listening to the echo of his own heartbeat. The council had dispersed not long ago, yet the ghosts of their voices clung to the walls.
A single candle burned on the table before him, its flame unsteady under the draft sneaking through the window crevice.
The room still smelled of argument ... sweat, ink, and pride.
He rubbed his temples, muttering, "By the gods, if they bickered one more time, I'd have leapt through the window myself."
He ran a hand through his greying hair and exhaled. "how can a room full of learned men be so stupid?"
A voice came from the doorway. "Rough meeting, my lord?"
Tiberin didn't need to look. "If you're here to ask whether the council behaved, Jareth, the answer is no."
