Around the same time that Elion was having the best time of his life, late into the darkness of the night, King Alexander sat within the confines of his throne room upon his raised, lofty throne.
He was dressed in light but finely fashioned black-and-gold night attire, his right hand resting against the cold armrest of the throne, fingers curled into a loose fist upon which his tilted head rested.
His eyes were closed.
His body remained completely still, and if not for the quiet breath he took a moment later, one might have thought he was fast asleep.
Or perhaps that he was simply a statue.
In an odd contrast to the grandeur of the throne room, the torches lining the many towering pillars still burned with actual fire, their flickering flames providing the vast chamber with a dim, wavering light.
