The Throne Room had been built like a cathedral to the sun. Pillars of white marble, shot through with gold, held up a ceiling painted with endless summer scenes. Even with the doors open to the gardens, the air inside felt heavy. Incense burned somewhere, and the smell mixed with jasmine that had gone a little too sweet, a little too old.
King Alderon sat upon his throne, looking every bit the weary architect of a peace he still wasn't entirely sure he should have signed. Before him, the Royal Envoy was practically vibrating with the need to wipe the sweat from his brow. He had just returned from the North, and the shift from its sharp, freezing air to the heavy heat here was a shock to his system.
"So," the King began. His voice was deep, a resonant rumble that didn't need to be loud to command the room. "The provisions. I trust the Duchy of Valtrane found the quality acceptable? I wouldn't want it said the Kingdom sends its scraps to secure its safety."
