The Beast of the North
The obsidian throne room swallowed sound the way deep water swallows light. Every footstep, every murmur, every rustle of silk vanished into the black stone before it could echo, as though the castle itself had learned long ago to hold its breath. Torches burned along the walls in shades of violet and grey rather than gold, fed by a magic old enough to predate the kingdom's name, and their strange flames threw shadows that moved independent of the men who cast them.
Maximus Tremaine sat upon his throne of fused shadow and bone-white stone, one gauntleted hand draped over the armrest, the other resting, as it always did, against his chest — over the place where a thin ring hung beneath layer upon layer of black armor.
He did not look like a man in mourning. He looked like judgment given flesh.
Before him knelt Lord Baltus Ferren, a portly nobleman whose fine clothes had begun to darken with sweat despite the chill that clung to the throne room like a second atmosphere. Ferren's estate lay three days' ride to the east, in the foothills where the shadow-blessed farmers grew what little grain the Dark Kingdom's poisoned soil allowed. Reports had reached the capital of starvation…
