Terryn Altan, the young king of Altania, sat on a throne he felt he did not deserve. His father was a great king, and a good man. Terryn felt dwarfed by the shadow he had been thrust into. A noble whelp, twenty-three summers old and unwed. The crown seemed to carry the weight of the sky on his head.
He looked around the throne room. Barren, save for the guards that stood at the doors and beneath the throne. The tapestries depicting his family’s glorious history hung stiff, as if frozen by the winter wind. It was eerily still, especially following the rush of his father’s death, and his coronation.
He was waiting. A powerful but anonymous individual had requested a private audience with him. He knew nothing about this person save that his vizier had warned him to accept the request immediately. Someone who was capable of putting such respect into a grouchy old man like him must be important.