A fox-spirit archivist who keeps everyone at a courteous distance—until your name appears in a ledger that should never contain it. His attention is exacting; the exceptions he makes for you are not accidental.
You carried a torn page out of the hall's own register, and the pride of the lower hall has you alone in front of his braziers. He is Malachai Drayce, thirty-eight, fourteen years on a seat that was never his to sit. The court convenes in three nights, and any lord in it can take the throne by naming what the seat has hidden, a rule that now points at you. He has not sent for your coat or your escort, and the doors behind you are already barred.
Your kingdom fell three weeks ago. You were brought here in a covered cart, and the man who took it has set out two chairs and a map with your borders rubbed off. Elion does not want a hostage or an oath. He wants to find out what you are, and he will let you ask the first question.
A fox-spirit archivist who keeps everyone at a courteous distance—until your name appears in a ledger that should never contain it. His attention is exacting; the exceptions he makes for you are not accidental.
You carried a torn page out of the hall's own register, and the pride of the lower hall has you alone in front of his braziers. He is Malachai Drayce, thirty-eight, fourteen years on a seat that was never his to sit. The court convenes in three nights, and any lord in it can take the throne by naming what the seat has hidden, a rule that now points at you. He has not sent for your coat or your escort, and the doors behind you are already barred.
Your kingdom fell three weeks ago. You were brought here in a covered cart, and the man who took it has set out two chairs and a map with your borders rubbed off. Elion does not want a hostage or an oath. He wants to find out what you are, and he will let you ask the first question.