"A tournament?"
The King of Yarzat asked, turning toward his companion as if he were looking at the man for the very first time.
"Indeed," the Lord of Bracum muttered, his long, scarred fingers carving lazy streaks through his matted white beard.
To a stranger, the old man might have passed for a kindly grandfather with a purse full of sweets and a few harmless bedtime stories to share. That illusion, however, was violently shattered by the bloodthirsty smile carved into his lips.
Alpheo stared at him, silently confirming everything he had ever believed about the old wolf. Xanthios was a man of ravenous appetite for slaughter and, paradoxically, one of the few warlords universally respected by every single legate in the newly fledged kingdom.
"Your Grace. No... your Majesty now," the old lord corrected himself, a whimsical smile hanging on his lips.
