The Throne Room of the Iron Empire was empty.
Roland had braced himself to stand beneath the hissing breath of a metal mask, to endure a glare bearing down from a throne five men high. Instead, all he found was an excessively long dark red carpet, two rows of completely motionless guards, and an iron seat at the far end with absolutely no one sitting in it. The echo of his own footsteps reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling.
"His Majesty has delayed the audience," announced a gray-suited palace attendant, bowing entirely too deep for a man delivering bad news. "Until he is ready."
"Father said to wait here," Adrian muttered softly, almost to himself. He stared at the empty seat with furrowed brows, then turned to Volkov. The general merely clasped his hands behind his back and studied the ceiling as if calculating its precise dimensions.
