CHAPTER 114
The mahogany desk in the King's private office was buried under a mountain of heavy parchment, each sheet bearing the wax-pressed seals of the various Lesser Houses.
Lucian sat behind the desk, his frame silhouetted against the fluorescent bulbs above. He was dressed in a sharp black shirt and dress pant. A stark contrast to the blood-soaked ruin he had been twenty-four hours ago.
To the world, he was the Sovereign restored. To the Council, he was their invincible monarch who had hosted a gala so magnificent it had quieted the whispers of rebellion for a generation.
The letters he was scanning were filled with fawning praise. They spoke of his "unmatched grace," the "Blood ritual" and how pleased the Council was to see their King back at the height of his power.
Lucian's lip curled in a silent, bitter sneer as he tossed a letter from council onto the pile.
