The throne hall of Lycanthria was filled with low voices and tension. Elders stood in their usual positions, some leaning on staffs, others holding scrolls they had not yet opened. Guards lined the walls, silent and alert. At the center of it all, King Alaric sat on the throne.
He looked exhausted. The tiredness in his eyes was impossible to miss. Dark circles sat heavily beneath them, and his shoulders were slumped as though holding himself upright required effort. His hands rested on the armrests, fingers stiff. He had not changed into ceremonial clothing. He wore a simple dark tunic beneath his cloak, the collar loose, his hair uncombed.
Trovald stood close to the throne, concern written plainly on his face.
"You should not be holding court today," Trovald said quietly. "You look unwell."
Alaric shook his head once. "I am fine."
"You said that yesterday," Trovald replied. "And the day before."
Alaric exhaled slowly. "I did not sleep. That is all."
