Trovald's office within the palace walls was a room designed for serious conversation. Heavy bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes, parchment, scrolls, and rolled maps. A large oak desk sat in the center, its surface filled with stacks of papers and a writing quill.
It was silent except for the low crackle from the fireplace and the steady ticking of the clock mounted above the shelves.
Trovald stood behind his desk, his large hands planted firmly on the wood. He was not a man who yelled often, but the look on his face was worse than any shout. It was a look of deep, personal disappointment.
His eyes moved slowly from Theron to Lucien to Galen, taking in the damage they had done to each other. They stood in a line in front of Trovald's desk.
