Lord Vesper was arrested at dawn.
Aeron led the guards himself; his face carved from ice. Behind him marched twelve royal guards in full armour, their swords drawn, their expressions grim. They moved through the palace corridors in perfect silence, their boots echoing on the stone.
Vesper's chambers were in the noble wing; ornate, spacious, decorated with tapestries depicting his family's long history. The guards burst through the doors before his servants could raise an alarm.
Vesper was still in his bedclothes, his silver hair dishevelled, his eyes wide with disbelief. He had been dreaming, perhaps, of triumph. Of the coronation. Of the moment when his plans would finally bear fruit.
Instead, he woke to the cold steel of royal justice.
"On what charge?" Vesper demanded, his voice cracking with outrage.
