The royal court of the Rookheim Dominion was unusually quiet.
The grand hall was filled with nobles and ministers, all standing stiff under the heavy silence. A large, carved throne sat at the far end of the chamber. On it sat King Lucas, tall and proud, his crown glinting in the pale light.
He was in his fifties, but his body still held the strength of a man hardened by years of battle. His silver eyes, cold and clear. Silver hair, neatly swept back, glinted faintly beneath his crown. A short beard framed his jaw, trimmed and sharp, like the man himself.
Everyone waited for news from the battlefield.
Still, nothing had come. No letters. No messengers. No survivors.
Suddenly…
BANG!
The double doors slammed open.
A loud gasp filled the room.
A soldier staggered inside. His armor was cracked. His hair was soaked in sweat and dried blood. His arms were gone. Completely gone. His body leaned to the side, barely holding itself up.
A court official whispered, "General… Lander?"
