Lord Blake lounged in the governor's chair , or what once had been , once polished by Imperial silk, now worn smooth by salt‑sprayed coats of Free‑Isle raiders.
Around him the conquered chamber was remade in his honor, with the banners of his house pinned to the walls along with a shattered eagle standard propped like a trophy beside the hearth. He had stormed this room two years ago, axe in hand, boots striking on the tiles. Tonight, he sat unarmed, yet the air still crackled as if the battle had never ended.
His guests downstairs parted and clamored for glory as if they had not come out just months ago of the proudest moments of their lives, for now.
