The three rebel lords ducked beneath the low lip of the tent flap, shoulders drawn tight, pride bleeding from their heels. Inside, the heat was caught and made thick, but not oppressive—it was the silence that stifled most, wrapped around them like a noose.
The tent was massive, wide as a noble's hall and tall enough for a standard to stand upright in the center. Yet it was almost entirely bare. The earth beneath their boots was covered in a woven carpet of pale red and gold, threadbare in places.
At the center of it all stood a single table.
Plain. Wooden. Low and narrow—not nearly grand enough for the gravity of this gathering. It looked absurd in the sea of space, like a raft in the middle of an ocean.
On the far side of it sat the man who had brought their ruin.
Prince Alpheo.
