The thunder of hooves had long since faded as Herios, First King of Herion, walked through the wide stone corridors of his castle.
Word of his return had already reached the capital, and the high council awaited him in the throne room of Herion.
The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a semicircle of cloaked figures surrounding the high obsidian throne.
There were dozens of them, old and young, generals and sages, masons and scholars—all chosen for their deeds and dedication to the people of Herion.
The torchlight flickered over their expectant faces as Herios walked the black stone path toward his throne.
Silence hung in the air, thick and heavy. The council bowed low, but did not speak until Herios sat.
He did.
Only then did the eldest among them, an old sage, stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," he began, "we have been awaiting your word. May we ask what did the goddess of crossroads said about our future?"
He hesitated.
The room held its breath.
