The chamber was a hollow smirk of black and grey, where the Prince of Yarzat sat as if entombed. Black shadows clung to the vaulted corners only a sparse cluster of candles kept the ceiling from collapsing into the gloom, their weak flames stuttering against an unseen draft.
One of these tapers was held close to Alpheo's face, its smoldering, wheezing light illuminating the letter in his hands, a piece of parchment that brought him relief, confusion, and a gnawing doubt that felt like a cold stone in his gut.
How could that even be possible?
It was no exaggeration to say that Alpheo had been birthed by chaos. He had climbed to power using the wreckage of a rudderless princedom as his ladder. Chaos was a fickle god; it upheaved everything in its path, acting as the ultimate midwife to opportunity while serving as the executioner of old covenants.
