The man collapsed to his knees three seconds after he was hauled into the Prince's presence, his limbs rattling with a tremor so violent it looked as if his bones were trying to escape his skin.
For an heartbeat the wretch had stood paralyzed, his neck craned back to gape at the ceiling of the great tent. To a man who had likely spent his life staring at dirt and gray sky, the sight of gold flowing in heavy, molten waves across the white cloth's roof must have seemed like the birth of a new universe.
That wonder lasted only until Vrosk's voice cracked like a whip through the air, barking the order to kneel.
Which the man obeyed.
Alpheo looked down at the creature questioningly. He was old feeble in body and clearly fraying in the mind. Only a few wisps of white hair clung to his scalp, falling in sad, thin strands down a neck that looked like weathered parchment. He inspired absolutely no reassurance, which made his presence nags a question.
