The Great Hall of Starfell Manor smelled of damp cedar, stale rosewater, and the lingering, suffocating stench of a dying dynasty.
Laurence Bale adjusted the high silk collar of his doublet with fingers that were visibly trembling. His carriage ride through the Starfell province had been an agonizing exercise in contrast.
Outside, the village fields were half-fallowed, the roads pocked with neglected ditches, and the peasants watched his gilded escorts with the hollow, predatory eyes of starving wolves. But inside this vaulted manor, everything still pretended to be grand.
Gilded candelabras held wax candles that had been trimmed down to greasy stubs. Tapestries depicting great cavalry victories hung against cracked stone that wept cold moisture.
