The royal bedchamber of Solaria was a study in contrasts. Silk drapes the color of blood hung from ceiling to floor, their rich fabric absorbing the candlelight that flickered from a dozen silver sconces. Gold leaf traced patterns across the ceiling—the royal crest, the founding lineages, the ancient glories of a kingdom that had weathered centuries. The bed itself was a massive construction of dark oak and velvet, its canopy carved with scenes of Solaria's greatest victories.
And in its center, propped against a mountain of silk pillows, lay a man who looked like he had already lost.
King Charles of Solaria had once been a warrior. The portraits in the great hall showed a broad-shouldered man with a lion's mane of golden hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. The man in the bed was a faded echo of that image—his hair had gone white, his skin had gone grey, and his eyes, when they opened, held the yellowed cast of illness long untreated.
