That was how power looked at its most terrifying, Arik realized. Not a battlefield. Not a throne room soaked in light and ceremony. A chair. A half-finished portrait. A painter trembling before the task of immortalizing someone too worthy to be reduced to pigment and ministers entering one after another with reports held like offerings.
The first was a general, broad-shouldered, and decorated heavily enough to suggest either competence or insecurity. He bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty, the northern unrest can be ended within the month if you authorize an advance before winter."
Goliath did not move from his pose. "No."
The general blinked. "Your Majesty?"
"You will not march tired soldiers into roads that will be mud within two weeks and ice within six. You will secure supply lines, close the passes, and let hunger do what your impatience cannot."
The general's face drained of color.
