Chapter 300: Art
Several cities away from Milten, a beautifully carved wooden door flew open with a loud bang that echoed through the extravagant meeting hall that stretched beyond it. Riches that had once adorned its halls had long since been sold, and a thin layer of dust had taken residence across the room’s surface. And even in spite of that, the air itself seemed to hold its breath in respect for the grandiose presence that the room had once possessed.
Heavy breath filled the silent air as a messenger rushed into the room, sweat streaking his brow and his hair disheveled.
Two people sat at the head of a long table that took up the majority of the room’s space. One was a man with a clean-cut beard and sharp, dangerous eyes. Years of age had taken their toll on him, whitening his hair and wrinkling his skin, but he still sat proud. The man wore leather armor that still bore fresh scars from training that morning. A large swathe of fresh meats, pastries, and other delicacies were laid out before him, completely untouched.
The other was a young man, no older than fifteen. He was thin and frail, with white hair and features that closely matched those of the man at the head of the table. Both he and the older man held several cards close to their chests.
The only thing on the table before the young man was a plate of plain porridge and a deck of cards. A wooden crutch leaned against the side of his chair.
“Duke Alaric!” the messenger rasped.
“Godspit, man,” the duke said, rising from his spot at the head of the table and setting his cards down. He grabbed the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. “What are you doing? Are we under attack?”
“Nobody sounded the bells, father,” the boy beside Alaric said. “We can’t be under attack. Do you concede the hand?”
“We’re not under attack,” the messenger rasped, straightening as he caught his breath. “Your Grace—”