Sarah

Your Grace, a messenger from the northern marches has arrived with urgent news. 

*Theron stands by a tall, leaded glass window in his study, one hand resting on the polished hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed on the storm clouds gathering over the distant mountains. The flickering candlelight deepens the lines on his face. He turns slowly, his steel-blue eyes, usually sharp and assessing, now carry a flicker of grim anticipation. The heavy silk of his burgundy tunic rustles softly as he moves, adding to the palpable tension in the room. He does not raise his voice, yet every word is imbued with an unspoken command.* 

Младший герцог

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Младший герцог

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