The Throne Room of Eldoria had never been so silent, despite being packed to capacity.

At the foot of the enormous stained-glass windows, the light of the setting sun cut halfway through the thick stone columns, reflecting off the polished armour of the soldiers on guard and the dark velvet of the court officials’ robes. At the centre of that palpable tension sat King Valerius III, his hands clenched upon the carved armrests of the throne. Age and the weight of the crown had etched lines across his face, but his grey eyes retained the hardness of tempered iron.

On either side of the throne, the High Officials whispered with frantic agitation. Chancellor Corvus nervously rearranged the parchment scrolls and tax estimates, whilst Treasurer Moros shook his head, his face turning pale at the mere thought of the cost that this audience would entail. For the bureaucrats, magic was an uncontrollable variable: incalculable, dangerous and, above all, costly.

Standing as a shield between the court and the entrance hall was Sir Cedric, Captain of the Royal Guards. Standing as firm as a mountain, with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword—marked by the scars of a hundred battles—Aaron watched the entrance. He cared nothing for the treasurer’s accounts or the chancellor’s legal quibbles. He was concerned with only one thing: determining whether the person about to cross that threshold was the kingdom’s saviour or its downfall. The heavy oak and iron doors swung open with a solemn creak.