The sparks rising from the fireplace danced in erratic, feverish patterns, mimicking the frantic heartbeat of the man who stood trembling in the shadows. They rose toward the vaulted ceiling like golden fireflies, dying out just before they could touch the cold, indifferent stone of the most private wing of the Oizenian palace.
Across the expanse of an expensive Azanian carpet, plush enough to swallow the sound of a man's pride, Lord Vasten moved with unsure, stuttering steps. Reaching the center of the room, he collapsed a knee and went into a bow, his forehead nearly touching the intricate weave of the rug.
"Lord Vasten greets His Grace of Oizen," he muttered, his voice thin and brittle. His long hair tumbled forward, a silken curtain he used to mask the raw, naked terror screaming in his eyes.
