Three figures walked calmly through the halls of the main building of Crimson Hold.
Though there were pairs of footsteps, only one seemed to echo. Firm, resonant, heavy.
'He's angry.'
Darke tried to hide his unease at the Blood Sovereign's current state. He walked behind the giant of a man by the left, while the Iron Saint trailed by the right.
The right and left hands of the Giant of the West. It was what the Iron Saint and Darke had come to be known by the other clans across the Dome.
It was a position of great authority and power. One that granted them influence even clan heads of the great clans could not wield.
But Darke had never felt proud of the power, nor the authority. He had always just wanted to serve his sovereign.
His mood always reflected the sovereign's mood, and his thoughts were the same.
What the sovereign wanted was what he wanted. How the sovereign felt was how he felt.
