King Aldric IV was not what Liam had expected.
No elaborate armor. No divine weapons. No army of bodyguards surrounding him with fanatical devotion. Just an older man—maybe sixty, graying hair, wearing simple royal robes—sitting on a throne in an empty room as his capital burned around him.
"You look surprised," the king observed. "Were you expecting something more dramatic? Perhaps me cowering behind my guards? Begging for mercy?"
Liam's hand was still wreathed in the remnants of Abyssal Plate, Essence channeling through him despite the exhaustion and pain. Every instinct screamed this was a trap. No king sat alone and undefended while an enemy army breached his palace.
"Where are your guards?" Liam asked, his voice rough from the earlier strangulation.
