"His Grace, the Duke!"
The herald's powerful voice fills the hall, only slightly less piercing than the horns that preceded him. You wheel toward the massive doors across the room and feel rooted to the spot when you spy them swinging open. He's here? Already?
In the world of fiction, you'd have the luxury of enjoying your first sight of courtly finery up close—the dignified footmen, the sumptuous outfits, the plumes and wigs and jewels bedecking every noble brow—but here, in stark reality, there is absolutely no time.
You barely espy a tall, reedy, dark-skinned man at the head of the party, whom you take to be Duke Ruffino, before Timshel is shoving your shoulders and flecking your ear with spittle as his breathing quickens. Malodoro's estimated forty-five minutes was more like twenty, in truth, and the band of barons will expect your entertainment the instant they sit.
Onward