King Trevor sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor of the Sacred Chamber, tapping his finger gently across the marble tile and unconsciously grinding his teeth in thought.
His heart was heavy as a worrisome issue weighed on his conscience. 'How did it come to this?' he thought to himself. The king restrained a cold shiver that threatened to grip his body and cause him to lose his cool.
His eyes flew to the Golden Lance sitting in the right arm of the majestic throne, "How much essence is left?" he sent a commanding thought to the weapon.
"What good would telling you that do? It would only help you run mad a little faster," a deep voice echoed back, ricocheting off the walls of his skull with power.
Surprisingly, the king was used to this form of chaotic mental invasion. He was barely shaken. Through gritted teeth, he growled, "How... Much?"
There was a short moment of silence.
