Geowulf sat heavily on the throne, the faint creak of the wood beneath him a far cry from the majesty the seat once held. Once adorned with gold and fine engravings, the throne had been stripped of its grandeur, the precious metals and jewels looted during the city's fall. Now, it was nothing more than a weathered frame of dark wood, its splendor traded for the spoils of conquest.
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands dangling loosely as he stared at the ground beneath his boots. The stone floor was smooth and cold, unmarred by blood or dirt—the kind of surface that felt strange to a man who had spent most of his life on snow-covered plains and frozen cadavers. His gaze lingered there, on the scuffed leather of his boots, as if they held the answers to questions he dared not voice.
