The heavy silence of the throne room shattered with a deep, commanding voice that resonated through the space.
"I am no coward," the voice declared, strong and steady. "And here I stand, ready to face those who dare bring chaos to my home."
The assassins froze in their tracks. Halfway through a motion to trace a sigil on the corpse of a fallen guard, the younger one stopped abruptly. His hand hovered over the dead man's chest as his gaze snapped toward the voice.
At the far end of the room, standing at the base of the gilded throne, was the one and only King Alf of Nateron. Clad in a dark, intricately embroidered tunic with a royal mantle draped over his shoulders, he appeared composed, even as the fire of anger burned in his eyes. His crown, a modest circlet of gold, glinted in the flickering torchlight.
The elder assassin's sharp eyes narrowed as they locked onto the monarch. His grip on his blade tightened imperceptibly.
