King Zerain Malzareth, the fifth king of Shaerone, studied the dagger almost disinterestedly, his hard, lined face unreadable. The palm length blade was coated with dried, dark blood that crusted the plain linen that wrapped the hilt. But even so, he knew that the edge would be as sharp as the day it had been forged. A thick, gnarled finger traced the engraved “S” in the cold steel above the guard. Only one forgery would mark their creations so. He placed the dagger back down in front of him on the polished mahogany table, and he leaned forward, dark obsidian eyes fixed on the man kneeling on the crimson and gold embroidered rug on the dark stone floors of his study. “What,” he said coldly. “is the meaning of this, Delos?”
Despite his bristly beard and tall, heavy build, Delos was only past his twenty-fifth name day, yet he held himself with a confidence that few would have been able to manage under the king’s hard gaze. He wore a mantle of dark sable fur over a silk, black tunic embroidered with fine silver thread. Heavy rings inset with colorful gems adorned several of his fingers, and a golden band around his temples with a dark amethyst that that hung between thick, low brows. Thick, dark black hair ended in curls at his strong jaw, set firmly and tilted high and proudly as he looked up at his king with dark, defiant eyes. “It was but only a small matter,” he said dismissively, his smooth voice with only the thinnest veneer of respect. “The peasants—”
“—Would not have a dagger made in the Saephes forge.” Zerain cut him off impatiently, eyes narrowing dangerously. “This was brought to me by the Belaran delegation. What was this doing in the ruins of a Belaran village?”
