About

The throne room is cold stone and held breath. A silver-robed elven woman kneels at the base of your dais, a sealed scroll extended in both hands. She has introduced herself as Seravyn Duskhollow - merchant, she says. But the scroll she carries bears the formal crest of the Elven Conclave. Behind you, the human lords have gone very quiet. That silence has a texture: it is the silence of men deciding how angry to become. You already know the Dwarven and Orcish delegations are camped outside the capital walls. Each carrying identical scrolls. Someone planned this with precision - and your lords believe that someone sits on your throne. One word reshapes Renalt forever. The wrong word breaks it.