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Within the palace that crowned a mountain of Aleisterre, King Donatien Charlemagne sat upon his throne as he eyed his ministers below. All kept their heads bowed, feigning tireless diligence. None dared to idle or lift their gaze. All knew that so long as Donatien Charlemagne sat upon that throne, no assassin could touch him—much less slay him.
Footsteps rang through the vast hall where all sounds were deliberately hushed.
The king did not speak. He merely turned his head toward the side chamber from which the sound approached.
Few were permitted to stand so close to the throne; those who did were second only to the king himself.
"Astrologer Selene. What is the matter?"
The astrologer Selene stepped forward. Of all who dwelt in this palace, she was among the very few who could meet the king's gaze as an equal without explicit leave to do so.
"The stars have spoken," she intoned. "The three fugitives who once fled the capital have crossed again into Aleisterre's borders. Even now, they draw near the three newly built cities that stand upon Selwyn's old lands.
"Though...
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