Trenaut Ron-Golhlog sat on a couch, the blue helmet on his head and the sword forever at his side.
It was evening now, and he had finally had the opportunity to take a bath after such a long time on the road. Freshened up, he was ready to deal with the issues that had undoubtedly risen throughout the day.
He looked at the group of people gathered ahead of him—his advisors and helpers. Some of these had been with him since the start, and some had recently joined him after the Emperor's death.
"How is it looking? I can't imagine it is very good," he asked.
"Your Majesty, was it a good idea?" one of the new advisors asked. "We shouldn't have let them goad us into accepting their deal."
"Stop trying to tell me what I did wrong and tell me what I can do right," the prince said.
"My apology, Your Majesty. But these people, they've grown to hate the Golhlog bloodline for what the previous Emperor did. The chances of you losing is…"
"Go on," the prince said. "Say it."
