The heavy tread of King Maelor's armored boots echoed through the vaulted expanse of the throne room, striking the marble with the steady, measured cadence of an iron pendulum.
As he cleared the lowest tier of the royal dais, his right foot made contact with the pearlescent diadem resting crookedly against the stone.
The impact sent the ancient band of gold and teardrop gems skidding across the polished floor, slicing through the expanding pool of Rowan Starling's cooling blood.
It spun violently, splattering dark crimson droplets against the white masonry, until it collided with the base of a fluted pillar and settled into the blood.
It was left dull, chipped, and discarded.
Maelor remained steadfast, his gaze fixed forward, his pace unwavering.
His golden eyes remained fixed entirely on the heavy oak doors leading toward the northern private corridors, his jaw set in a hard line that pulled the scarred skin of his cheek taut.
