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If the Great Hall below was awesome to a fault, the Triune Ballroom errs in the direction of disappointment. It is less ornate by far than Duke Ruffino's Cobalt Hall, its charcoal-dark stone walls largely unadorned and the huge tiles of its austere checkerboard floor dingy and even chipped in places.

There is a hearth near your doorway, with an enclosed oven on one side and a roasting-spit on the other. You're shocked that meals should be cooked in full view of Brenton's highest nobility, who—if they have any resemblance to the other aristocrats you've encountered—seem more inclined to think that elegant victuals are conjured up through spontaneous generation, not crafted through the pains and labor of the serving class.

The central portion of the rectangular room is left open—for dancing, you suppose, though you get the sense none have danced here for some time. Two long, beautifully lacquered tables line the long sides of the room, with fine old chairs spaced at regular intervals along them. At the far end of the room, several stairs mount up to a dais and a table strewn with purple linen, where three thrones look down on the rest of the room.

Your heart jumps when you realize that you are, at present, sharing a room with the King of Brenton…