Delirious expectations
The oppressive gloom of Vincent's keep was pierced by a single shaft of sunlight as a royal messenger approached the gates. The young man, clad in the resplendent livery of Eleanor's court, tried to hide his trembling as he announced his presence to the grim-faced guards.
Inside the keep's cavernous main hall, Vincent lounged on his twisted throne of blackened metal, his gaunt face illuminated by the sickly glow of arcane braziers. The constant rumble of machinery from the depths below seemed to match the erratic rhythm of his thoughts.
"My lord," a servile voice interrupted his brooding. One of his advisors, a hunched figure in a dark cloak, approached with hesitant steps. "A messenger from the palace seeks an audience."
Vincent's eyes, bloodshot and wild, snapped to attention. "From Eleanor?" he hissed, a mix of anger and longing in his voice.
The advisor nodded, "Yes, my lord. He bears an official seal."
"Bring him," Vincent commanded, straightening on his throne.