When Ozragad finally slept that night he dreamed of her again. 

In the dream, he had been searching for her, in a place that was both familiar and strange. It had been made up all the places that had once made him think of her, a house of discordant memories. He had frantically tore through the chambers where they had one lain to together, the empty ballroom in which he had first been caught by her bright and intelligent eyes, the secret spaces beneath the halls of her father she had explored as a girl, the mountain paths above the Ashlands where they had loved to ride alone but for each other. 

Everywhere he had looked he had found clues, fragments, snatches of her. A single strand of ebony black hair on a white silken pillow, the smell of lilac perfume, the sound of soft laughter echoing down a desolate hallway. But no matter how hard he looked, Ozragad could not find her. The longer it went on the more panicked and fearful he became. What if would never find her? What if she was gone forever?

And then there was, waiting for him the garden that they had built together. She turned to him, even more beautiful than he remembered. She smiled and all fear melted away. He had so much to tell her, so much that he wanted to say.

[b][color=f7941d]"Liveuta I-"[/color][/b]

Ozragad awoke to a darkness of his empty room. Alone.

[hr]
Late that morning Ozragad was looking down into the throne room, waiting for it to fill with guests, from a hidden gantry above.

The throne room was one of the largest halls of the palace. A great long space that led from the inner ward to the intersection between the topmost tier, the one that held the private royal apartments, and the terrace on which much of the upper palace sat upon. At the end of the rectangular hall, it narrowed into a semi-circular apse, beneath a cupola studded with luminous crystal and gilded ornament that made it seem as if bright daylight was streaming down through the dome above. 

Every wall of the room had carved bas-reliefs panels depicting great scenes from the history of the Formori. The best and wisest of their rulers, ancient battles fought between long dead kingdoms, hunts and games, rituals and ceremonies, all was recorded in painstaking detail. The floor was a mosaic picked out in black and white tiles, all intricate geometric patterns of woven knots and undulating waves. 

Beneath the cupola sat the throne on a raised dais, a short flight of steps leading up to it. For all the ostentatious and elaborate detail that the rest of the room was decked in, the throne itself was exceedingly simple. A high backed chair carved from a monolithic piece polished black marble. Supposedly the throne was even older than the city itself. One of his ancestors had brought it with them from an ancient and venerable Formori Kingdom that had collapsed into flame and ruin millennia ago.

The gantry the King watched from was accessed from his private apartments and looked down from the high cupola at the throne below. The space was beginning to fill. They had all come, from every corner of Ozragad's Kingdom, houses great and small alike, all to gawk at the human girl who might soon be Queen over all of them. [color=f7941d][i]The only ones who are missing,[/i][/color] Ozragad reflected, [color=f7941d][i]are Zakylwe and his kin.[/i][/color] 

Lord Zakylwe of the House of Ahoraa was one of the most powerful men amongst the Ashlander clans. Ozragad peered down to scan the throne room with is orange burning eyes. He did not see a single Ahoraa amongst the Ashlander guests in the throne room, nor anyone the smaller houses that had close ties to them, despite the fact he knew they were in the city. [i][color=f7941d]They came all this way to just snub me, I suppose I should be honoured.[/color][/i] 

Aside from Zakylwe, he could see a few of the other Ashlander nobles, marked out by their preference for long hooded cloaks and scarves wrapped around their necks, they were generally less gaudy than their counterparts from the mountains or marshlands that made up the rest of his Kingdom. He recognised many of the nobility in the crowd, most notably his cousin Lady Cheldarine and her two sons with her, as well as the Lord Belaphon and the Lady Blodwen - all would join them on the high table at tonight's feast.

At the foot of the throne were gathered his most prominent councillors. Manawyndan, his Lord Steward, closest of all, then his Lady Treasurer, the Lord Justicar, and the Lord Chancellor. At the back of hall were a small cluster of human guests, mostly ambassadors from Kingdoms other than Eorzia, but they were a small minority in the room. A drop of pink in a sea of dark grey Formori. 

There were also various court officials, heralds, servers, guards. The head of his person guard, Rhiathon, a woman in armour with a shaven head, prowled along the lines of guards that flanked either wall of the hall. He was taking no chances, not after yesterday, and had deployed additional swords to the throne room.

The Princess would be waiting outside the chamber along with the other dignitaries arriving at court for their first time. The herald would call her name last, she was the main attraction after all. She would enter, come to the throne, show fealty and be formally presented to the palace court at large. Then several hours of tedious mingling before the feast.

[b][color=f7941d]"Right. Let's get this farce over and done with."[/color][/b] The King muttered to himself, as he marched towards the stairs that led down into the throne room.