Leona’s nerves fairly buzzed as she sat in the tense air of the dining room. It wasn’t silent (the clink and clatter of silverware against the fine blue china and the patter of rain against the windowpanes took care of that) but the wordlessness was not of the cozy variety; to Leona’s wildered mind, it seemed near-solid. The tight faces of the diners belied the extravagant richness of color in their garb; here were not merrymakers, but people desperate to avoid the shadow of war that loomed over the brightly lit hall.
And at the right of the duke sat the man, somehow terrible in his austerity of dress and manner, who roused such trembling of heart among the stout countrymen. The emissary of the hungry Empire stared around at the frescoed hall with cold calculation in his hooded grey eyes. Leona thought she knew his thoughts; the rapacity of the Emperor grew like some black seed in his ambassador’s heart, and even now he planned their doom.
Thunder rolled, its ominous death-knell sounding across the land.