The Field of Pale Banners
Wind tugs the white herons and silver hawks into a single rippling weave above the plain. You stand between two thrones set on bare grass, the brittle scroll trembling in your hands as you read the mistranslation that drank four centuries of blood.
Queen Mereth's jaw is iron. King Halverd's eyes are wet. The silence after the last word is the loudest sound you have ever heard. Someone must speak — and what they say will shape every map yet to be drawn.