“Glove.”

Ebony throne on onyx dais. Stone tomb flooded with shadows. Iron hides among silver. One hand wooden, one hand dark.

“It’s Lord Glove. You know the title I have earned.”

Laughter. Beckoning.

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“Lord Glove. Do you miss her? I’ve heard tales of you moping about at her funeral.”

One step. Kneel.

“I do not. I grieve for the life she never had. My heart is broken.”

Creaking weight. Clattering rings.

“You are stronger than I will ever be. Better to make your heart a stone. Easier.”

Silence.

“Very well. Remember your duty.”

Twelve steps to the door.

“Fortune fare you, my king.”

The stone door opens, light sweeps across the room. The door shuts.

Darkness reigns.