The prince's tent glowed with the warm, flickering light of beeswax candles, their golden flames casting dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air hung heavy with the rich aromas of campaign fare - roasted venison crusted with herbs, steaming pea soup thickened with barley, and the earthy scent of fresh-baked bread still warm from the field ovens.
It was no royal banquet, as a matter of fact, it was a bit too low considering to whom it was entitled to.
At the center stood a simple oak table, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Two high-backed chairs faced each other like duelists across its width - one occupied by Prince Alpheo, resplendent in a crimson tunic that seemed to drink in the candlelight, his black cloak pooled about him like spilled ink edged with gold.
