The dwarven wine was strong. Duchess Mary of House Jade liked her wine strong.
She swirled the deep red liquid in her goblet, leaned back in her overstuffed chair, and let out a sigh that would've made an old war general pause.
"Retirement," she muttered, eyes half-lidded, watching the flames of the fireplace flicker. "Eighty years of gloriously defending the north and I finally get an excuse to sit down. And now they send me—"
She hiccuped once. Waved it off.
"some boy."
She took another sip. Then smirked.
"This 'Overlord.' The one making nobles cry and priests riot." She glanced sideways at her ever-silent, ever-suffering butler. "What do they call him again, Remington?"
The butler adjusted his cuffs without looking up. "Darin, Duchess. The capital calls him the Overlord of the People. Some call him the Accidental Prophet. Others refer to him as Lord Disaster."
Mary grinned. "Lord Disaster. Oh, I like that one."
