The night air was a crisp, velvet curtain, illuminated not by the stars above but by the fierce, orange glow of a dozen great pyres positioned around the courtyard.
Alpheo had ordered a massive wooden stage to be erected beneath the open sky, its fresh-cut pine smelling of resin.
To be sure, Alpheo's current state of anxiety did not formally entail the luxury of theatrical performance; in a time of mounting strife, the last thing a prince required was the distraction of a masked actor mimicking tragedies that would fell short of the one he was already living in.
Yet, that did not mean he abhorred the arts.
On the contrary, Alpheo viewed the stage with a dual passion, both as a man who sought the pleasure of a well-turned verse and as a sovereign who understood the utility of it.
