"The orcs, and their monsters, were led by a human, my liege," the soldier kneeling before you says.

Your goblet stops halfway to your lips, the violet liquid inside sloshing to a halt slowly. Your hand starts shaking though you wish otherwise- it isn't fear. Just lacking the strength to keep your grandfather's great golden goblet steady. You mentally curse, hate showing weakness, but your cupbearer and niece, white hooded and masked is at your side, her hands immediately steadying the goblet.

"A human?" You slowly set the goblet on the arm of your throne. You are careful not to spill a drop. The Almsummer wine will fortify you, return some of your strength and quick wit of your younger years. Elf wine. Magic stuff, you think with a mental scowl. And vanishingly rare- this was the last of the keg that had been given to you as a wedding gift. Your mind wanders a moment to the old days, and you only find yourself regaining attention partway through the soldier's story.

"-broke the palisades with thunder, and the filth's previous discipline and tight formation dissolved. But by then it was too late. Gentlelight is fallen my lord. They tore through the city, ravaging and looting with abandon. Fires were sweeping the houses, their thundering shots were flying thick and furious, I barely made it out alive myself-"

"And General Ahria?" Your herald, flat faced, short, and scowling Dominic Castellan speaks. With a bit more emotion than you expected. You wave your hand to your niece, and she steps in smoothly to aid and your steady your hand while it lifts the Almsummer wine to your lips.

"I...I don't know my liege. She was with the riders, and they were holding the keep-"
"So you deserted them then!" Shouts Dominic, infuriated, "Left your commanding officer to die!"
"Or worse," mutters your spymaster, Eleanor behind you.

The honey and cinnamon taste brings you back to better times while Dominic castigates the poor injured man before you. He'd been riding a month, day and night to get here to pass on word of this invasion. The bloody bandages around the boy's head and leg attested to his courage. You could see the young soldier's fist on your plush red rug gripping it tightly, trying to control his temper, while your herald let loose the frustrations of not knowing his fiancée's fate. The last of the draught slips from the gold, and pours down your throat, leaving your lips and tongue parched. You feel revived, even as you regain the strength to pass the goblet to your niece.

This was all sounding too familiar. You feel your stomach drop.