The Oaken Chalice sees all; it knows all. It watches, it listens, it senses. It pries the truth from the mind, it measures, it comprehends.

On the plinth it sat, in full view of the empty throne. At that very moment, it watched the battle as it unfolded. Every life ended, every slash of the blade, every flight of the arrow, every axe and spear seeking flesh. And every drop of blood split.

The silver crown lay on the cold stone floor not ten steps from the plinth; dented, jewels shattered, its power diminished. Were it to sit atop the brow of the King, it would have seen the Oaken Chalice. It would have witnessed the dark red liquid oozing down the rough surface on the outside. It may have marked them for tear drops of blood. It would have been mistaken.