Things were unraveling for the ruling house of Herculia—and there was no mistaking it. Not even the most silver-tongued courtier could deny the stench of rot clinging to the once-proud halls of their governance.
The signs were plain to see, not just within the crumbling borders of the princedom, but to every foreign dignitary and rival ruler who dared to peer in.
Five years ago, Herculia had been a name spoken with respect—perhaps not fear, but certainly a measure of deference. A dominant force in the western Princeling States, their banners once flew proudly across the hills and lowlands, their soldiers marched with confidence, and their coffers sang with the sound of full grain stores and gold alike.
But history, as Arnold had bitterly learned, is not always written with patience.
It had taken only a handful of months—a war ill-planned, a battle disgracefully lost—for that power to shatter like porcelain under a hammer. The calamity had rolled in one wave after another.
