Three men strode through the gutted halls of what had once been the heart of Herculia's grandeur, the royal palace of a fallen dynasty.
Now it echoed like a mausoleum, hollow and stripped of splendor. Where once tapestries depicted triumphs, bare stone walls loomed naked and scuffed. Chandeliers were gone, their brass skeletons wrenched from the ceiling.
Even the candle-holders had vanished, along with the thick woven carpets that once muffled footsteps. Nothing remained but dust, faded outlines, and the faint perfume of dignity long since looted.
Yet the trio walking those desecrated halls held no reverence. They moved with the swagger of men who had earned the right to desecrate.
And they did , as the men walking in those halls were the heroes of Yarzat, the top heads of the military power of a rising star, and today, they weren't headed for a council or a feast.
They were on their way to abduct a prince from his desk.
