It had been an age of upheaval in what had once been the unified Sultanate of Azania, the only realm that could stand as an equal to the great giant of the East.
How ironic that barely four years after the colossus of Romelia had stumbled and cracked beneath its own weight, the empire of sand now mirrored its fate, wavering, faltering, swaying on its last legs.
In both cases, ruin had begun with the deaths of their mighty. Gratios, struck down by the King of Arlania. Bayazid, consumed by the blade of the Great Khan. Two pillars, toppled. And with their fall, the storms came.
Shuaa still felt the sting, as though the cords that bound her spirit to her beloved Sultan had been severed and snapped. The grief was not simply that of a widow, or whatever pale reflection of one she was allowed to be, as the great priestess was not allowed to mourn as a normal woman.
As far as it hurt to know, she was well aware of the the reason for his demise.
He had been punished.
