Far from the rebuilt walls of Elysia, in a chamber shrouded in obsidian, Count Lazarus allowed himself a slow, chilling smile. News traveled even faster than his most dedicated spies, especially news of destitution.
Elysia, victorious yes, but crippled, a kingdom left with deep, festering wounds. The recent, costly victory had drained them, leaving their coffers empty, their granaries bare, their people hungry, despite the fading cheers.
This was a vulnerability, vast, and gaping, a fissure he could exploit, oh, so elegantly, like a surgeon's precise cut.
"They saved their crumbling kingdom," Lazarus murmured, swirling dark, potent wine in a goblet that seemed to absorb all available light. The liquid, thick and claret, clung to the glass as he contemplated.
