It was a clear, golden day—the kind that made the rooftops of Herculia, if they were not destroyed by the fire, glint like polished bronze under the midday sun—when the city fell.
Not with fire and blood, not with the crashing of steel or the screams of dying men, but with a silence so complete, it seemed to shame even the crows who were voicing out their words by cawing overhead.
Or perhaps just protesting against the lack of a meal.
The fall of a royal seat, one that had stood proud for one hundred and thirty years, came not from defeat in battle, but from surrender. A quiet, tired surrender by soldiers who had given all they could, only to be abandoned by a crown that no longer had the will or perhaps the means to protect them.
