The streets of Leonidus glowed as though the city itself had been forged out of sunlight.
The walls were painted in golden limestone, the roofs tiled with yellow glaze that caught the evening rays like the reflection of an eternal dawn.
Lanterns lined the broad avenues, their flames dim in comparison to the soft natural brilliance. Yet for all its wealth and glow, Leonidus did not boast or scream of its grandeur—it whispered.
Control bled through its veins, order hummed in the way people walked, and humbleness was carved into its foundations. But, these days, these days, it did not whisper of grandeur or control. That was before. Now, he could see it. Feel it. A lace of corruption. Corruption which he ignited within the fief.
So much so, Even the stray beggars sat quietly against the gilded corners, as if ashamed to disrupt the lion's roar that had birthed this city.
