The Fiorie estate had always boasted of grandeur, as if gold and brick could hide the corruption festering beneath. The estate towered on the outskirts of the capital, its gilded towers a brilliant pallor in the fading sun, golden flags streaming defiantly in the breeze. Jewels of plenty encrusted every corner of the stone front, its windows burnished to a mirror sheen, the gardens clipped with maniacal precision.
But to Liliana, rolling toward it in her carriage, the sight was not awe-inspiring. It was garish. Pudgy. An empty palace weighed down by decadence.
This was once home. This is where she had once wandered these rooms with child's naivete, seeking something warm where none was offered. And now, with the wheels rumbling over the stones of the drive so long, she looked on with war-hardened and deceit-practiced eyes.
Her fingertips brushed the hilt of her sword. There was no homecoming. There was only a battlefield.
