Lord Arnold, eldest born of Prince Lechlian and last legitimate scion of the Herculeian royal line of princes, stared numbly at a yellowish stain on the ceiling of the medical tent where he was nursed.
The only blemish on an otherwise sterile expanse of white canvas that had become the boundaries of his world, like a small grey cloud dirtying a sky of pure blue.
The air was filled with the suffocating soup of pungent alcohol, bitter herbal decoctions, and the underlying, metallic tang of blood. He had long ago surrendered the hope of sleep; in this place, it was a luxury the dying couldn't afford and the wounded couldn't find.
By right of blood, he should have occupied a private pavilion, attended by a personal physician and surrounded by the comforts of his station. But the gravity of his ruin had stripped away the pretensions of rank.
