Belrath was a small kingdom. In terms of sheer landmass, it was roughly the size of Einjaar, yet it had always compensated for its lack of territory with unyielding martial pride.
Today, however, that pride was completely broken.
The kingdom was draped in absolute, suffocating mourning. The capital's bells tolled in a slow, rhythmic dirge that echoed through the cobblestone streets. The citizens wept openly in the squares, grieving the horrifying, sudden death of their beloved prince and proud captain. The heir to the throne had not died on a glorious battlefield; he had been slaughtered in a foreign courtyard, his throat violently torn out by a single man.
But beneath the grieving city, far away from the weeping crowds and the grand, sunlit halls of the palace, lay a much darker truth.
The basement of the Belrath royal palace was dark, damp, and smelled heavily of old stone and stagnant aether.
