The golden banners of Herion swayed gently within the grand hall of the Citadel, high above the marble floor where King Herios sat upon his obsidian throne.
The air buzzed with reports of victory.
Scroll after scroll was unrolled before him by armored messengers and red-robed scribes.
One after another, they told of triumphs at ravines, forest strongholds, river crossings—each battlefield a chorus singing of Herion's glory.
"Captain Tyros reports that the Wolf Hills have been retaken, your majesty."
"The Twelfth Legion crushed the rebel archers along the River Rhaem. Their commanders were executed."
"Supply lines are untouched, and morale among the outer villages is high. Our people sing your name again, my king."
Herios sat in dignified silence, his eyes scanning the carved map laid before him—symbols representing villages, armies, burning fields.
A faint frown touched his face. Though the victories were many, each pin that marked a battle also marked blood.
