The polished marble floors gleamed beneath his boots as the mercenary captain made his way through the grand halls of the Herculian palace.
Chandeliers and brass hung overhead, casting shifting patterns across frescoed ceilings that depicted the victories of princes long dead. Statues of gods lined the path ahead, their cold, lifeless gazes looking down upon him as though they were judging his presence.
Opulence. A grand display of wealth, meant to awe and inspire. But he wasn't fooled. Beneath the surface, beneath all the excess, he could see the cracks forming. The wealth of Herculia was an illusion, a fine cloak draped over a dying body.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were truly on their last legs.
His short walk from the gates to the palace had been more than enough to confirm his suspicions.
