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“This is our chance!” King Arphos III of Ferma spoke in a heated voice. “Now is the time to collect the debt the Empire owes us!”
His subjects nodded in answer to that cry. They, too, understood that it was the sort of chance that came once in decades—no, in centuries. Before their eyes shimmered the moment when they could topple Clyde, the continent’s strongest empire, and reclaim the majesty of an earlier age.
The Kingdom of Ferma was unfortunately pressed against the Empire’s northern border. Because of that, it had spent centuries prostrate. The gold and silver delivered in tribute would make a mountain if piled up, and the blood that was shed in the Empire’s stead would be enough to form several rivers.
They knew all that and still endured, time and time again. They knew that, someday, the day would come to repay this humiliation. With no proof beyond a stubborn faith, which they passed on to their children, they kept holding out.
“Your Majesty!” A knight stepped forward ahead of all others, dropped to one knee before Arphos III, and cried out in a voice hot with blood, “Make me—Valter—your vanguard! For Ferma’s glory! I will stab the Mad Emperor in the back and split open that foul, swollen belly!”
“Marquis Valter!” Arphos III responded to Ferma’s one and only Swordmast...
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