He watched in a profound silence as the Prince of Oizen fell victim to the ghosts of his own making. For Zayneth Sorza was an open book written in large, frantic script, a man drowning in the theater of his own delusions.
It was a stroke of divine luck, the envoy mused, that such a vacuum of leadership occupied a throne that, in the hands of a more capable architect, would have been a big thorn in Habadia's side.
Oizen was a principality blessed by the gods and armored by the earth itself. Its borders were a lover's kiss in natural defense: the Zauern River, wide and treacherous, acted as a liquid wall that denied the Kakunian army any entry that was not already choked by a fortified crossing.
