Even though he had braced himself for this moment, knowing with a bitter certainty that there is no feast in this world provided without a bill, the weight of the words from the man who had pulled him from the abyss made his pulse thrum with a frantic, rhythmic dread.
Twice defeated in the field, his treasury a hollow vault of echoing silence, and his royal authority regarded by his vassals as little more than the passing breeze of a fart, Sorza knew he was a beggar prince.
He needed this aid as a drowning man needs air. Yet, the thought of four thrones converging to rescue his single, shattered crown filled him with a secondary terror. What price could possibly be commensurate with the salvation of a state? And more importantly, was there anything left of Oizen to trade?
