A few days before the lycanthropes began their large-scale descent southward, an unusual guest arrived at the Marquisate of Daciano, a former great noble house in Ortona.
The man was exceptionally tall, wearing a cloak embroidered with intricate patterns and a flamboyant half-mask, looking as though he were attending a festival.
The servant guiding him to the marquis was startled by the guest’s extravagant attire, but quickly bowed and opened the door to the banquet hall with quiet composure.
“So, the Prince of Cyprus has finally chosen to wear that mask.”
A massive table fit for a grand feast stretched out before him.
Sitting alone at the head, Marquis Daciano was voraciously consuming a mountain of delicacies.
Verses Daciano.
In the midst of the civil war, he had been a staunch royalist, standing against the republicans. Now that Ortona had completely collapsed, he held unchallenged control over the region, ruling it as if he were a king.
Despite his rugged, bandit-like appearance, his political acumen was remarkably refined and astute. Not only did he easily absorb the neighboring minor nobles, but he also took in many of Ortona’s refugees as his subjects without stirring any trouble.
The Marquisate of Daciano had grown so powerful that it was practically a small kingdom in its own right.
“Cyprus isn’t a kingdom.”
The man’s cold, blue eyes briefly rested on the marquis’s thick beard.