The problem, thought Wolff (once, he had been Sir Wolff) to himself, was unusual. In most empires of the past, large or small, the issue of who would inherit the poisoned chalice (or sanctified mantle) always arose. Even if there were no direct heirs, at least there were generals of prowess who would raise competing standards over the kingdom-sized fragments of the dying realm.
But here, there were none. The Emperor had pretty much burned the earth and salted the soil. There were no heirs to split, and the problem would not be settled by general solutions.
Wolff chuckled to himself. The empire's between a rock and a hard place.
Labels: Empire, Historical Fiction, Wolff
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