Allevatore_dicapre

In a usurped kingdom , amid a war-torn and  blood-soaked Italy, Conradin's battleground is set. To reclaim his birthright the crown of Sicily,  he must tread a path paved with blood, learning that he must do whatever it takes to ascend the throne.




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In the year 1266, the tale of Conradin, the last scion of an ancient imperial dynasty, unfolds. His once-great kingdom, Sicily, has been ruthlessly usurped first by his own uncle and now rests in the hands of the cunning French Count Charles. Through a treacherous plot involving the Pope, Charles managed to oust the Hohenstaufen from the Kingdom of Sicily and crowned himself as its king.

In the East, powers such as the Despotate of Epirus are keenly observing the instability in Sicily, poised to seize any advantage that may arise from the chaos. Meanwhile, the small Italian communes are caught in the political crossfire, aligning themselves with one side of the conflict or the other based on the prevailing political party in power and their vested interests. These shifting allegiances turn the Italian peninsula into a powder keg, where all-out war seems inevitable.

As the shadows of history close in around Conradin, the world watches with bated breath. Will he emerge triumphant, his name forever etched in the annals of Sicilian glory as the rightful king who defied insurmountable odds, toppling both the Pope and the usurper? Or will he, in his valiant struggle, become a tragic figure, a symbol of lost opportunities and shattered dreams? The future of Sicily hangs in the balance, and Conradin's destiny remains uncertain, poised on the precipice of history.

The return of the fallen king

Two guards clad in sturdy armor paced along the stone wall, their heavy boots echoing against the ancient stones of Taranto. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow on their vigilant forms. Torches flickered sporadically, painting shadows that danced along the battlements.

The taller of the two guards leaned casually against the parapet, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. His broad shoulders and weathered face spoke of years spent defending the fortress. Beside him stood Marco, a wiry figure with sharp eyes that gleamed with a mixture of mischief and triumph.

"Did you see the look on Gino's face when he realized he'd lost the pot ?" Marco chuckled, unable to contain his delight. "I swear, it was priceless!"

Rico let out a hearty laugh, a deep rumble that echoed across the wall. "Aye, it was. Never thought I'd see the day. That lad always fancies himself a gambling master and yet that day he went home with his pouch empty of any coin "

Arriving at Taranto