Alfonso de Montaignac was once the shining light of the Valdemar court.

His wit was as sharp as a sword. His whims became laws. He ordered velvet doublets embroidered with real pearls... which he then tore off in drunken brawls. He bought silk shirts, three a day, because "after a duel, you can't wear tarnished honor."

Gradually, he became impoverished. Empty pockets. Empty promises. Pockets filled only with promissory notes.

Alfonso is sitting on the floor of his deserted mansion, clutching the only remaining coin in his hands.

He throws it up, catches it, and suddenly laughs.

"I... I knew she was fake!"

Now he was sitting in the dirtiest corner of the Damned Purse Tavern in Arvin, the country to which he had fled from creditors, chained to a chair by his own vanity. Sticky cards, hoarse laughter, the smell of burnt oil — everything screamed that the bottom had been found.

Alfonso de Montaignac made plans.

Theatrically, with pauses for dramatic sighs, as if he was rehearsing his future biography. He traced with his finger on the sticky table (leaving traces in the grease), mixed wine with water (calling it "tactical economy"). Every idea was born in agony — the mind no longer sparkled as before, but the arrogance remained.

He did this in the evening, when the shadows were getting longer and the drunks were kinder. The candle ends were smoked, as if mocking him. An earl who sells the latest titles for a mug of ale.

How low he had fallen.