In the end, he had taken heed of Xanthios’ counsel, though the medicine he was to take proved more bitter than the wound.

His walk had led him through the winding, soot-stained arteries of the fortress to the medical breast of the Bastion, south from his office until he swerwed at the last on the left past the well of the castle.

The medical field was put specifically behind a wall, as to take cover from the daily bombardment exchanges the two sides launched at each other.

The diagnosis he was given however was a cold blade to the heart.

"It is bad, my lord," a gaunt medic murmured. The man was more stick than flesh, his fingers stained yellow by herbal poultices. He probed the swollen, purple mess of Asag’s wrist with a clinical detachment that made the Legate gasp, his vision swimming in a sea of red. as pain washed over him.

"How bad?" Asag managed to grate out between ragged breaths.

"Bad enough that I would reach for the saw today if you were any other man," the medic replied, looking him in the eye. "If it is not given the rest it requires, absolute stillness, the rot will take the arm. You will lose the limb to save the life."

The choice was the hardest thing he ever made.

He could have the hand taken, perhaps returning to the field with a stump and a sword-belt, or he could sling it against his chest and withdraw from the thick of the fray. To a man like Asag, the latter felt like a special kind of cravenness. When he finally emerged and informed Xanthios and Ghalrim that he would lead the defense from the gateway while they held the high-heat of the strongholds, the words tasted like ash.

He already carried the mark of the fire upon his face, a quarter of his features melted together like knitted wool. He did not wish to return to his wife half-armed, gods knew how much of a rue was given her when she married him.

Daughter of a lord that his prince had killed , along with all male members of her immediate family, only to concede her as bride to the legate, as nothing but a bridge to nobility.

He knew he was destined to some hell, if there was any.One where the flames would take him daily.

Just as he knew his captains would not beseech him for the choice; they were aware he had bled more than a dozen men combined. Yet, their silent understanding offered no comfort. It felt as though he had taken a shortcut.

He had received everything from Alpheo, and in the hour of his Prince’s greatest need, he was retreating to the safest point of the fighting.

Beneath the Iron, Hard Blood. The motto of his legion, his house, his home, rang hollow. Where was the hardness in him now? Beneath the iron, he felt only the trembling softness of failing flesh.

He found himself thinking of Jarza. He would have carved the very meat from his own bones before relinquishing an inch of stone, yet Asag had just signed away half an acre of the Prince’s land. The legate of the primogenia had more iron in his smallest finger than Asag felt in his whole body.

He let out a heavy, shuddering sigh and tilted his head back. The sky was a pale, mocking blue, marbled with grey and white clouds that promised no relief. It would not rain. They were desperately low on water, the barrels running dry, another ugly gift of the unseasonable heat, and yet the gods were deaf to their prayer. Soon, they would be forced to rely solely on the old castle well to drink.

Asag looked toward its direction.

He did not know if boiling water could cleanse the taint of rotten meat, but soon they would have no choice but to pour it down their parched throats.

He stood there for a long time, a lonely titan draped in a sling, gazing at the heavens. He thought of Egil after Jarza.

The man had always loved to watch the sun go down, possessed of a gift for finding beauty after a good old massacre. He had a way of making men smile when their hearts were turning to stone.

It was hard without him. Rykio was a different breed, stark, cold, and yet brave like his old friend.

Word had filtered that the boy in Romelia was gathering the remnants of Egil’s old tribe, a final gift to the man whose sacrifice had bought them all the right to breathe another day’s air. But as the midday sun beat down on Asag’s scarred face, he found no love for the light.

A pair of crows danced against the bruised purple of the horizon, wheeling in wide, languid arcs. From a distance, one might have called it a courtship or a playful skirmish, but Asag knew better. They were the heralds of the rot, black-winged opportunists circling the magnificent banquet the Bastion offered up daily. Word had shifted through the winds; the carrion-eaters of the entire province had seemingly converged on this single coordinate of misery.

Alpheo had once shared a tale of the birds’ uncanny wit. He spoke of an experiment in some distant academy where scholars had painted crows with red streaks and hounded them with masked men. Within a month, the lesson had taken root so deeply that even the unpainted ravens, who had never felt the lash, took flight the moment a mask appeared. They shared their fears, Alpheo had said, as clearly as men shared their songs.

And apparently that proved crows could communicate with one another.

Asag remained skeptical of that.

He watched the two parasites above, their bellies likely distended with the flesh of his own men or the bastards outside, flying without a hint of tremor in their wings. Perhaps he would order some of his soldier to hunt them down and have crows for dinner.

But he knew it was merely the bitterness of a wounded animal speaking through his thoughts.

He was just that bitter and cruel.If crows could communicate with one another so effectively, what was that makes him better than those leeches with wings?

The sound of dirt complaining over a weight rose from behind.

"My deepest thanks, sir!’’ A voice, bright and irreverent, rose from the entrance of the medical tent where the legate had just left ’’ And do relay my sincerest apologies to the nurse regarding the... unpleasantness with her posterior. Tell her it was merely a pinch of profound appreciation; truly, a fairer back I have not seen in all my campaigns!"

A heavy wooden spoon clattered against the stone doorframe, narrowly missing the speaker’s head. The man ducked with practiced agility, letting out a sharp, yelping laugh before skipping out into the light with joyful, rhythmic steps that seemed an insult to the dirt he was trudging on.

Asag recognized him at once, the legionnaire who had spent his convalescence pestering the Lion of Lechlian. The man froze the moment his eyes landed on the scarred silhouette of the Legate. The playfulness vanished, replaced by the rigid, instinctive discipline of the Third. He snapped his heels together, his hand flying to his brow in a crisp, sharp salute.

Asag looked at the man, Kollo, he remembered.

Here was a man who had nearly had his throat opened by an arrow, yet he walked as if he were headed to a summer festival. The Legate offered a slow, solemn nod of respect, his slung arm heavy against his chest.

Perhaps talking could ease his mood.

"Fit for duty, soldier?"

"Never been not, sir! Excited to crush some cunts’ skulls, sir! Found my throat parched of bastard’s blood, sir!" Kollo’s voice was like a drumroll in a graveyard.

That admittedly made Asag chuckle "You have quite the gift, soldier. Perhaps you would have found great success as a court jester."

"Perhaps then sir could sponsor me to the court?" Kollo’s eyes sparkled "I am sure His Grace and his family would find me entertaining. Ma’ always said I was fit to make pigs laugh." He froze, the realization of his words hitting him like a mace. "Not that I meant the Prince’s family are pigs, sir... alright, maybe that came out wrong..."

"Don’t worry, soldier," Asag rumbled, gesturing to the walls that drank their fill with blood. "We aren’t exactly clamoring to cut heads off for a slip of the tongue right now. You may keep yours. Though I do admit you have an air of insolence about you. You’re the only man I know who could pester a lord with princely blood for a week and live to tell the tale with his tongue still in his mouth.Many men have died for much less"

"Oh, Lord Arnold spoke of me?" Kollo asked, sounding genuinely touched.

"Extensively. And nothing good."

"But he talked of me, sir! That’s the victory!" Kollo beamed. "You should have seen him when he first arrived; he had a look as if he wished his neck had been in his leg’s stead. Sometimes it is good to act the fool, sir. For the world will take you for one and give you a pass for a great many things."

"A dangerous game," Asag mused, looking at the man’s bandaged throat. "The world also tends to hang fools when it grows bored of their jests."

"Then I shall have to make sure I am never boring, sir. It’s the only way to—"

Kollo’s nonsense was however cut short by the frantic slapping of boots against stone. A runner was sprinting toward them from the direction of the Great Gate. The atmosphere shifted instantly; the air grew cold, and Asag’s hand instinctively closed, even as his writst screamed in protest.

The messenger skidded to a halt, his face pale beneath the grime. He didn’t even have the breath to salute properly.

"Lord!" the soldier who was not one of Asag’s gasped, clutching his side. "The main gate... a rider has emerged from the League’s lines."

Asag’s brow furrowed. ’’Anything about him?’’

"Yes sir," the messenger wheezed, shaking his head. "He bears white.’’