They were a pitiful harvest, winnowed from the wreckage of the camp and made to walk and kneel in the cold dew. There were old men with skin similar to wrinkled parchment who should have been in their beds rather than sporting steel, and boys who looked more at ease with their mothers’ teats in their mouths than the iron of war.

It mattered not. No matter the age, no matter the frantic, bubbling begging that filled the morning air, they were all made to kneel.

Each would jolt once, as the steel undid the connection between head and heart.

"The Crownless Prince sent the weakest to protect his belly. Bloody fools," a soldier muttered, his breath hitching as he hoisted a heavy, gore-stained axe. He brought it down with a wet thud onto the neck of a weeping man. The prisoner’s limbs went rigid for a heartbeat, then slackened into the mud as the head rolled away.

"A man could be as strong a warrior as Alonius Lightbringer himself, but they all become meek as the Misguided when led by cravens."

"Gotta thank the Uncrowned for the kindness, no?" his companion replied, leaning on a spear. "Would have been a proper trouble had we faced actual soldiers in that mayhem."

"They would have broken all the same," the headsman spat, wiping a spray of red from his cheek. "Did you see the madness? The gods could have descended with the All-Knower’s own light and they still wouldn’t have been able to calm the little shits down.Bloody fuck even I got scared and I was the one holding the torches! Panic is a fire; you don’t talk to it, you just watch it burn and get the fuck out of the way before it reaches you."

"Well, the taste of victory calmed us well enough." The soldier continued with a bloody smile, his misshapen teeth dark in the dawn light. He waved a hand for the next prisoner to be dragged forward. The man didn’t come willingly; he was kicked and hauled through the dirt until he collapsed before the block. "I love the taste of glory first thing on the morrow. Makes the blood sing."

The axe rose and fell. Fresh crimson spurted onto the green grass, dyeing the emerald blades a dark, sticky red.

"What glory is there in pups and old men?" the other one grumbled. "The Third at the Bastion, now there is glory. Shedding the blood of ten thousand southern cunts. Or the Fourth? They are with the Prince, and there is always glory where the Fox walks. Even the Hounds, aye... wherever they are, they find men to put their blades in and wrought a lot for the war effort."

"Most of the time those are just villagers," the headsman countered.

"These are little better than villagers."

"They had armor and steel, didn’t they?"

"You can put plate on a whore, but it won’t make him a soldier, nor make his legs taste any better."

The headsman paused, a lewd grin spreading across his face. "Wouldn’t say that... I find the idea exciting. Had I the coin for a set of plate, I’d pay to see a female knight. Doesn’t that stir you up, thinking of the tingle of steel against—"

"There are no female knights," the other snapped. "And no brothels offering them, last I checked’’

’’Fuck if you are a buzz killer...just take the win without a scowl for once. We all do our bit. The First, the Third, the Hounds. When all is over, there’ll be songs for all of us. Bested half the South... now doesn’t that make the stuff of legends?"

"There is glory, yes," a voice called out, deep and rough as grinding stones.

The two soldiers jerked around to find their commander standing just beside them, his shadow long and imposing. "But I find better satisfaction in the knowledge of what I, and you, are protecting. Glory is quick to fade, but duty is until death."

"Legate!" The soldiers snapped into a sharp salute, then turned to the younger man at his side, bowing low. "Ser..."

"See this, Basil?" Jarza said, his eyes never leaving the soldiers. "Soldiers want many things. They like their wages. They like their renown. They like their fame. They like their whores. And these two? They like their glory. But tell me, will it be glory that defends your homes when the fire comes?"

The two men lowered their heads in genuine shame, but Jarza wasn’t finished.

"Will glory shield the women from being raped, or the babes from being slaughtered by the invaders? Aye, we faced a force a thousand strong with four hundred or less. There is glory in that, even if they were the weakest cunts Oizen could spare.

But I would find better relief in knowing that the invaders fighting our brothers of the Third will go hungry because of what we did here today. We are the difference , these stores we are burning?It will push the invaders further and further into chaos.Now you laugh and jest about glory and about whores, up north they will be starving and demoralised from having had two months of war without anything to show for it."

As Jarza spoke, Basil turned to look at him. The morning light was cresting the horizon, the first pale rays hitting Jarza’s armor and making the steel shine like polished silver. For a moment, the blood and the screaming seemed to fade, replaced by the towering presence of the Legate.

Jarza noticed the stare and offered the young princeling a rare, tired smile and a nod. "The Legions are many things, Basil. But I would sooner have them remembered as the shield of our homes than the sword of our pride." He turned back to the soldiers, his voice returning to its military iron. "If you are done daydreaming of armored whores... get on with the axe and the necks. We have dozens to behead before the task is done."

"Our apologies, Legate. It won’t happen again," the headsman muttered, his face burning.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He grabbed the next prisoner by the hair, a man who had been a cobbler or a baker only a month prior, and forced his neck onto the wood.

The rhythmic thud of the axe resumed, keeping time with the rising sun.

Basil was made to witness it in full. He watched the light extinguish in the eyes of the old who had seen too much, and the young who had seen nothing at all.

He heard the frantic pitch of their final prayers, saw the salt of their tears hit the blood-soaked earth, and remained silent as their pleadings were cut short by the axe. He watched until their lips went from desperate movement to a terrible, slack stillness.

Throughout it all, Jarza’s gaze never left the boy’s face, searching for a crack in the porcelain.

"Since this is the first time you have stood in the shadow of the block, I might extend a gift to you," Jarza said suddenly, his hand coming to rest with a heavy, paternal weight on the boy’s shoulder. "If you wish it, you may select one. Spare a single prisoner of your choosing.Be it old man or young."

The offer was like a spark in a tinderbox. The prisoners, catching the scent of a miracle, erupted into a cacophony of desperation.

"Young lord, please! I have a wife and two small sons in the valley, they have no one else!"

"I’ll throw down my steel, I’ll never take up a blade again! Just let me see my mother!"

"My daughter—"

"My farm—"

"My hounds—"

Dozens of stories, each tearjerking , were hurled at Basil’s feet. Every man in the line hoped to be the one thread pulled from the loom before it was cut.

And as Basil looked at all of them begging for mercy, he wondered something.

Why?

"Why would I ever do that?"he asked, his voice like winter chill, effectively extinguishing their hope. He turned his eyes back to the Legate. "They are enemies. Today it is they who meet the axe, but if we falter? Tomorrow, it is our people who will kneel in the dirt. Mercy for them is a debt that shall be collected by our own.This is war, and in war people die, it is a contract both sides knows of when they go and wage it"

Jarza studied the boy. He saw that Basil was unmoved by the theater of grief, his heart already hardening into the flint required for a crown.

It was a cold realization, but a necessary one if he were to take the crown.

He offered the boy a thin, approving smile and a firm pat on the shoulder, leading him away from the mounting curses of those who realized they were truly dead.

"It is well that you do not possess a porous heart, Basil. None of those men would have traded places with you had the coin flipped. They came to reduce everything your father and uncles have built to cinders and ash. What claim do they have to mercy when they brought none for our people? You have seen the blackened ribs of our villages. It is our duty, our sacred burden, to ensure they pay in kind."

He kissed upon the star on his neck ’’Rebuke the beast among the reeds, the herd of bulls among the calves of the nations. Humbled, may the beast bring bars of grain. Scatter the nations who delight in war.And bring peace to the stables so that all sheep may bathe.’’

"Better their heads than ours," Basil muttered, wondering from which holy book that passage was,It was not the warrior, to be sure, maybe the Weaver of Mercy?Or maybe the Father’s

"A simple truth, and the foundation of survival," Jarza nodded. "But understand this: it is easy to slay an enemy to protect a friend. That is a task for a soldier. The true test of a Prince is whether he can slaughter one of his own to destroy five of theirs. Would you sacrifice one loyal heart to buy the deaths of five foes?"

"I suppose... that would be a fair exchange," Basil said, though his voice lacked its previous certainty.

"And what of one for two? Or one for one?" Jarza’s voice dropped, "What will you do when the crown demands you kill one of your own today, simply to prevent the deaths of two more tomorrow? It is a trivial thing to be noble when the road is straight and the sun is high. The soul is truly measured only when you are forced into the lightless detours and the bloody shortcuts.Only then it is revealed how light your hand will be when dealing death.

For only when battered the mettle of man is shown."

Jarza stopped, looking out over the smoldering camp. "A Prince is not merely a captain who leads men into the mouth of war. He is the architect of the common good, a man who must make choices that will see his own soul rot so that his people might flourish. Only he who can stand above the carnage, looking down from the heights of necessity, can truly understand the profound littleness of a single life in the face of a kingdom’s survival."

Basil stood in silence, the weight of the words pressing down on him as he watched the smoke rise. Jarza saw the boy’s brow furrow in deep, agonizing thought, and a genuine, almost prideful smile touched the Legate’s lips.

Like that of a father, watching his son learn a lesson and become wiser for it.

’’Blessed be them that entone everything to the Gods, for the gods shall entone everything to them...’’

’’The book of the Father?’’ Basil attempted.

Jarza shook his head, a bit disappointed . ’’All-knower’s. You should really step up your theology lessons...they teach us many things about life and how to take it.Don’t understimate their importance.’’