This was not how it was supposed to go.
That singular thought echoed in the minds of the men now gathered in grim silence—men once hailed as the architects of rebellion.
They were lords of ancient bloodlines, masters of men and land. They had taken up arms against the crown with iron conviction, bolstered by the weight of their silver and the swelling ranks of their supporters. They had entered the war not in fear, but in expectation—expectation that numbers, coin, and fury would suffice to bend fate to their will.
They had been wrong.
Blindingly, humiliatingly , gut-wrenchingly wrong.
They had expected the War Prince to buckle beneath the weight of what they'd amassed against him—to fracture like glass beneath a hammer. After all, who could stand against such a storm? Against so many blades, so much silver, so many bitter hearts? They had assumed his strength, like theirs, was finite—chained to the laws of war and attrition.
