Nibadur was tall. He was handsome. And seemingly unblemished.
He did not know the soul-crushing weight of waking before the first gray light to hear the breathless reports of scouts, nor the blurred vision that came from spending half the night hunched over paper, tracing supply routes the enemy could take and preparing ambushes. His nose had never been flattened by a punch; his back had never bent under a duty that was not imagined.
His skin never hit by whip, his stomach never stung by hunger.
He hated the man from the moment he first laid eyes on him. Even if they were not enemies, even if there were no host behind Nibadur looking to undo a lifetime of labor, Alpheo would have loathed the sheer, pristine arrogance oozing out of him.
But today, the Prince of Yarzat felt the wind at his back.
