The cold wind howled across the flats, snapping the Prince's unruly black hair to the right. He stood as dark as death, his black plate drinking in the weak morning light, his gauntlets resting inches from the hilt of his sword.
His son which stood atop his horse on the left could not believe the words that had just tumbled from his father's lips.
Quit Yarzat? That was the price?
Hundreds of their people lay cold in the earth, their farms reduced to ash and their daughters' screams still echoing , and his father would allow the monsters to simply... march away? Just like that?
They were starving; he had them in a corner, their bellies empty and their spirits broken. They could pick them off one by one until the grass was more red than green. Why grant them a reprieve at all?
