He let his cloak fall to the rushes, his squires scurrying like mice to detach the heavy plates of his armor. Each piece clattered against the stone floor , each ring a dead sentence for any hope he may have had.
It did very little to ease the tightness in his lungs. Ever since he had collapsed into the mud of that gods-forsaken field, he felt as though a spectral hand was perpetually crushing his chest at each moment.
May the Father curse that bastard Nibadur for his treachery, they could have still won if only the Habadian was not made of brittle resolve.
He had thought his heart would stop entirely when he saw the banner of the bull thundering toward the remnants of their line. He had sent wave after wave of men into the meat-grinder in hope of stopping that madman until there was nothing left but blood and air. He might as well have thrown scraps of paper at the enemy for all the good his soldiers had done.
