It was a strange thing to consider.
A mere two months ago, Alpheo had been bleeding behind his visor, a splintered Oizenian lance sticking out of his helm in the middle of a mud-slick, blood-drenched field. The legions had been roaring his name like thunder, the Oizenians meanwhile were fleeing from the very sound of it, his blood was boiling , his body dying and failing, and the fate of a crown hung on every stroke of iron.
Yet here he was now, leading the state through a thoroughly miserable day. As miserable as any that had come before it. As predictably boring as the one after.
He always woke exactly one hour before sunrise. He worked until midday reviewing a relentless avalanche of administrative documents, allowed himself a rigid two hours of leisure, and then plunged straight back into the ink until dusk, listening to his ministers' endless dry reports and drafting legal reforms he might introduce, or simply burn.
