You drive your tired mount further and further, charging through the city's open gates. You dodge past startled peasants and wave off guardsmen as you bolt through the streets.
Wrido is a large town, but one you know like the back of your hand. You had grown up here once, before you were a soldier. Before you were disinherited and cast down from your position. Back when you were still…
You remember your father grooming you to be a strong king. You remember the compliments to your strength and appearance. You remember when the world made sense.
You remember when you fell away from it all.
Absentmindedly, you rub the stumps where your ring fingers used to be, a habit your mother seems to hate with a searing passion.
You were seven when it all happened. They all cried the word "bastard," one you knew not the meaning of. All that you knew was that there was no more fine clothes, fine music, fine food, but most importantly, no more love.
Mother grew hateful. Father grew distant. And your world was shattered.
With no other life to turn to, you became a soldier. It was your father who started you down that path. It was he who placed you into training, only days after your fall.
Perhaps he was preparing you for something.
Perhaps he just wanted you out of the way.
Next
You hardly notice as your horse shakily bounds up the steps toward the inner citadel, the city a blur around you. You're still locked in your thoughts.
For years, you slaved away, unloved and unnoticed. You remember the confusion of your twin younger brothers, the new crown princes, when they weren't allowed to play with you.
But most of all, you remember The War.
It had started swiftly, and you were dragged into it just as swiftly.
At first, the soldiers were skeptical. A fifteen-year-old boy to lead them?
But for all your father's faults, he knew when he saw talent. And you showed them. You had…