Mavius shifted uneasily in his saddle, his leg twitching against the stirrup as he scanned the battlefield, the clash of steel and cries of men filling the air. His gaze hardened as he weighed his options, the decision clawing at his mind. He muttered to himself, a low, strained voice barely audible under the cacophony of battle around him.
Cutting my losses now might be the only sensible choice. I still hold the Fingers… no one can dislodge me from there. I could return, regroup—press south again when the time is ripe, under better conditions. His fingers tightened around his reins, jaw clenched as he considered the grim reality. This is my advantage to keep... as long as my forces live to fight another day, that advantage is mine.
He looked out over in front of his men, seeing the push and pull of the fighting, feeling the precarious balance of victory slipping away as behind him in a clash he could not see lied his possible defeat
