The hope of a swift campaign had withered as quickly as the summer blooms, replaced by the cloying, sweet and mouth-watering stench of three weeks' worth of rot rising from the base of the ramparts.
The morning songs the highborn had once brayed about hunting foxes, caroled over plates of soft bread and honeyed ham, had melted away like mountain snow come spring.
He sat in the gloom of his tent, nursing a phantom ache in his shoulder. It had finally dawned on them, he supposed. Gods knew he had tried to tell them about it, he had hoped they would learn from his mistakes, but they had laughed into their wine and made jokes about his abilities.
Though it was true that it was his shame, it was not his fault..
