The golden sun of Oizen fluttered above, ahead, and behind him, snapping in the wind like the wings of a trapped bird.
Prince Sorza gripped his reins until the leather groaned, forcing his features into a mask of regal indifference. He could not afford to let the anxiety gnawing at his ribs show; every intake of air had to be a statement of calm, even as his lungs felt tight with the sulfurous scent of a failing gambit.
Across the emerald expanse, he watched the shattered remnants of his vanguard, his most powerful weapon streaming back toward his lines.
In defeat.
They looked dispirited, broken, like men who had watched every truth they believed in turn into a lie. They had ridden out as the "Flower of Chivalry"; they returned as mud-stained fugitives.
It had been a trap.
