The War Room smelled of old parchment, lamp oil, and Commander Varric's sweat.
A massive map of the Kingdom of Sanctum covered the oak table. Wooden markers showed troop positions. Black markers for the Iron Legion clustered around the capital, while white markers for the Army of the Faithful swarmed over the eastern valley near the Holy City of Lumenia.
"It's a meat grinder," Varric grunted, pointing a thick finger at the white mass. "Fifty thousand of them. Maybe more. They aren't soldiers, Your Majesty. They're farmers, bakers, mothers with pitchforks. Fiona has whipped them into a frenzy. They believe if they die killing us, they go straight to Paradise."
Mirabelle stared at the map. "Human shields."
"Exactly," Varric nodded grimly. "If we march the Legion against them, we'll be slaughtering civilians. It will look like a massacre. History will call you a butcher."
"History is written by the victors," Revas drawled from the shadows.
