As the rising sun bled through the tattered grey clouds, the Prince of Yarzat surveyed the field with the hollow, adamant stare of a hound that had tracked its prey to a cliff's edge only to find the trail gone cold.
He searched for one of that ten thousand.
Where is he? Where is that bastard? His eyes went everywhere, going from the horizon now without banner to the men broken in the mud. Hopefully he was dead and forgotten in all that chaos. If the gods were good.
But people would say they seldom were.
He had payed his own tithe in blood, so where was the Crownless Prince, he had a sword with his name.
