Ernest arrived at the military camp at dawn the next day. He had used half a day the previous day to organize the handover.
The iron gates stood open, yet the air within felt heavier than stone. Word had already spread—swift and merciless, carried by messengers and sharpened by rumor. By the time he dismounted, the camp no longer greeted him as a general in command, but as a man being stripped of it.
Rows of soldiers straightened instinctively at his presence. Discipline remained, but lingering beneath it were unease, resentment, and confusion.
The commanders were waiting.
Those who had marched beside Ernest through blood and fire lowered their heads in silent respect. In their hearts, curses were already being whispered against the king who so easily discarded loyalty earned on the battlefield. Ernest had won victories others only boasted of. To suspend him now, over something so trivial, was unjust.
