They were happy — by the gods, they were happy — and who could blame them?
Five months ago, they had stood alone on the battlefield, staring down the combined might of two proud princes and a snarling pack of rebel lords.
It didn't matter that four brutal months later, they were the ones left standing tall atop the smoking ruins of their enemies' ambitions. No festival, no victory feast, no amount of golden laurel wreaths could ever bleach out the raw memory of that hopelessness—the cold, gnawing certainty that they would be crushed under a tide of spears and forgotten in shallow graves.
Of course, Alpheo had never once doubted himself. Nor, at least outwardly, had he ever doubted his chances. But even he would not wish that kind of "certainty" upon himself again. Victory was sweet—but it had come from chewing bitter stones.
