Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under the weight of his body. His gaze swept across the table where his companions sat , men who had followed him from mud and hunger into the halls of princes, and who now stared at him as if he'd brought them the omen of their own ruin.
None spoke. They didn't need to. The air was heavy with the same thought that pressed on Alpheo's chest but he dared not out.
We're in too deep.
He had told them everything: the boy-emperor's pitiful numbers, the hollow coffers, the mad reliance on mercenaries who'd had royal blood in their hands. There was no point in hiding it, and he needed someone to let it out to.
Plus, information was a weapon, and a commander who hoarded weapons from his men was no better than a miser counting coins in a burning house. Still, watching their faces now he wondered if truth, in this case, had done more harm than ignorance ever could.
