It did not matter.
It did not matter that his liege, had clearly pressed the hot potato of final command into his hands before taking the cowardly exit, leaving all the smoke, the fire, and the stench of impending defeat for Willios to deal with alone.
It did not matter that his uncle, Landoff, the closest thing he had to family alongside his cousin, of whose rumored abuse by the now-fleeing Imperator he had heard whispered accounts, had stood by and orchestrated the whole charade.
None of that mattered.
He was a soldier, Lord of the Fingers, and above his personal likings and grudges, he had a duty to attend to. Once, that duty had split, forking between loyalty to the Imperator of Romelia and loyalty to the ambition of his family. He had chosen the latter, supporting a pretender and fighting a war that had destroyed the very stability he was sworn to uphold. He had made his bed, a mess of it, but a bed nonetheless, and now he had to sleep in it.
