He wore white the day his whole world perished.
He had been a young man of nineteen, draped in the pristine white of a night tunic, his thighs bare to the biting air, a young prince who had looked in the mirror and seen a conqueror, only to have the glass shattered by the hand of a monster.
He had always viewed his father as an ocean: a vast, unyielding force that could engulf any obstacle. Sorza had spent his youth measuring his own worth against that tide, and even now, seven winters later, he felt like a man standing on a dry shore, hopelessly lacking.
The Great Expedition.
They had marched when Yarzat was supposed to be a dying beast, bleeding from internal rebellions and hammered by Herculia from the north. It was meant to be a harvest of laurels. Instead, it was a slaughter in the mire.
What could a man do against such reckless force?Two crowns and a rebel host against one. A normal man would have caved; that had been their mistake since the start.
