The General’s pips were the insignia of her rank and a history of her war efforts, reduced to a few metal studs that told her tale down the length of her shoulder. And now they were covered in blood. Blood and only God knew what else: She kneeled amongst the mud and the wailing of the wounded, praying in thanks as the enemies of the kingdom retreated.
“Am I still the King?” The General looked up at the question to see her sovereign, untouched by the war his own folly had wrought, standing with his usual imperiousness in blue robes trimmed in gold fox. Nothing but the bottom fringe of his royal attire was soiled.
The General looked upon the King’s indifference to the suffering around him, the boasts and nepotism that cost the lives of countless unknowns, and thought of plunging her blade into his heart. But what greater chaos would that fashion?