Blood and Sand

I let the charred note drop from my hand. "Be safe, my friend.", it ends, and I laugh bitterly at the contradiction. Four words to keep a man safe where an army could not, four words to protect a man from the mistake of their author.

My siblings ravage the realm, leaving chaos and death in their wake, and the beleaguered queen would seek my death? Had she heard nothing of me beforehand? Do I even look like I lead an army of fire giants? Had I returned a day earlier, Saradush would still stand.

But truth is the first casualty of war.

Will it always be this way? Will I always be on trial for my heritage, for merely being born? Will I always be forced to prove my damned Father's only gift?

An oasis of life turned into a wasteland of death, an army reduced to ashes blowing in the chill night wind, the sound of disappointed vultures finding only dried, burned husks that once held life.

History will no doubt call this a great victory.

Six to turn away hundreds: the bards will sing of it for ages.

So why does this feel so much like defeat?