It had always been deemed an impossible war.
A battle fought under overwhelming disadvantage, where merely preserving their strength was considered a fortune in itself. And yet, they had fought each time, staking their lives on the struggle. Even when others would call it reckless, even when it seemed reckless beyond reason. If they had managed to carve out a path for survival, was that not enough?
He thought so, yet he could not deceive his own body.
Almost collapsing as soon as he dismounted, he barely managed to stagger into his tent. The moment the fabric of the tent concealed him from view, his body crumpled. His trembling lips struggled to exhale, each breath growing heavier beneath the weight of the helmet pressing down on his head. Yet his hands, shaking violently, could not muster the strength to remove it.
There was no strength left.
He had expected this. From the moment he had mounted his horse with wounds left untended, he knew better than anyone that his body would reach its limit. And yet, the sheer loss of control, the inability to command his own limbs, was enough to send him into a spiral of dismay. It felt as if his breath would stop.
Right here. Right now.
At that moment, he felt a hand grasp the ties of his helmet.
A gentle touch, carefully undoing the knot, an unmistakable act of kindness. Slowly, the straps loosened, and the helmet was lifted away. The rush of cool air met his skin, and only then did his ragged, erratic breaths begin to steady. As soon as he regained some sense of calm, he raised his gaze to see the one responsible for the touch.
As expected, Ivania stood before him, watching with eyes filled with concern.
The moment she saw his exposed face, she bit down on her lower lip.
“…So this is why you had your armor and helmet painted red, Your Highness.”
With her words, something dropped to the ground. A soft splatter—drip, drop. He didn’t need to look to know what it was. Blood. Thick, warm droplets seeping from wounds reopened, falling onto the dirt below.
Ivania’s fingers, rough with calluses from years of wielding weapons, traced the bloodstained skin of his cheek.
“How much of this… was truly your intent?”
“All of it was my will.”
“Liar.”
His gaze met her uncharacteristically solemn blue eyes, and at that moment, he closed his own. That was answer enough. She was right.
His original plan had been different. He had not intended to divide his forces so recklessly. His goal had been to preserve what little strength they had, to maintain an equal balance of power by crushing the city-states of central Greece that had joined the battle too late.
But in the end, he had cast that plan aside for one reason alone.
For all the careful conditions he had considered, he had failed to account for his own body.
“Ivania, as a warrior, you must already know the answer. Can I stand on the battlefield again?”
“…At this rate, you may truly fall in battle.”
Fall.
Before, he might have accepted such a fate without hesitation. But now, it was different. The empire’s survival was hanging by a thread. If he collapsed here, everything they had struggled to hold together would be finished in an instant. It was the one outcome that had to be avoided at all costs.
And so, he had no choice but to believe.
To trust those who still followed him, despite the blood he had spilled, despite the countless sacrifices he had made.
“Then we will go to Athens. We will regroup there.”
“You’re not heading straight for Corinth?”
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