Robert's arms ached as two soldiers dragged him forward, his boots scraping against the dirt. His head throbbed, his vision swimming in and out of focus, but he forced himself to stay aware, to listen, to see.
The battle had been over after barely less than ten minutes of fighting , and already the field looked more like a hunting ground than a battlefield—one where the prey had scattered before the predator even sank its teeth in.
The dead were surprisingly few, their bodies strewn in patches where men had been too slow or too stubborn to flee. The rest had thrown down their weapons the moment they saw the lines collapse. The mercenaries had never been real soldiers; they fought for coin, not for cause. And men who fought for coin knew when to cut their losses.
Robert let out a slow, painful breath.
His lips curled into a humorless smirk. He knew Alpheo well enough to know that wouldn't last.
