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  • I walked solemnly amongst my fallen soldiers, row upon row, marked merely with white stones and scratches of names that did no justice. Swords emerged proudly from the ice, their pommels against the wind in a sort of mellow solidarity.
  • “Czar, I…” he began. “I was sent here to inform you that reconstruction efforts are merely awaiting your call. Say the word, and we begin.”
  • I took a moment to stare, testing the limits of the intimidation clearly written on his face before reaching my hand out for the envelope. He gave it up with a fearful hesitance, as if the envelope contained dreadful information, as it likely did.
  • “The very idea of it pains me. My soldier, my kin, buried with the sword of one of the very men who prayed and yearned for our demise. A disservice, an act of hate, that’s what it is.” I chuckled resentfully.
  • “Czar, he’s-” “How dare they? After all they’ve done, years and years of bitterness. Can you believe it, soldier? Can you-”
  • “Czar Luri,” the man bellowed. “He’s dead.”
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