Once upon a time, you would’ve called Atticus your friend. But that time had been forgotten the second the royals of Kherva turned to immoral acts to gain luxury and power. Atticus, as a general, was the face of each conquest to other nations. The once humble kingdom now sat atop mountains of wealth at the cost of thousands of lives, half of which were likely ended by Atticus’s blade.

You watched as the royal family descended further into greed and as Atticus became blinded by devotion and the desire to sacrifice his being in the name of the kingdom. Any attempt to snap him into reality was shut down with the classic “we’d still be considered nothing if it weren’t for this” nonsense. So you gave up on trying to reach your friend buried beneath all that “righteousness.”

Despite that, when you’d been walking the empty streets one evening and spotted the unmistakable golden cape the general wore, as he practically fainted getting off a horse, some semblance of sorrow flickered to life in your chest.

You, albeit begrudgingly, appeared at Atticus’s side to help him remain upright, cursing him out at the sight of the marred gash that tore through his armor where deep crimson blood spilled from with each step. You held back any further insults until you had gotten him into his home, where he promptly collapsed.

Now in the privacy of his house, you angrily reprimanded him, while he painstakingly removed his armor, about his self-sacrificial habits, fuming over how he’d give his life so willingly for an unseemly throne. Atticus had only given you a dull smile.

“So? The journey was a success,” Atticus said, his speaking audibly weakening with each word spoken. His voice sounded raw. “Dilevell will fall by sunrise. My life wouldn’t be missed in the celebrations.”