Haemar groaned in a weak manner, pressing his hand to his side from the pain. Blood stained the lavish clothes on his stomach, staining the usually spotless cloth. In the back of his mind, a disappointment of the fact lingered, despite the fact that he was likely going to die there. He felt almost amused. He was going to die -- and he was concerned with how the blood may stain.

His convoy was meant to be safe. It was meant to be protected with the best soldiers of Caelor -- but the Fìor were too many in number, and too quick. They overwhelmed his men, ambushing them among the trees. They were robbed of their supplies, and now he was left to die on the side of the road.

His title could not save him now. He may have been born among luxury; but he would die upon the same dirt all others, rich or poor, would die on.