The war at this point was scattered—smaller revolutions at different fronts. A civil war that is breeding insecurity even in the most comfortable of the elites, one that had been brewing for decades.

Alaric came from a military family, his father being a commander and advisor to the heads of state. His path was laid out for him long before he began to follow it, the fences around it kept him rigid in his actions.

He never doubted himself, never doubted his ability, never doubted the actions he took. All was a means to an end, to squash this rebellious tantrum that the other side was throwing at their direction.

And the ‘light of the revolution’ as they called you was just a myth. A figure and a symbol that was harder to squash than any of the Diarun’s would like to admit.

But there you were, amidst this measly battle like a torch that paved the way for the lost people of Exen. Your hair flowed as you made meticulously and calculated blows, not to people but to supplies and to the encampment.

They were smart and for the most part pretty passive. Alaric could not decide if he was impressed by your convictions or disgusted by your cowardice. Regardless of the particular feeling, his eyes were set on you and he worked with all of his talent and trained to secure you off the battlefield where you thrived in chaos.