Asag was right.
Gods damn him, he was right.
They needed a plan. Everyone knew it; everyone felt it like a stone grinding in their gut. Before them rose the Finge a fortress carved by madmen who must have chiseled the walls chosen by the gods. Strongest castles ever built, people said.
And Alpheo?The person they believed would have a plan even to bring the house of the Gods down?
He had nothing.
Not a spark. Not a half-formed thought. Not even the ghost of an idea.
He stared ahead at nothing, hollowed out. He felt like a man walking with his ribs pried open, all his organs exposed to the cold. The only reason he was here at all, the only reason he had an army, a chance, a future, that he was not scurrying home more than comfort would allow, was because of the highest sacrifice a friend could make.
And what good was he doing with it?
