When darkness rises from the very edge of the continent, it distinguishes neither names nor enmities. We must distinguish: what's more important—old grudges or tomorrow's dawn? Even if Kriver stands beside us, even if his ancient enemies are there—in this time, it's better to stand shoulder to shoulder than fall one by one.
Decisions are like an endless stall of choices, where you pay a piece of your soul for each purchase. You stand at the counter, examine the goods, and realize: whatever you take, you'll lose something important anyway. A nail in the core, and every thought echoes with dull pain.
We are warriors of Monaria. This diagnosis is given at birth and carried all life, like a birthmark on the conscience. Our pride is like old wine: it strengthens with years but doesn't become less bitter. And here I sit with this pride, as if hungover—head aches, soul murky.
Kriver spilled blood first. Killed the king—just like that, as if slicing bread for breakfast. His blade found its mark, and from that moment, everything I believed in began to crack at the seams. The ordinariness of villainy is sometimes scarier than evil itself.
To respond to betrayal with betrayal is like treating alcoholism with alcohol. Knightly honor is like an expensive suit: looks beautiful until you get caught in the rain of reality. Then it fades, shrinks, tears at the seams.
But a defender of the homeland has different arithmetic. His justification is love for the fatherland. And love, as we know, is blind and ready for any madness. For a defender, morality is simpler: there are our own, there are outsiders—our own are right by definition.
I stand by the fortress window, lost between voices. The wind carries the scent of blooming herbs—those very ones that may soon become ash. Somewhere beyond the horizon, people plow the land, raise children, believe: we won't let fire destroy their homes. What's more important—my honor or their tomorrow?
All my life, I've been a knight. It's not a title—it's the core on which my worldview rested. Every oath, every duel woven into the fabric of my being. My sword was an extension of will, a promise to serve. And now to betray this foundation? Like skinning myself, leaving a bleeding wound where ideals' armor shone.
I remember the king's face—stern but kind, like a father I never had. He taught: a knight is not only a sword but a shield. Not only strength but mercy. Now he's gone, and I'm left alone with this cursed choice.
Love for the homeland is a strange thing. Not tender like for a woman, not sweet like a first kiss. Heavy like a stone you drag uphill. Bitter like herbs you chew when there's no food left. It simply is or isn't—like a mole or a scar.