52
Rogero strode unseen and unimpeded through the enemy camp.
King Carleman’s army was nearly defeated.
A great portion of them were already dead. The few remaining survivors were clearly preparing to leave.
Monarch Pass would soon be left unguarded. Rogero could easily take it with the meager remnants of his own army. He wouldn’t even have to create wind warriors to swell his ranks. There would be no enemy to fight them.
The west was open to him now. It was a victory by any measure.
Any measure but his own.
Only a true warrior, a born fighter like Rogero, would understand the disquiet inside his chest. The dull thudding of a heart that beat best when he was in the midst of a hard-fought battle.
But this. The virtual surrender of what had seemed like worthy opponents felt as hollow
