We fought bravely. We sacrificed much…and we won.
Namyn stood over the broken body of the Tyrant, his clothes soaked in blood and his breath coming in huge, heaving gasps. His hands, clenched around the hilt of the tyrant’s sword, trembled.
“Do it,” Sefris whispered behind him. He knelt in a puddle of blood which was not his own. One of his arms hung bent and broken at his side. His face was pale, his dark hair hanging around his face in sodden clumps. Around him, the tyrant’s audience chamber was blanketed in bodies.