Trauma leaves its mark. You can get over it, heal the wounds and cover the cracks. But the scars remain etched into your skin, and your knees still hurt when it rains. You can try to forget them, but when you get up from the bench and a flash of pain goes through your legs, the memory of a horse throwing you off its back returns.

General Veran Tornoff, leader of House Bozmaroff’s armed forces was as tough as they come. In his fifties, his presence still invoked a blend of fear and respect in the young soldiers. The sight of the burly man entering a room silenced jokes and laughter like a bucket of water thrown on a bonfire. He wasn’t one for small talk and cherished his words as if each cost him a coin.

He had ruffled hair that he paid no attention to comb. When he put it out of his eyes, it would reveal a poorly sewn scar where his right ear had been. No one knew how he’d lost it, but everyone had heard a rumor or two that they whispered behind his back. Some said it was cut in battle, others that the cold took it on a long march. Some said a dog bit it off and then there were those who claimed he had cut it off himself in a fit of rage for a lover.

The bolyars were the people who had demands, and the generals were the ones who said yes. Despite his stern look, Veran was no exception. He was a man who agreed. Even when it went against everything in him, even when his mind screamed to say no, he nodded.

“Rhana’s bolyars have taken Vladislav’s side in the rebellion and the czar has tasked us with reminding them of their allegiance.”

Ozren Bozmaroff, the sole living heir of the house, stood in front of Veran with hands clasped behind his back. The uniform of a ruler fitted him well, and his curly golden hair shone like a halo under the sunlight. In his twenty-two years, he had become a better governor than his father and brothers, but he was yet to go to war himself.

“Sire, I will gladly help you prepare the men.”

“I need more from you this time, Veran. I want you to lead them.”

“Bron would be a better choice, sire. He’s experienced, respected, and a capable fighter, unlike me at my age.”

“It’s a lot to ask after everything that happened and it’s not easy on me either. I’m aware of what this would cost you. I’m not asking you to fight, but to manage the logistics and discipline the men. This is my first battle, and I need someone I trust. You’ll help me learn the ways of war. Just one last march, and then no more requests. You have my word.” - Ozren pleaded.

Veran listened attentively, his back straight, not saying a word.

“Will you stand with me?” - Ozren asked again.

“Yes, my lord.”