Lord Pyrrhus had perfectly cooked this plan.
Eight thousand soldiers from the remnants of the Legions, bolstered by three hundred of his own Blue Orchid clansmen and the household cavalry he had kept in reserve since the start of this campaign. He rode at the front because that was where the leader of this march belonged. At the very front, where the men could see his blonde hair catching the early light and know that their commander had staked his body beside theirs.
He had lost people whom he counted on greatly, Zebelon, Colak, the crude barbarian of the Ashlands and Adelaide and the girl from the Wager House.
He had lost everything the Sixth Prince had given him, piece by piece, like a gambler hemorrhaging chips at a table he refused to leave.
