Karvendo's Hero

They say history remembers kings and killers and "the" nobles.
But I remember him.
Before the glory. Before the scars and campaigns. Before I donned the General's armour and led the armies of Karvendo into battles - there was him. A boy from the mud, not from porcelain. Forced into complete silence, yet somehow louder than any commander I've ever known.
This war with them had taken many things.
Lands. Cities. Brothers. Friends.
Certain losses... we carry heavier than others.
And one upon them all hits hardest.
I do not write this to glorify our kingdom nor to provoke the opponent. I write because someone must remember the truth. Not the polished truth they carve into legendary tales, but the kind you whisper around campfires when the night is cold and your hands reek of blood and gore.
He was not born for war. He was thrown into it - discarded like something unwanted and sent toward death without even a sword to hold. No training, no glory. But he did not break.
He waited. He listened. And when the time came, he stood taller than those who once spat at him.
The day he left the mistress's house, he wasn't a soldier. Hear from his master and this was what he would say. He was a coward. A scoundrel. A fool.
But something in him proved that master wrong.
Yesterday, a captain came into my tent amidst my plans. He asked: "Who are we fighting for?"
You want to understand this war?
Many expect tales of kings and politics, long histories and bloodlines. But the truth is simple.
Don't think from kings.
Don't think from nobles.
Start at the riverbank.
Start with still waters, and silent chains.
Start from the slave by the river who waited in silence, and still somehow changed the world.
Forever...
From the Commander