Aturs, Year of Severus, 15, I.R., the 33rd day of Fall, Arenfall
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"But godfather…" The prince's voice echoed around the spacious tent. "What you're doing could ruin your repu—"
"Think of this as wartime, Arterius." Lord Prestonheim tried explaining to his godson that what they would be doing was justifiable. "During wartime, during desperate moments, remember this, young prince…Morals doesn't equate to anything. You either kill or be killed. You either starve or be satiated. Your decision would equate into either winning or losing…I want you to remember it well."
There was silence in the room. Commander Crovar stared blankly beyond the tent; Lord Prestonheim knew his friend had a lot of things to say but understood the gravity of the situation.