A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1783 - 1783: A Coiling Serpent - Part 3

The Karstly that Broadstone knew was eternally full of whimsy. He viewed war in a way that was very different from the gray grimness that Broadstone interpreted it with. It was a far more colourful and exciting endeavour in Karstly's eyes. He seemed to see it more as a piece of music, or as a place. He was ever waiting for the next grand moment to come and upstage them all. He seemed to wish for nothing more than that. But now he was the one who had been upstaged, and that fact, quite clearly, had shaken him.

By all accounts, Karstly had never struggled with the problem of competence. All that had been involved with the raising and teaching of the young man were quite certain he had an aptitude for that which he now engaged in, long before he'd ever set foot on the battlefield, they'd been certain that he'd make his mark. That was the destiny that Karstly had confidently flitted down. The certainty of a young Commander that knew himself to be talented, who never had reason to doubt himself, who found victory over all the foes he wished to find it over, as long as he was willing to exert himself to the slightest degree.

Broadstone had no doubt that he'd never known the sort of crushing defeat that he'd been afflicted with before. Not like the rest of them. Broadstone had known it since the first day that he had touched a Battle board. He knew very well how nasty war could be. How it could mercilessly slash to pieces a strategy that he had been carefully building up over the longest time. War had no mercy. He'd known to respect it and fear it from the off.

To only come to that realization so late in life, as a fully grown man… Broadstone found a degree of pity. Indeed, Karstly was a young General, but he'd been almost complete as a man of his rank. His personality in regards to it was well-formed, and he was effective, but now Tiberius had seen it shattered. His ego, his confidence, his entire approach to the battlefield itself. That was the seriousness that Karstly left his castle with. The seriousness of a man that had been completely and utterly destroyed, and was desperately searching for the pieces to rebuild himself.

Even that did not describe the full emotion of it, however. For though Broadstone was tempted to pity him, for the fire that Karstly held, he found he could not. There was relentless determination there. His eyes were practically aglow, even from so far away. He'd been crushed entirely. Tiberius had reached in with his fingers to the very fibres of Karstly's heart, and what he had found was not the sandy foundations of a young man that had flown up the ranks simply because of his genius – he'd found and he'd awoken something far more solid.

It was impossible to like Karstly, for a man like Broadstone. But at the very least, he had to respect his current approach, as a man of the battlefield. A strong, grasping heart, seeking further strength. Would he have been a General if that was not his highest held ideal?

"Very well, Karstly," Broadstone said to himself. "I will cover for the holes that you leave, if that is the sort of resolution you undertake your task with."

He decided that, despite it all, perhaps their allies were far better having Karstly seek further strength, than they were simply having him function as Broadstone did – as eyes to see the land around them, and alert them all to danger. It made Broadstone feel reduced, but he had enough sense to set aside his pride, and acknowledge a creature with capabilities above his own.

Nearing his fifth year by now, Broadstone was no longer as strongly afflicted by that want for grandness as those younger than him were. Skullic watched Karstly's comings and goings with interest, for he too looked at the battlefield as a place of potential. He was a reckless man, and young, and in search of his own kind of glory – but the Gods had been good in giving him a sensible wife, Broadstone thought, for Skullic wasn't nearly the same level of rashness that he remembered. Broadsone had thanks for that, for even though he would never explain it directly to them, he wanted them to see it. This was not a war to be trifled with. No doubt they knew intellectually their reasons for fighting, but it seemed that it was not good enough in finding their motivations.

Broadstone was willing to sacrifice his pride entirely as a General for the good of the cause of his Queen Pendragon. He did not think the younger men were quite so ready. They had sworn their loyalty, but they knew not yet what it meant to swear such a thing. To give one's life entirely in service of another. That was a thing one learned after many years in such a position. One learned the order of importance.

This war and the victory in it were far above such petty rivalries. Far above even the likes of honour, Broadstone thought. Or at least, above his personal honour. His Queen's honour, he would never see sacrificed, no matter the stakes. He would have been no useful servant of hers if he forced her to carry such burdens.

And, despite it all, according to the reports from Lord Blackwell, she was a creature that sought those burdens regardless. They had all bent the knee to her, and sworn to serve her, as the sweet and pure-hearted girl that she had been. It was her kindness that brought them to her cause. A blinding golden light against a realm tainted by a purple fog of corruption. But she had other designs. She sought not to remain the same creature forever. They were happy to serve her as she was, but she was not herself happy to be served without movement. She, by her own hands, put out the fires that their war had started. She reached into herself, and she showed that, even being the mild and kind Queen that they all loved with a painful truth, there was a fire in her that was distinctly Pendragon. Or perhaps it was even beyond that. There was a destiny in her that was almost in the same vein as Arthur.