Marrick had watched his friends die. He had watched soldiers he had grown up with fall in battle. He had watched the army he had been given slowly crumble around him. And through it all, he had kept fighting. He had kept leading. He had kept hoping that somehow, against all odds, they would prevail.
They hadn't.
The final battle had been a disaster. Vrethka's forces had overwhelmed them. The Harrowhold army had been scattered, broken, crushed. And Marrick had been captured.
He remembered the moment it happened. He had been fighting alongside his men, swinging his sword, trying to rally them. But it had been too late. The enemy had surrounded them. They had been outnumbered, outmatched and outmaneuvered.
Marrick had seen his father fall. He had seen the king dragged away by Vrethkan soldiers. And in that moment, something inside him had broken.
