I sat on my bed, my gaze locked onto Icarus, but my mind felt adrift—unmoored by fear and confusion. His restless, storm-dark eyes burned with frustration, his jaw tense with unspoken regret. I knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking. He must have cursed the day he chose to lead the legions in this war. He should have been with the Royal Army, fighting degenerates and the self-proclaimed New King. Instead, he was here, tangled in a conflict that offered no honor, no glory—only ...