Dulcet and Duplicitous - Part 8

"Cele."

The general looked up from the thin, creased papyrus in his hand. It was sent from the eastern front, scribbled hastily. Blotches of ink surrounded the note, as if the sender had no time to spare.

"That is the report of Commander Nuno?"

He looked up, finally, at the voice of the king. It was clear to see that Vincente had just recently shucked from his leather armor - the thin cotton tunic beneath still stuck to his sweaty, tired body. His boots were coated in mud and blood, his hair tied back in the same black cord it had been that very morning, though now disheveled and disrupted by his helmet and the seemingly endless hours of battle.

"Yes." Cele sighed and dropped the paper on his table, before beginning to work his breastplate. "To no one's surprise, the commander's gone."

Vincente entered deeper into the general's tent, collapsing upon a chair.

"It was a wonder he survived long enough to clear off the field."