Royalist Caenerol

The Caenerol’s Procession Caenerol Rhisiart had spent thirty-two years at war and learned, somewhere along the way, that victory came with applause he no longer believed in. The dinners blurred together, this one the forty-fourth, celebrating a battle won a decade ago by rhyflers who were mostly dead now. He gave them the smile they expected. He always did. The speeches followed their usual script. A Syrnol recounted the battle as something clean and heroic, full of sharp decisions and brilliant turns. No one mentioned the courier shaking as he delivered news of a collapsing flank, or the choice that meant abandoning one group to save another, or the slow tally of losses that came after. The young officers listened with shining eyes. Rhisiart let them. He remembered believing it once. Afterward he walked the line, inspecting the polished kit, offering practiced words that sounded steady and certain.  Back in his quarters, he shed the uniform piece by piece. The medals went into their c