Tentative morning light had filtered through the hell of Arden's prison.

He woke up on his stomach, cheek resting on the ground. He started to open his eyes and winced at feel of the crusted blood on his lids. Some time has passed since the last of the excruciating pain has faded and he had drifted into unconsciousness. The pain was coming back--dull at the back of his mind, but he barely noticed. It was the helplessness that gnawed at him.

The ambush had been predictable; he should have known from the start, should have easily destroyed them all. All his years of training amounted to nothing. Instead, he had been overwhelmed when a group of men surrounded him last night, barring him from leaving. He had arrogantly assumed it would take no effort at all to defeat them, but a mere blow to the head and he had fallen. So much for his arrogance.

He attempted to turn and almost blacked out again. Bruised ribs, he thought as he hissed through the pain, taking inventory of the injuries his body had taken. His left shoulder was crushed; he could almost feel its splinters. His fingertips still stung from when he gripped the wall to keep from screaming. He had a cut in the head and a gaping dagger-stab that stretched on his side, only shallow enough not to kill.

It would have been more merciful, had he not lived at all.

His captors hadn't allowed him this little blessing, of course. They had told him between sneers and blows to the gut what they intended him for. He was ransom. A tool for bargaining--like a fucking damsel in distress. He started laughing at the irony but gasped as bitter bile rose to his throat. He breathed through the coughing, his ribs screaming with each spasm.

He heard the sound of footfalls, smothered by the walls as though from a lifetime away. The clang of metal against metal resounded with it. There were voices he didn't know, people shouting and moving about. He vaguely wondered if any of it had to do with him.

Arden didn't have enough strength in him to care. He merely listened, feeling the coldness seeping through his bones. There was no deliverance for him, at any rate. He could only hope that Joaquin had seen beyond his demise and realized their potential for victory. The town was surrounded, any attack from the Capital would bring them to their knees. If Joaquin let him die here, their enemies would run out of aces. Victory would be theirs. Arden didn't mind dying this way, quite welcomed it in fact. The sounds grew louder as unconsciousness pulled at him once again. The chaos outside the walls contrasted with the stillness inside him, the calm of extinguishing life.

The door screeched open, filling the room with orange torchlight. He raised his head minutely and caught a glimpse of dust-covered boots on the stone floor. Boots he would've been compelled to remember if he wasn't dying. He tried to focus on the face, but dizziness prevented clear vision. Then arms surrounded him, and he heard a voice he could recognize anywhere.

"Can you walk?" Saede's husky alto was unmistakable.

Arden wanted to demand what the hell he was doing here, wanted to shout that he didn't need a damn rescuer. Instead, he found himself hauled off the floor, Saede half-carrying him out of the dungeon and into a long, narrow hall.

Saede dragged him quickly, navigating the labyrinth of corridors. As they turn into a corner, Arden stumbled to a halt, the grotesque spectacle before him turning his stomach.

"Gods," he choked.

Lying on the floor was a man he recognized as one of his captors, drenched in his own blood. Arden held no grief for him. His eyes instead were riveted to a prone figure not far away, the youthful face slack and lifeless. He recognized this young man; Arden had trained him not long ago, for Joaquin's army.

His mind quickly calculated the cost for this rescue. They had given up tactical advantage, threw away weapons and resources, sacrificed lives because of one arrogant, profound miscalculation. Because of Arden's mistake.

Soldiers had died--young ones, because of him.

Heavens.

Nausea swept over him, and he tried to push Saede away, staggering to lean on the wall. Bile threatened to spill from his mouth again, and he welcomed the bitter edge of it. Anything to distract him from the self-loathing consuming him.

Saede grabbed him. "Why," Arden rasped, throat raw, "did Joaquin weigh their lives against mine? Is my life worth more than theirs?"

He began sinking to the floor, but Saede's hands held him up. He closed his eyes, trying to block the image he knew would burn on his eyelids forever.

It took a moment for him to realize that Saede was talking to him, the soft voice uncharacteristically harsh. "Arden--listen to me! The value of their lives is not for you to question. We've been sent for one mission, and we've succeeded. You'll live, Arden. That's all that matters."

He nodded dully as Saede dragged him to the gates, feeling the warmth of the sunlight at last. Outside, his own troop was waiting for him. Shouts of victory came from them when he emerged, greeting him with weary but welcoming faces. He tried to quell the twist in his gut as he saw some of them bloodied, smiling even as they endured their pain. Glad that Arden had survived, even at the expense of their comrades.

He smiled for them, clapped their backs. Never mind that he had lost good men. And that families back in Romaunt would never see their loved ones again. Never mind that every blood shed that morning was a stain on his hands. Never mind that he was not worthy to be a commander to these soldiers.

No, never mind that. Arden would live.