The Fall of Everything [Rewrite]

Corvus woke up before the sun had risen. There was a uneasiness in him. When he got up, the same thoughts swirled in his mind: the speech he would deliver in a few hours would shape not only the fate of the bandit, but also his authority over his own soldiers. The pressure was like a heavy burden on his shoulders. For a while he sat in his seat, lost in thought, but finding no other way out, he decided to go out and get some air. He quietly stepped out of his tent.
The camp looked like a fortress rising out of the darkness. The heavy fortifications around it set it apart from an ordinary military settlement. In a short period of time, the Rhazgord soldiers had built a camp as if they had taken root in enemy territory. The tents were set up in perfect order, forming a large inner circle. The inner fortifications were like a shield against the outside world, thick wooden poles and barbed barriers rising everywhere.
In the centre of the camp a large fire was still burning weakly; the few guards who fed it moved silently around it, talking briefly to the cooks who were preparing the morning meal in pots on the fire. There was a light mist around, filling the camp like a thin layer on the ground. Everyone was asleep except the guards and the labourers.
Corvus walked with heavy steps towards the soldiers preparing breakfast. The coolness of the air, combined with the sharp wind blowing in his face, made him shiver. The smell of the simple food the soldiers were preparing permeated the air: smoking bread, fried pieces of meat, hot soups. He greeted them with a few words and tasted the prepared food. At that moment he locked eyes with a few soldiers who were milling around. There was silence, but it had the intense anticipation of the pre-war moments. Then he went to the fire, and as the flames crackled slightly and the warmth of the fire enveloped his body, he had a short conversation with a few soldiers on guard. Nothing extraordinary had happened during the night.
As they chatted, Corvus's eyes fell for a moment on the man tied to the post beyond the fire. The bandit was in much worse shape than he had been a few hours before. His face was unrecognisable, his eyes were black and blue, and his body seemed to be covered with violent blows. Every breath he took was laboured, as if a knife had been thrust into his lungs. Apparently, the soldiers, unable to digest the loss of their comrade-in-arms, had vented their anger on the bandit's body.
Corvus took a deep breath. With the composure of a leader restraining his own anger, he turned towards one of the soldiers standing guard. "Why is this man like this?" he asked. His voice was cold, but calm. The question caused immediate uneasiness in the soldier; his eyes briefly darted away, but he relaxed when he realised that Corvus did not seem angry. Still, his voice was slightly agitated.
"Sir, we tried to stop them, we wanted to let you know, but... Zarqa told us not to go near the meeting tent at all."
Corvus took a brief look at the soldier's face. It was clear from his face that this soldier, too, had taken his anger out on the bandit. But Corvus did not react in any way. He just walked slowly towards the bandit. There were two guards standing over the bandit. The hands of one of them were covered with dried blood; they were obviously the hands that had tortured the bandit's body during the night. Corvus ordered the two guards to leave. One look was enough; the soldiers bowed their heads and walked away.
Corvus crouched down and gave the bandit a few slow slaps on the face. The slaps were soft but warning, meant to wake him up. As the bandit slowly regained consciousness, he was startled by a hoarse, painful cough. The wheezing from his lungs revealed the desperation and agony inside the man. When he opened his eyes and looked into Corvus' face, he was frozen with the fear and despair of someone close to death. He tried to say something, but his weak breath betrayed him. Corvus leaned a little closer to hear more clearly, straining to hear the bandit's feeble words.
The bandit moaned in a low, almost inaudible voice, "Water... please, water..." His voice was full of pain; every syllable echoed like a knife through his flesh. Corvus paused for a moment, his eyes travelling over the man's distraught face, and made a decision. He turned round with a cold expression and gave an order to one, or perhaps all, of the soldiers inside the camp. "Bring water!" he said, his voice full of command but not directed at anyone in particular. But the silent resistance of the soldiers was evident. None of them moved, all pretended not to hear.
Corvus' eyes darkened, he did not like this silent rebellion around him.
"I said water!"
This time his voice was threatening, every word like a flame. The certainty in his tone penetrated the bones of the soldiers. No soldier could ignore this voice any longer.
As if suddenly realising this, one of the soldiers hurriedly picked up a canteen and brought it in front of Corvus. As Corvus took the canteen in his hand, he felt the coolness and weight of the water. He bent down and carefully poured the water into the bandit's chapped lips. Each drop brought a moment of relief as it travelled down the man's parched throat. The bandit opened his eyes slightly and drank the water; a few drops escaped from the corner of his lips, but Corvus watched with cool patience. He remembered the intricacies of keeping a wounded man alive, how he had cared for wounded soldiers on the battlefield before.
As soon as the bandit regained consciousness, his first sentence was, in a hoarse voice, "Untie me..." Then he added, "I couldn't escape from Corvus Tiamat's hands even if I wanted to." Corvus was surprised to hear his name spoken from the bandit's lips, for he had never told him his name. The bandit was a man of keen hearing and perception, attentive to his surroundings, never missing a detail. He had caught Corvus' name, perhaps from a whispered rumour about him.
Corvus took a deep breath and made his decision. Without saying anything, he wrapped his bare hands around the thick ropes the bandit was tied to. His strong hands slowly loosened the ropes, tearing off each fibre one by one. When the bandit was freed from his bindings, he tried to move with a groan of pain. His body had been immobilised for so long that his bones crunched back into place and every movement felt like torture. When he finally got himself into a more comfortable position, he took a deep breath.
Corvus' thoughts whirled like a storm as his eyes travelled over the bandit. The bandit reached for the canteen, his chapped lips seeking another sip of water. Corvus quietly handed him the flask, and the man took another sip. They both sat facing each other without speaking, the depth of the silence echoing through the camp.
"Sakhaar... He would have torn me apart by now," the bandit moaned, his voice hoarse and pained. Corvus had never expected to hear his father's name, especially from such a desperate mouth. The great Sanguinar Sakhaar Tiamat was both a hero and a monster in the eyes of the people of Rhazgord. In Corvus' mind, hearing that name had an echo. His curiosity was piqued.
"Do you know my father?" he asked, his eyes studying the man's tired, weathered face. The bandit was middle-aged, his face unremarkable, but everything one would expect of a Rhazgordian: bulging muscles, night-black hair and sharp, stony features. So ordinary that Corvus was unlikely to recognise him, if he had ever seen him.
The man coughed bitterly before he began to speak. Each wheeze from his chest brought back the pain of the broken bones inside him. With each breath, the wounds in his body cut him like a knife. He had to make an effort to keep talking, but his words were stubbornly accompanied by groans of pain.
"I fought many times under Sakhaar's... command," he said, his eyes flickering for a moment to the old days. Corvus' father was a legend to all who knew him. But there was a tone in this man's voice that made Sakhaar sound like a burden, not just a commander.
Corvus' brow furrowed, knowing all too well how his father had treated his soldiers. The bandit had spoken of hunger and poverty before. But his father, Sakhaar, though known as a ruthless and strict leader, was known for his care and generosity to his men. "My father took good care of his soldiers," Corvus replied. There was respect for his father and a fierce defence in his voice.
A bitter smile appeared on the bandit's face. His lips trembled, as if he couldn't help feeling the pain even as he smiled. "Yes..." he said, as the smile slowly gave way to a bitter expression. "He didn't leave us hungry anyway... Not him..." As his voice trailed off, his words echoed like a whisper. "His recklessness... Rhazgord's recklessness starved us..."
Corvus' face grew serious. His father may have been a legend on the battlefield, but he was blind to some things. Just like those before him. Corvus made sense of the man's words, trying to contain his deep anger. What he was complaining about was the flaw in the legacy he had inherited. This bandit had rebelled against a world Corvus had already endeavoured to right. As Corvus fought to break free from his father's shadow and to lift his own people back to their feet, this bandit had been crushed beneath that shadow.
"Shall I tell you a truth, son of Sakhaar, that everyone knows but no one will admit?" the bandit whispered, his eyes narrowed in pain, finding it difficult to take a deep breath. His words were interrupted by a wheeze in his throat. He began to cough violently again, each contraction of his chest causing a deep pain, as if a knife was stabbing him. With trembling hands he brought the few drops of water he had left to his mouth, trying to soften his throat. After breathing in and out with difficulty, he fixed his eyes on Corvus. His gaze was deep and dark, just like the weight of his words.
"We of Rhazgordians... We see war as sacred... War is our worship to the gods!" he said, each word carrying a heavy burden. "We are happy when we go to war... Because only when we go to war do we stand shoulder to shoulder... We are equal... After the war, Sanguinar returns to the Red Pavilion... Everyone else returns to his ugly home... Until the next war..."
When Corvus heard these words, he felt as if all the walls inside him would collapse in an instant. The truth in the bandit's voice had lifted the scab of a deep-seated wound. His eyes filled slightly, but he could not cry. It was not weakness to cry, but now, here, was not the right moment to shed tears. This was his reality too. He was in the same battle and the burden was on his shoulders. He had to stand upright. If he fell, if he succumbed to this pain, his dream of creating the future of Rhazgord would fall with him.
Every word of the bandit stabbed into his heart like a dagger. He stared at the ground and closed his lips tightly to suppress the storm inside him. It was difficult to even take a deep breath; it was as if the bandit's words had swallowed the air and created a darkness in the camp.
Suddenly he could not stand still, he was drowning between the thoughts in his mind and the pain in his heart. He stood up quickly and took a few steps back. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he took a deep breath and quickly headed for his tent without looking at anyone. The bandit's coughing laughter echoed behind him, as if casting a shadow over Corvus' trembling soul.
"How did the Tiamates... raise someone like you?" the bandit muttered as the warriors bound him again. There was both sympathy and deep pain in his laughter. This man, crushed by the legacy of Sakhaar and the Tiamats, had recognised Corvus' efforts and was mocking the contradiction of his very existence.