In the times of old, Falcanian warriors would spend the night before a decisive battle kneeling before the family shrine, hoping for the inspiration to fight with the fury of their ancestors.
Crax had never known his mother, and his father had been a drunk and a lout, so he was making the best of it with the only photo he had of his parents together. He could scarcely be further from the knights and lords of ancient Falcania. And yet here he was, on the brink of... glory. That was the only way to describe it. Glory before the Free. Glory before the Chosen King. Glory before the Kingdom, before Atlantian Oceania, before the world.
The papers and blogs back home were all ablaze with these words. Glory, and honour, and victory. All so medieval and ridiculous. Stang was no noble, no, he grew up a criminal. His sponsor was no better. Falcania wasn't run by ancient, noble lords like in the songs, it was run by people like Julian Marquis, cruel, cold men, men who would sacrifice honour and glory for coin. What was it he liked to say? "It's all about the money, kiddo." Even the King - he had been Chosen because his men had won the civil war, and he'd kept his throne by running the nation like a business. Look at what he did to Ser Herberd Jay - the man had been the second most powerful person in Falcania, and King Falcon had run him out of the country. Exile! From a man who liked to present himself as a friendly, sensible, charismatic voice-of-the-people. Famously, before the war, he was the tea boy for the Foreign Directorate.
Was Stang going to win this race? And bring glory, honour, and victory to the Free Kingdom?
Sky above and stone below, it is so close I can taste it.
He set down the empty glass next to the picture of his mum and dad, and picked up his helmet.