“Get out of my house!” Drogo said in a voice of deathly calm. Drogo fixed Lefwin with a piercing glare.

“But you have to teach me,” Lefwin protested weakly, “the prophet told me…”

Drogo interrupted with a mirthless laugh, “So, you’re the newest product of Prophet Sigor’s vindications. What is not commonly known is that… I was one as well. I was about your age when that confounded, immortal prophet filled my mind with promises of victory over the tyrannical monarch. Sound familiar?”

Lefwin shifted uncomfortably to Drogo’s obvious satisfaction. He continued, “I believed him and inspired my wife, my best friend, and a hundred of the best people I’ve ever known to join me on my prophetic quest. Sigor said nothing of the price we’d pay. Every last one of them died believing I’d be victorious just as the prophesy said.”

Drogo paused. He took a few steps back from Lefwin and sank into a chair near the square wooden table in the middle of the room. His eyes misted over and he appeared to be lost in horrific memories.

Lefwin stood rooted to the spot, shocked. Being subject to Drogo’s wrath had been concerning, however not wholly unexpected. But seeing Drogo’s immense grief took Lefwin completely off guard.

“You were victorious, correct?” replied Lefwin uncertainty.

“Oh yes, I was successful,” muttered Drogo darkly, “ I slaughtered the tyrant and those most loyal to him. I oversaw the coronation of a new king, who vowed to rule with the utmost wisdom. So he did, and so did his son. And now three short generations later, a corrupt monarch once again sits on the throne.”

Drogo pounded his fist on the table as he stood abruptly, “Don’t you see, boy? I sacrificed everything! Blood was spilled, lives were lost, and for what! So Sigor tells you you’re destined to restore peace to this kingdom; in a few years time, everything you fought for can vanish quicker than you will die of old age!”