The general stood in the grand ballroom, waiting for everyone to clear out. Yes, the guests had a great time at the victory party; the rebels had been routed, and victory for his king had been ensured. But no one knew the price better than him. As the upper class cheered him, shook his hand, and touted him as the grandest of the grand, he mourned for those on the side of so-called evil. He knew many of them, if not personally, then through family. He hadn't grown up in this environment, but in that of the rebellion. Sure, his tactics were mostly learned in the huge battle schools of the king's land, but his down and dirty tricks which had ensured victory had been handed down generation after generation in the poor village he'd called home for the first 15 years of his life; a village on the side of the rebellion. A village which he ensured was now wiped from the map. Yes, he was a hero of the kingdom, but at what cost?
When the last of the guests left, he pondered his next move. Would he stand by his king, or rally a new group of rebels?