About this 3D model

The Caenerol’s Procession Caenerol Rhisiart had spent thirty-two years at war and learned, somewhere along the way, that victory came with applause he no longer believed in. The dinners blurred together, this one the forty-fourth, celebrating a battle won a decade ago by rhyflers who were mostly dead now. He gave them the smile they expected. He always did. The speeches followed their usual script. A Syrnol recounted the battle as something clean and heroic, full of sharp decisions and brilliant turns. No one mentioned the courier shaking as he delivered news of a collapsing flank, or the choice that meant abandoning one group to save another, or the slow tally of losses that came after. The young officers listened with shining eyes. Rhisiart let them. He remembered believing it once. Afterward he walked the line, inspecting the polished kit, offering practiced words that sounded steady and certain. Back in his quarters, he shed the uniform piece by piece. The medals went into their case. The sword to its stand. Without them, he was just Rhisiart again, older than he should have been, carrying the quiet cost of war. Tomorrow he will put it all back on. He will give orders, make the calculations, and carry on with the same competence that he always has. And sooner or later there will be another dinner, another speech, another room full of bright-eyed officers. Rhisiart will stand, smile, and play his part. He has become so very, very good at it.