Yet for all that speed, here he was, all but stuck as the sole defender for these recently conquered lands. He gnashed his teeth, wishing he had a thousand diplomats of the calibre of Lord Idris. Blackwell found himself relying on that man with an increasing firmness in the aftermath of the war. He quickly began to realize that, when it came to the total governance of a city, and of a country, with its trade routes, and its systems of power, Blackwell was very much approaching the realm of an amateur. At least, when compared, once more, to that Lord Idris.
"…Would you see more remain?" A nobleman asked Blackwell, barely concealing his disgust. He was a young man, and Blackwell had the urge to ask why it was – if he could carry himself with so much hatred – that he hadn't put that same hatred into wielding a sword in defence of his city. But, naturally, giving into that anger that so threatened to stir wasn't exactly the quickest line to well-ironed diplomatic relations.
