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Once, a lifetime ago, they had dreamed of being heroes. They were going to do everything right, save Weyard, and more-than-incidentally rescue their village from the brink of destruction.
Now? Didn't matter. They did what they had to.
Brutalize brats? Manhandle helpless hostages? Slaughter soldiers? Whatever it took, they would do it. Felix's whining was nothing but a low buzz, same as their consciences. Their fingers traced paths from one Lighthouse to the next across aged, flaking maps, and they suffered no obstacles in their way. Weyard could not afford mercy.
Only the dead had the luxury of being heroes.