All the Right words, all the Right thoughts.
All the capitalized notions that meant one was on the side of good. On the winning side.

On the Right side.

Guy bears the tabbard, wears the sword, has spoken The Oath.

He is a man of honor, a man of character, a man of noble blood and noble heart.

He is what his younger self had always hoped to be.

Except when he hears a mother’s grief for her infant lost in the night to fever, the sicknesses that claim the impoverished peasants overlooked by those who order him to drive them from their homes for failure to pay taxes, herd the ones who have been known to speak out against l’Empereur from their beds in the night, never to be seen again.

He has seen enough to know this is not Right. This is not Justice or Honor.

This is Power. This is Corruption. This is what happens when a desire for ones’ own way has been left unchallenged too long, when the dark heart of one who has confused Power and Glory for Goodness and Mercy sits on too large a throne.

This is not what Guy knows to be Good.

Guy Allard is brave, stalwart — loyal to a fault, even. He has worn the tabbard of the Musketeers since his father wrapped him in one on his birthing day. He marches in step with his company, and follows the orders given to the letter. In his heart, he has always hoped that he serves a greater good, hoped that his works make a difference for his fellow man.

As any man might — as any man would, as time goes on… Guy has doubts.

Doubts, when men who were once known to be good are cast down, reviled. Doubts when powerful nobles behave no better than street brawlers, ordering their hired men to break the hands of children so desperate to eat they stole food to bring back to their families.

Some families he knows still smile at him when he marches by, while some look the other way. More and more, he sees small shops wither, sees healthy young children grow gray-faced and hollow-cheeked. More and more, he finds food tastes of ash on his tongue, and he has found himself more than once offering up his hard earned wages to those who so obviously need them more than he.

More and more, he sees the anger on the faces of the peasants who not only don’t shy away, but actively rebel.

More and more, his heart holds to the words he believes in, above all else.

All for one, and one for all.

Guy Allard is on the edge of understanding what Justice and Honor really are — can they be found under the thumb of l’Empereur, or in the clenched fist of the revolution?

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