"And the army…. well, that is a matter for the Lord-General, and for my nephew here."

"Ah, yes," spoke up Durano. "Majesty…. where is the Lord-General?"

"Attending to something," was the only reply. "Attending to something…. very important."

Victory!

Sonovar threw his arms wide and laughed, revelling in the glory of the moment. It was over, and the entire mission had been a success. Not a thing had gone wrong. He had been a warrior in too many campaigns not to recognise the rarity of that.

The Government of Tarolin 2 had been punished for their treason, a message of defiance had been sent to the traitor Sinoval, the Tak'cha had proved their combat worthiness and Kozorr…. his laugh faded. Yes, Kozorr. A success there also, but only a beginning.

He was alone on the bridge of his ship, the flagship of the new warrior caste revival. A true warrior caste, a return to the old days of glory and honour and a worthy war, days that had been taken away from them by the weakness of the priestlings and the treachery of those like Sinoval.

He was alone. None of his colleagues, those who had been a part of Kalain's Grey Council, would come here with him. They had all requested other duties, other responsibilities. They were cowards, all of them, unable to see the rightness of his cause, and that disappointed him. Sinoval, for all his wrongs, at least had followers who would obey him unto death.

Such as Kozorr.

Sonovar suddenly felt very lonely. Every leader needed someone to confide in, with whom to share the moments of weakness and indecision. Every great leader had doubts and fears, it was only natural. Any man who claimed to be truly fearless was either a liar or a madman. And yet Sonovar had no one. He was beginning to understand why Sinoval kept such a pathetic worker as Kats around him. He could explain to her all his doubts in the knowledge that she was too weak to act on them.

Sonovar had no one like that.

There was no sound of his coming, no rustle of his robe or rasping of his breathing. Sonovar was a trained warrior, his every sense honed to its utmost degree, and yet the being who had once been Forell managed yet again to sneak up on him.

"You look fatigued, my lord," he said. "Are you well?"

"I am…. fine," he muttered. He was beginning to develop a headache actually, but he was not going to admit that to this loathsome creature. Every leader needed someone to confide in, true, but that someone was definitely not Forell.

"You have not taken your medicine these last few days, lord. It is for your own health." Something from Forell stank, and Sonovar could see he was carrying that ridiculous antique goblet. Inside it was a thick, dark red liquid.

His 'medicine'.

"I needed to concentrate on the mission," he explained. "That stuff makes me…. sluggish. I don't like it."

"Medicine is not meant to be liked, my lord. You should take it. It does you good."

"I do not need to…." He stopped, and wondered why he was explaining himself in such an apologetic manner. He did not have to justify himself like this! Forell moved forward, taking this pause as an invitation to continue. He held the goblet with the foul medicine up before Sonovar, who gagged.

The warrior brought his arm up, knocking Forell back. The goblet tipped up and the medicine fell over Forell's already stained and worn robe. There was a hissing noise. "You are not my nursemaid, Forell! How many times must I explain that to you?"

"My apologies, my lord," he replied, sounding distinctly unapologetic. "I tripped and spilt your medicine. I will prepare a fresh batch, and bring it to you personally."

Sonovar readied an angry retort, but he stopped and nodded. His throat was feeling very dry, and his headache was worsening. Say what you liked about that concoction, he did feel better afterwards. Well, a bit better.

"Yes," he ordered. "Do that. I will be in my chambers shortly. I have something to check on first."

Without waiting for a reply he stormed from the chamber, and so missed the expression on Forell's face. Truly though, he would not have cared if he had seen it. His senses might have been heightened through years of training and meditation, but in many ways Sonovar was terribly, terribly blind.

He made his way through the corridors and hallways of the ship, and everyone he met turned aside, shrinking away from his furious gaze. He could not explain the reason for his anger, but he did know it would have to be vented in some way. There was one thing he could use to divert it elsewhere. A symbol of his greatest triumph to date, and his greatest challenge to come.

He found himself at the door he wanted. At his orders four guards were posted there at all times, with another two at each end of the corridor. All were armed, and all were among his best warriors. Two of them were Tak'cha, and they attended to their duties with a diligence that not even the most loyal Minbari warrior could muster.

"How is he?" he asked.

"The same, lord," replied one of the guards. A Minbari warrior. Star Riders clan. A long heritage. A proud ancestry. A fine service record. A true warrior in every sense of the word.

"Open the door. I wish to see him."

"Your will, lord."

Sonovar drew in a deep breath and stepped through the doorway. The guards remained outside. They knew who was within, but not the circumstances of the prisoner's fate. They did not seek to question either. That was not their place.

He was there, seated in silent meditation. He looked up and then scowled, turning his gaze back to the floor. Sonovar was impressed. There was a one-way mirror. He could not be seen from within the room, and yet the prisoner had noticed his arrival anyway.

Yes, Sonovar thought as he looked at Kozorr. Yes. I chose right after all. He will be my greatest challenge…. and my greatest weapon.

It was a fine room. Luxurious, comfortable, warm. Tapestries from poor, dead Camulodo adorned the walls. Carpets woven on distant worlds were beneath his feet. Minbari pottery stared at him from every direction. There were the finest books ready for him to read; fiction, both romantic and epic, poetry, histories, and accounts of military campaigns. His food was prepared personally by the finest cooks remaining in the palace, and the brivare he drank was the most priceless of vintages available.

And yet, the former Lord-General Valo thought acidly, a golden cage is a cage nonetheless.

He knew what fate awaited him. He had known ever since he had been forced to surrender to that bastard Marrago. Death by execution. Execution in the manner of a commoner, as well. His head to be cut from his body and placed on a pike on Traitors' Row. The fate, not for a traitor to his Republic, but for one who had reached too far, and fallen just short.

He could, with a little more luck, have been sitting on the throne now, strengthening the Republic, beating back the Narns, claiming lost territories and pressing forward to the stars. Instead he was trapped in a gilded cell, waiting for death.

Such was the hand he had been dealt, but he had always believed that the Gods helped the strong, the brave, and the resourceful. He had tried, because it was more than anyone else would. He had shown the weaklings of the Court his strength and that…. and that was almost worth it all. Lead by example, and he would teach them by example even in his death.

The door opened, and Valo looked up from his seat. He had made an arrogant pledge to remain standing all the while he was here, but the injury in his side had plagued him too much for that, and he had been forced to sit. At least he sat on the floor, and not on the soft couch.