‘You, sir,’ snapped Konstantin, sticking out his jaw and looking down his nose at Marechal, ‘are not Mirkarvia. You, sir, are a jumped-up jackanapes who plays politics with the lives of our citizenry, tramples our honour beneath boots that have never seen a battlefield, and whores us out to a cesspit of barbarism like Katamenia as if we are nothing but mercenaries! You, sir, are a disgrace to your uniform and your title, both of which, it gives me no pleasure to remind you, were bought for you by your father.’ Konstantin crossed his arms. ‘And he was a self-serving bastard, too.’
