As the flames consumed him, the last three years flashed through Sigurd's mind.
All he'd wanted was to rescue his childhood friend from barbarians. He'd never expected everything to get so out of hand. Full-scale war with Augustria, being branded a traitor thanks to some clever conspirators spreading rumors, and just when things were finally looking up the rug was yanked out from under his feet and he was falling, falling into blackness.
Deirdre. There was obviously no way of knowing she and Prince Kurth's daughter were one and the same, but he still wished he'd been quick enough to put the pieces together. It wouldn't have done anything, of course, but still.
Cuan, Ethlin...they were dead because they'd been trying to help him. Azel, Lex, Edain, Bridget, Claude, his own knights, everyone else who'd stayed with him until the end instead of seeing to their own safety. I led them to this.
Through the flames he saw Alvis's face, surprisingly expressionless. Not even a hint of a smirk after what he'd just pulled off. As the flames climbed higher and the pain became unbearable Sigurd ground his teeth as tears of regret ran down his cheeks; he was dying, it didn't matter if Alvis saw them. I'm sorry. To Celice, to Oifaye and his loyal knights and Azel and Lex and Deirdre and Cuan and Ethlin and everyone.
The image of Alvis's face faded, and Sigurd of Chalphy was no more.
