stamp
“You think me eager to place my stamp upon history’s letter?” Leema asked, offended – and stung that he could so misjudge her. “You imagine my primary concern is how I will be perceived? You believe death of my countrymen, the misery of those in the border towns who bear the brunt of your patron’s warmongering – the near mortal maiming of my own mother – to be of less consequence to me than something so vain as… as… glory?”
Ildon said nothing, because there was nothing he could say. There was no justification to make, no excuses to utter. He was wrong.
Just Another Struggling Writer 
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