They were losing the war.
He'd known it in his heart, but hearing it from his superiors...it did something to him. It was as if the words held some magic, some curse; he had fallen silent, his skin flushed, covered with sickly sweat, his stomach churning.
He fled from the hall when the briefing was over, desperate for the sanctuary of his own quarters. No sooner than he was inside the door, he began to tear at the snaps of his uniform jacket, stripping it off as though he feared it would strangle him.
It wasn't that he cared so much about the Empire-- the Empire be damned. It was about him, his place in this world. He was one of a dying breed, one of the few Seers left advising the military. Yet, for all of his visions, all of his divine guidance--
they were losing the war.
Where were the spirits in this time of need? Surely they knew that their fate hung on this as well. If the war was lost, the faith would follow. Those like him would be forsaken...and the spirits would lose their conduit to the mortal realm.
Didn't they care?