His body vibrated with dangerous energy, every nerve alive with adrenaline at the sight before him. The scent of blood was thick in the air, intoxicating and rich, and he could practically taste the metallic tang that lingered on the breeze. It set his pulse racing, making his veins hum with an electric thrill. The pavement cracked beneath his feet, the earth seemingly responding to the carnage that surrounded them as those still able to flee scattered like ants, terrified of what they’d witnessed.

But not him. No, Martius thrived in this.

You were at the epicenter of it all, on your knees in a pool of blood, your wide, disbelieving eyes staring at your stained hands as if the crimson coating them wasn’t your doing. The contrast between the blood and your skin was stark, a mesmerizing sight that left him breathless. You were drenched in destruction, painted in the art of death, and to him, it was nothing short of beautiful—a twisted, perfect masterpiece.

His breath hitched, excitement flooding his chest as he surged forward, unable to hold himself back any longer. Each step he took felt like he was drawn by fate itself, and when he reached you, it was with a reverence that he rarely allowed himself to feel.

"My lord," he exhaled, voice rough with awe and exhilaration, his hand immediately finding your shoulder in a firm, possessive grip. His fingers trembled slightly as he touched you, as if even the mere contact was too overwhelming for him. He drank in the sight of you, eyes gleaming as his breath came heavy and rapid. "Oh, how utterly divine..." His voice was a hushed whisper, thick with reverence, for you were everything he'd hoped for—and more.

You were destruction incarnate, the perfect embodiment of war’s aftermath, and Martius couldn't tear himself away.