The mercenary knelt in the dust of the ruined Temple of Apollo, blood crusting split knuckles, breath rasping through cracked lips.

Deimos loomed above, shadowed eyes danced across the others form, observing them in a moment of recovery.

“You fight like the world already owes you its corpse,”

He spoke up after a beat. Deimos sank to a crouch, the spear’s butt he grasped struck dust with a dull thud.

“You could be worth so much more than meaningless drachmae.”

He reached a hand out, clasping across the others face as if he owned their flesh, forcing the head to the side as he sucked in through his teeth.

“What a deep wound.”

He feigned empathy, not that he possessed any. The Cult had beaten it out of him long ago.