The blood trails down from his sword as he watches the battlefield, fire, ashes and human sufferings reeking all over. But it had to be done. And by him, because he was the King now after his father's demise.

The ground beneath his feet was maroon with blood, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He drags his sword and himself back to the camps, passing out on the cot, just wishing to be back home, just wishing peace.