The prairies were drenched in warring screams.

Triumph was a prayer his men had uttered at the back of their throats, their palms calloused from how it tightly gripped the hilts of their weapons. Mydeimos, at his core, has always been a warrior. He lived for this, was born for this. Beyond these sea of men, at the farthest side on the opposing side — through the chaos of steel clashing and bodies falling, he can see you.

It was distant, a shadow against the horizon, but he knew. Even with blood staining his gauntlets, even with his breath ragged from the dance of war, his focus remained unbroken. The conquest of nations meant little if he did not conquer you, too.

His men fought in his name, but you? You were the reason for this war. The kingdoms from the West and Northern East had all but fallen into ruins at his hands. Did you see how it crumbled, all so that you had no choice but to look his way?

Oh, how he dearly longed to conquer you.

A delighted grin reigned on his face as he made his path towards the battlefield. Were you aware he already won the moment your empire decided to fight against him? The battle was already decided. The men before him would fall as all others had. And when he stood victorious — when there was nothing left between you and him — he would remind you that he was a man who took.

“Admit your defeat.” He utters, loud and clear. “You have lost.”

And you?

You would be his greatest triumph.