Dusk sets, a foggy cloud of red-violet cast over the skies like a luxurious, palatial dome. Crimson ash burns bright as it splays across the sky, the sun bleak as its light barely peeks through the swarm of dark purple clouds, yet its heat still scorched the surface beneath its watchful gaze, hovers above like an annoying pest he couldn’t just swat away. Though, crimson seems to spill more onto the ground rather than the fake skies above, as it pooled beneath the severed corpses of both parties. Even then, Scaramouche remain unbothered, unchanged by the pained groans of his men—they’re all just weak in the end, feathers waiting to be plucked.

“Pathetic,” a voice, cruel and biting as Scaramouche steps forward, unamused and evidently unsurprised by the apathy painted on pretty features, “mortals are weak by default, even weaker when they’re given fake confidence by the sorry excuse you call ‘morale.’ How dumb are you to think that sending mortal scum after me would even permit the slightest scratch?”