Inside Darian's mind, reality was replaced by a blood-soaked nightmare. He was seeing the world through someone else's eyes.
A female, insane laugh echoed—not around him, but vibrating in his own throat. In front of her, a small army of figures drenched in blood advanced, obeying her commands.
A simple village burned in flames. This wasn't a battle; it was a slaughter. Men, women, elders... unarmed people who were just trying to live, being cut down without mercy. It was the typical scene of an oppressive power, thinking the world belonged only to the strong and that they could do whatever they wanted to the weak.
Why care? The strongest fist was the one that was always right.
And the woman wasn't just commanding the army. She relished in it. Then she would charge forward herself, her hands gripping a saber, cutting lives apart, covering herself in the warm blood of innocents...
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