Cain stands on the ridge watching the dark shapes of battle moving across the field. He cannot make out faces or individual forms. The charge of his hellhounds onto the final remaining Lycans, striking them down like useless things, uprooting them like weeds on a rainy day.
The thrum of satisfaction juddering within feels like power, a hammering beat to his chest that lines his veins with the fire of victory. A godly glory.
The writhing field is like a gorgon's face slowly turning his face to cut stone. The kingdom had finally fallen.
"Cain!"
The voice that calls him is distinct, sharp as jagged sea rocks. Cain slowly angles his face over his shoulder, Lycan eyes offering clarity as the distant figures approach. He sees Hadrius leaping off a horse, his men not far behind.
There is an
