Everywhere Vhomo looked, there was only death.
If he turned to the right—death. To the left—death again. No matter where his eyes landed, the battlefield offered him nothing but carnage: twisted bodies, blood-choked screams, and the final, pathetic gasps of once-proud warriors drowning in their own gore.
But what shattered him the most wasn't the presence of death itself—no, Vhomo was no stranger to it—it was who was dying.
They were his.
His warriors. His tribesmen. His legacy. His ladder to power.
And he had led them here—led them straight into the jaws of slaughter, into the teeth of an ambush so brutal, so absolute, that even the gods would turn their gaze away in pity.
This wasn't war. This was butchery. And the blood that painted the fields red was on his hands.
