His target attempted to parry, but Akhem’s eyes saw nothing but the man’s death in the distance. He could act to bring it closer, with each attack. He weakened him, exploiting his fears as weaknesses. His opponent struck fiercely and violently, but he could not compete with Akhem. No other man loved the thrill of battle quite like Akhem, or at least, not any of the ones his own age. Perhaps those of higher rank appreciated this, the taste of dread, bile, and blood intermingling in one’s throat as the sun beat down upon ally and enemy alike.

Akhem had hoped to deliver a killing blow. After making the other man fear death, he would have finished him. Instead, another Greek arrived. Akhem had only a moment to rage at the unfairness of it all. He had fought just as dishonorably on this battlefield today, and yet when the sword was in the other hand, it metamorphosed from a cleverness to cruelty. The Greek shoved him back, swinging his sword at Akhem. The first cut was deep, but he could recover. If he rushed away now, cut his losses, he would find another target. Someone less well-protected than this meek little lamb.

His body had already begun to fail him. Tiredness, weakness, and fear had set in where anger, ecstasy, and pride had once sat. Akhem coughed, choking on something- bile? He didn’t know. He would not survive the day, and perhaps not even the minute. He wished that he could have killed more of them, but it was not to be. He tried to pray, to call upon the names that had inspired him so, but his thoughts moved sluggishly. In a surprising twist, the lamb he had attacked curled his lip and stabbed him. So the little lamb had some fight in him, after all. At least his final battle had been against an equal.

Perhaps, most men did dislike war, but Damocles could most certainly not be counted amongst those that viewed such an instance with disdain. If anything, he reveled in it, enjoying the cacophony and strife in equal measure, while always keeping a steady head aimed towards careful calculations primarily meant to elevate himself in whichever way he could. Just as he had learned in his earliest days as a militant, in the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity, and in those moments of greater discord, laid even greater opportunity. For as many would wish for peace and harmony, the silver-eyed man could not admit to enjoying such a state of being. To him, such rigid degree of order offered little to no profit, reinforcing the walls of stupor that seldom gave rise to those seeking advancement by every means necessary.

Oh yes, some may view war as a necessary evil, but the Magnemean could, in no true proper consciousness, admit to seeing conflict as evil. War, unless it ended in a state of shameful stalemate, was a means to achieve change, a chance to rouse beings from their inertia and lead them towards glory gained not by birthright, but by industry. It was a great filter, one that washed away the old and inefficient, and pruned society of dead weight.

Dead weight like Nike of Acaris, who, in the eyes of the senior captain of the Damned, contributed nothing but hot air and little space. Yes, he had stained his hands in blood, but the opportunity for him right the wrongs committed by those who erroneously thought themselves superior to him. He was aware of what he had done, and that was why he had done his acts with the cunning and foresight he had tamed for so long. Nike of Acaris had been a foreigner, one who only gained his stolen title as Commander by mere sycophancy aimed at the Kotas family. How could such a person inspire the love of the people, the love of the sons and daughters of Colchis, whence that useless man bore the identity of his foreignness in such a brazen manner by keeping to their name the Taengean land of his birth?

The answer to that had been clear right from the start. That foolish Taengean inspired no love, nor fear. Perhaps, had Nike given him reason to admire him, Damocles might not have felt his hand forced to such a degree. And yet, that had not been the case. The seeds of decay had been sown the moment that outsider grew to steal from him what was his by right of patriotism and sacrifice. And, as any good gardener could tell, decay had no cure, and could only be dealt with by the eradicating presence of a cleansing fire, one that burned hot and bright, like Damocles did.

If anything, the last couple of days had only proved to the Silver-eyed man that his actions had been justified. Since assuming de facto command over the Eastern armies, the Captain of the Damned had earned victory after victory, beginning with his triumphant victory over the forces of the Pharaoh in that first day of battle, up to his latest of moments, wherefore by his wit and leadership, now firmly cemented in the hearts and minds of those he commanded, glory had been attained with but only an appropriate minimum when it came to losses. Time and time again he had rallied the forces of the Damned and the Hounds, forging success not through the might of his sword, which, in any case, was already greater, but by the reach of his mind, which held an even greater degree of might than any muscle in his Herculean body.

Yet, despite the constancy of his success, not all had gone exactly as perfect as he had wished. For one, his face had been wounded, sliced by the press of that vanquished, felled foreigner in their final living moments, leaving Damocles with a scar that ran down the side of his face, mostly on his cheek, but trailing off down the side of his thick, muscular neck. Second, even if his losses were small in comparison to those from other fronts, losses were still losses, and they would have to be accounted for if continued success was to follow in accordance to the cold calculations of the Magnemean militant. While the second of his assessed complications could be solved by making the most efficient use of soldiers, and not squander any resource when it came to battle, the first of his predicaments proved far more hampering, and personally insulting, than he would like to admit.

His vocal capabilities had not been harmed in any way, but the wound on his cheek still stung whenever he opened his mouth so as to express words in the form of commands, complicating his signature leadership. So far, he had managed by instructing his lieutenants to only address questions of judgement to be addressed to him in ways that he could respond via a simple yes or no gesture from his head, so as to not put any unnecessary strain on his stitched wound, and it would seem that this systematic approach to management had worked quite well for the short-term. Yet, Damocles knew he had to recover quickly and regain free use of his jaw. There was only so much that he could do in his relative state after all, and a commander who could not command was useless, no matter his condition.

Fortunately, it seemed as though he was in the process of a speedy recovery. The skin around his stitches was still raw and tender, but the physicians had told him that in about three day’s time he should have recovered most of his faculties, if at the expense of still-present, but far less intense, pain. That was most welcomed news. What certainly wasn’t welcomed news was the revelation that his wound would be permanent, no matter how quickly it healed and stopped hurting. There was the comfort that his newly-acquired scar had been aimed low and thus could mostly be growing out his beard. And yet, the result was still that, no matter how much he healed or covered it up, his face would have that final insult levied by Nike, he would be scarred, left with that accursed man’s last offence regardless of what he did. That infuriated Damocles to an almost ridiculous level. By all accounts, his new wound had done nothing to rob him of his precious good-looks. Still, it dug deeper than that. It was the meaning behind it: that, even when he had moved to end the thief’s life in the most cunning way possible, he had still left that one small miscalculation, one that latched against his olive skin and forever branded him, even if everyone else thought it was something enacted by an Egyptian instead.

Returning to camp after ending the days, Damocles sat by a makeshift desk he had instructed be set up in his tent, tending to the multiple duties that came with overseeing a war effort. He had already instructed that the bodies of the fallen be brought back to camp and burned in their respective funeral pyres so as to keep faith with the Gods. As for his own personal business, the industrial militant had made pen and paper his instruments of the hour, going over details and reports from his lieutenants and officers. It was true that the largest army in the the Colcian military was jointly led by Vangelis and Tython, and Yiannis was managing the Western front with a smaller, more precise band of warriors, as he had known the youngest Commander to prefer as per his style of leadership, but as the impromptu senior commanding officer of the Eastern flank, Damocles now oversaw some of the larger units of the kingdom, supervising his already large unit of the Damned, and now also gaining unofficial leadership over the forces of the Hounds.

Still, despite how perhaps others might have thought the new task at hand to be a tedious one, his victory against the Pharaoh in the earliest day had earned him the support of both units, if only for now. It was therefore a smooth transition, one that did not require him to stretch himself too far to maintain control over the Thanasi and Drakos armies he now helmed in an unofficial capacity. In that regard he was perhaps more like Vangelis than he was like Yiannis, a fact that did not sit well with the calculating Magnemean. Always one who lent himself more towards grand strategy than the minutia of fighting, Damocles had a preference over leading bigger, more diverse forces, studying the structure of his soldiers so as to best maximize their performance by assigning them comrades who complimented, rather than augmented.

And yet, perhaps it would prove a wise move to consult with one who was more skilled in leading in a manner directly opposite to his. Just as an archer often was best paired with a swordsman, perhaps, he could put together his larger-scale tactics with the cunning brain of the more precise Yiannis. Their personal past aside, Damocles was not above ignoring the younger man’s intelligence. Besides, if he was to be one of the highest leaders of the military it only made sense to best interact with another. Hence, after scratching the nib of his writing instrument against the smooth surface of the paper so as to finish off the last of his orders for that moment, the towering militant penned a quick message to the Kotas strategist, inviting him over for some wine so they could exchange information collected and gathered through their respective experiences battling those Egyptian savages.

Once the message was written, and the ink dried by means of a pounce, the Magnemean dispatched a courier, telling the man to be quick of foot so as to collect the younger man before he got any other nightly prospects that might perhaps dissuade him from his request. Afterwards, Damocles changed his outfit into a more comfortable one, swapping his breastplate and pauldrons in favor of a simple black chiton that offered more in the realm of comfort and practicality than fashion. There was little need to keep such heavy plates on his person at this hour, and though he was still carrying some functions of his position in some way or form, he did not need to wear his impressive armor for what was simply an exercise in diplomacy and intelligence-sharing.

Never one to allow a good opportunity go to waste however, Damocles asked that one of his personal amphora jars of wine be brought over. While most men tonight would feast on overburnt goat’s meat or shoddy, cheap wine, the Magnemean had a slightly more elevated palette, one that he hoped this time would appeal to the royal, more pampered sensitivities of the man he was trying to sway over to his side for now. True, he had called upon the other for a reasonable enough request, but, given the vacancy left by Nike’s death, it was only a matter of time until a new Commander would be chosen and confirmed once the warring was over. And, though he had a slightly complicated relationship with the third of the Kotas den, mostly due to their heated past, the Magnemean knew that if he wanted his personal ambitions to flourish and take root in the future, he might have to at least make nice with the one Kotas soldier he could at least talk to.

Fortunately, Damocles had never lacked for charisma and vigor, and in times of war, it was when his charm was at his highest. Something about possibly dying in the field of battle awakened his most energetic side, leaving behind his scrupulous and occasionally cold demeanor to embrace the hot, remorseless nature of war. Now, with his fine wine jar brought to him, and his appearance mostly friendly, Damocles awaited, busying himself with a few last reports while the man he invited into his quarters decided to accept his summon or not.

It was almost a miracle that Mihail had survived as long as he had. He was not a soldier — as he must have reiterated now a thousand times — and the only fights in which he had ever excelled were verbal rather than physical. 'Princess' was a state of mind, so he liked to say, and it was his state of mind. Pretty, elegant, and free of all those horrid hardships which so firmly marked others as men and soldiers.

His hands were tainted — rough and sore — so much so that all his fine silver rings now looked almost alien on his fingers; his bones ached to an extent he had never before believed was possible, and his pale skin was marked with harsh dashes of violent red scrapes where it had not already burned with the heat of the sun. He was unshaven — the lower half of his face dulled in its sharpness by a dusting of scruff — he felt unwashed and covered in a thin layer of grime which refused to vanish no matter what he tried and, somehow worst of all, he was exhausted.

How many days had it been?

Every passing moment seemed to blend into one. The days were all the same meaningless blur of battle. Shoot as many Egyptians as one could, keep his distance from close combat, and hope his expensive new armour with its delicately-carved snake motifs was worth its cost. Once, a foreign arrow had flown so close to him that he had been positive the moment was close to his last, but he had been lucky that they were not so good a marksman as he. How any man could enjoy this, he did not know.

Periods of rest were not much better. If there was any greater deterrent of sleep than the fear of sudden death by midnight ambush, then Mihail did not wish to believe it, for these were the worst nights of his life. Even he, so often functioning on minimal sleep, woke in the grey and putrid mornings slow and lethargic and more tired than he had ever before felt. Life did not seem real — was it real? — and he was on the verge of ending it, stepping directly into the line of fire and allowing some war-hardened Egyptian to strike the blow that would knock him to the ground, buried forever in the sand so that no hint of his life remained, save a crimson stain which coiled through the desert as his final serpentine memory.

But he did not because he had promised Nethis, and he had promised Thea, and because a hopeful part of him was half-aware that he could only have survived so long because some god saw fit to grant him the honour.

Another day had dawned. Something seemed to shimmer through the air as the sky grew bright that morning, as if hinting that there was a change coming in the world. It was almost a chill, so foreign in the Egyptian heat, and Mihail did not like it. There was danger in the wind, and it built worry. This was not a time in which he wished to worry.

As had now become a daily ritual, the Thanasi had thrown a prayer to his favoured god, @hades. Many years ago, the deity had given him what he had most desired in the world, and he had chosen to dedicate himself as such, hoping now that the daily appeals would keep him safe. There was not much to offer, given his current circumstances, but he chose to give away half of the meagre meals they gave him, burning the sacrifice in the short while he had before they forced him to battle. Then, he would pull on the heavy armour which still felt strange and cold against his skin, find the bow he so cherished, and follow the rest of the men with significantly less enthusiasm than half of them possessed.

It was already the same as every other day. The dark-haired man would stand alongside his countryside, bow raised and shooting arrows at any foreign soldier who crossed his sightline. In the game of war, there were very few places where Mihail could be convinced of his skill, but he knew he excelled in archery, and he had successfully felled more than one man with his bow. Not that it made him feel any better. Once Mihail let himself fall into the endlessly depressive state of mind which had highlighted this whole drama thus far, it was almost impossible to pull him again.

There was no discernible way this could get worse.

Only it did.

He was not in the practice of paying much attention to the rest of those in his unit, aside from the select few who fought beside him or whom the lord had decided he could trust to keep him safe. He was of the mind that he had to focus every ounce of his awareness on his fight, as though this were nothing more than a regular archery competition, confident that he would be lost if he looked elsewhere. But then the air bristled, as if some ethereal force had stolen the world for itself, and he felt his concentration dragged elsewhere.

In the distance, a spear flew through the air — just another of many — but this one shifted suddenly in its trajectory, flew twisted through the startlingly bright sky and hit its target. The body flew back and fell into place in the rough sand, seemingly just another casualty among the soldiers who had dropped already that day. Mihail would have paid it no heed and gone aimlessly back to his fighting attempts had he not known in the depths of his heart who it was.

Ordinarily, he would have been more than glad to see a Kotas fail. Were this any other situation, he would have relished the sight of the man's end, for it only meant an improvement in social position for his family, but not today. Not here. Each one of those princes had been trained heavily in the art of warfare, and had survived endless cruel battles, and none more so than the oft-stoic general before him. And yet, there Vangelis was, falling to the ground like none of that experience meant a thing.

And if a man like that could fall, then what hope was there for the rest of them?

In the split second that he was staring across the desert, Mihail felt his heart crack. There was no chance that he was going to survive. There was nothing.

The bow dropped from his hand, landing with a faint thud in the sand. He no longer cared for the condition of the weapon or the possible glory of victory. He had to run. He had to hide. He had to do anything but be here.

The Thanasi turned his gaze back to an oncoming horde of enemies, his eyes now glazed over by fear. He had promised too sincerely that he would not let them take his life, and he could not simply give up as he so dearly wished to do. He felt his feet move as though independently from his body, feet pounding into the dirt as he moved. He could see the world moving past him both at high speed and in slow motion, as if this were a dream. At least he was escaping. Escaping enough.

But he did not know how to run with such cumbersome armour, and though he was usually speedy, he had little stamina. More used to lounging around in a drug-induced haze than he was running around, the dry heat beat down upon him, and the weight of the bronze pained him, and he could feel his limbs giving up as one foot caught awkwardly in the dunes. His legs finally gave way beneath him, crumpling into a heap in the sand, and he let it happen, oddly aware that there was nothing more he could do, tumbling face-first into the ground, arms only half-bracing his landing though he did not care anymore.

The Egyptians were coming — he could hear them already much closer than he wanted and, through his thick eyelashes now stiff with tiny grains of sand, he dimly caught sight of them approaching — and there and so pathetically Mihail lay, sure that one ankle had twisted in the fall, entirely exhausted and aching all over.

This, he supposed, was sure to be the end, and that did not seem too awful.

This day's battle felt as if it was taking more of a toll on him. The gash along his shoulder had been bound up and tended to so that he was still able to fight, but his motions felt limited, as if his skin would pull apart where it had started to finally mend. Mounted up on his chariot once more, he used his sword to slash at the Greeks below their feet, throwing his spears and retrieving them from the fallen bodies with little ceremony. His body and face were marked with blood, and it was thanks to the gods that little of it was his own.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed in the roar of battle with the clash of armor and shields, screams of men and horses wounded and dying all around them. It was then he saw him, the man who he hated above so many save the pharaoh himself. Vangelis of Kotas had been a thorn in his side, a rival in so many ways for going on ten years now. It was lucky they had only met in civil circumstances once before, else he was certain this confrontation would have occurred far earlier. He had his chance, the chance to cut him down and in doing so cut off one of the heads of the Greek beast before them. But before he could line up his spear, as he sent up his prayers to the gods, someone else beat him to it.

The line of the spear shooting through the air seemed to slow everything down as Osorsen watched it fly. As if guided by his prayers alone, the weapon struck the Blood General in the chest, and before his eyes he watched his enemy fall. Shouting in triumph to the sky, the Egyptian general praised his gods and made note to give @horus and @set, and Sekhmet of course, additional offerings and prayers when he returned to camp, and for the rest of his life in thanks for this moment. His cheers were taken up by others of his unit, and the Moghadam army swelled forward with additional strength and energy.

As if to remind him where he was and to put him in his place, an arrow flew through the air. It must have been thanks to those same gods that the arrowhead buried itself in the outer edge of his shoulder instead of in his heart where it had been aimed. A cry of agony and rage left him, and he knew to live another day he needed to fall back. With a call to his men to begin their retreat, Oso caught sight of one last thing that needed his attention. A slight man, pale enough to give away his nobility, was running in the same direction he had turned his chariots. Another gift that he could use once he found its purpose.

Shifting in the chariot so he could use his uninjured arm, Osorsen reached out and grabbed the boy's tunic, yanking him roughly into the chariot and hitting the butt of his spear against his head to incapacitate him for a moment. It would be easier to handle this new hostage if he was dazed or unconscious. Zosime would certainly appreciate the company that he brought her as they rode off the field of battle. He knew full well that in the next battle, he would only be able to watch until the injured muscle had time to heal, if this was to be the end of his participation in this phase of the war so be it. He had gotten everything he wanted.

The battle had been raging for days, a thing that Maleos was much used to. While the more green members showed clear signs of exhaustion, Maleos stood much the same as he had upon landing on these shores. He had slept in tents, had taken patrols, had fought through the day and rested with one eye open during the night for the majority of his twenty-seven years. This was home for Maleos, as much as the cliffs of Eubocris were. Blood and death were home.

And that was a thought that would likely terrify anyone if he were to open up and tell anyone such things. But he wouldn’t tell anyone, worried that they might think him mad.

This day was the same as any other, he slaughtered any Egyptian who tried to stand in his way. Taking life after life, almost as if he was made for nothing but this.

Until it wasn’t. He watched as Vangelis fell, there was no saving his life from that spear, Maleos knew death when he saw it.

His death seemed to hault the troops, giving the Egyptians an advantage. As sad as it was to see such an amazing ruler and warrior fall, it was how wars went. Death came for them all at some point, and soldiers tended to find it quicker than most. Vangelis had known such things upon stepping foot on these sands.

“FOCUS.” He shouted, the word echoed by his lieutenants. They couldn’t lose focus in this battle, they couldn’t afford to lose anything. He would not let these Egyptians win.

“KEEP GOING!” He encouraged, letting out a primal shout as he felt his energy build. They’d lost a great warrior, and they needed to make up for such a loss. Maleos would ensure it, even if he had to pick up the slack himself. He doubled down on the fight, his sword finding it’s target faster than it had been before.

Maleos would not stop until every Egyptian was sent to what ever false Gods they believed in. More would fall, on both sides, but if he could help it, the Egyptians would lose much more than the Greeks would. They would lose everything before this war was done, Maleos would make sure of it.