Just as the commanding officers had gathered, and the king started to address them, the group was approached by haggard looking soldiers dressed in Tangean armour. Valerius clenched his jaw as the apparent leader of these survivors delivered the news. The Tangean king had fallen in battle, possibly captured by the enemy forces. This is not bode well, and strategies would have to be adjusted. The Captain of the Golden Shields kept his mouth shut, letting his superiors speak with their allies. What was left of them anyway. The Colchians had had banked on having the Taengean forces here, equal partners in this war, or as equal as they could have been to the militaristic Colchian armies. But now it would seem that the Colchians were the bulk of the force that would soon be battling the Egyptians.

King Tython began issuing orders. Lord SIlanos would oversee with camp, Captain Damocles was relegated to digging the fire pits. Val had to bit the inside of his cheek to keep a snicker from escaping him. Damocles had a way of going over the top with trying to flatter his betters in his effort to gain their approval and notice. Val was a firm believer in actions spoke louder than words, Much louder. His own father’s words had promised Val’s mother the world, but the man’s actions had cast her out on the streets along with the son he had not wanted. Actions… actions were everything.

The Colchian King would be scouting with a small force, with the Prince leading the way. While Valerius and Timaeus were to accompany Commander Stephanos in search of the missing King Achilleas. Val knew the Golden Shields were a good choice for this mission. As a unit consisting of mostly peltast soldiers, his men wore lighter armour allowing for faster and quieter movements, were trained with long range as well as short range weapons. They were excellent scouts and worked best when they could flank and enemy, employing hit and run tactics that wore at their enemy’s morale and resolve. An extraction mission was right up their alley.

Valerius bowed to his king when they were dismissed, then turned to Stephanos. ”Commander, I will gather the best of the Golden Shields for our mission to find King Achilleas. We will be ready when you are, my lord.”

- - - - - - - - -

Two days later, Valerius was moving swiftly along the coastline along with Tim and Steph, their men dutifully following – with a handful scouting ahead and flanking their position. They couldn’t afford for the enemy to sneak up on them. They had a mission. The Egyptian fleets must burn, and the Taengean king must be found, hopefully alive.

And so the day had come. Narmer had not seen the Colchian forces arrive, he and his men sent East to deal with the Taengean soldiers come across the border from Judea, and that fight was still in its throes. A runner came from the Pharoah that had drawn him and some of his warriors back to Manopotapa, and Narmer had not slept much since.

Summoned to hear the Pharaoh’s orders not moments after he had arrived, he was still bloodied and filthy from the fight and the journey and had only managed to wipe down his face and hands with a damp cloth before presenting himself at Iahoptep’s tent. There the other general’s had been gathered, and he had listened as his excellency outlined his plans to deal with this new contingent of greeks upon their shores.

As Osorsen had spoken of, this time it was the Colchian King who dared to bring battle to them, and from all that the H’Moghadam General had to say of the man and his son, they should not be underestimated. Narmer had to grudgingly concede that even the Taengean king had held on longer than should have been possible, given their sparse numbers. He didn’t anticipate this would be the easy victory that Iahotep seemed to be so sure of.

But still, who was to question the King of Kings? Narmer would not, though his gaze strayed to his nephew more than once. The boy had thrown his lot with the Pharoah, and despite Narmer’s misgivings that he was too young and not yet ready for this scale of battle, now he stood here under the command of a man that his Uncle could not argue with.

They would take the Grecian forces from two sides: a pincer movement that would put them under pressure and give the chariots the advantage. That the Pharoah himself would take to the sands had Narmer look to Osorsen when it wouldn’t be noticed, the set of his expression informing his friend of his surprise at that development. Narmer himself would be flanking the Grecian armies' left-hand side with his excellency, whilst Osorsen and the bastard Prince would take the right.

It meant at least he might be able to keep half an eye on Kissan, Narmer thought, as he stalked back through the camp to ready his men. He knew Iahotep would be doing no such thing. With his mind racing, he mustered those men who had returned with him, relayed the plans as much as they were able. The chariots would first look to agitate and pick off the Greeks by bow and spear before the foot soldiers followed on their heels with blades ready.

Thoughts drifting to Kissan once more, Narmer thought to seek him out before they moved off, just to try and breathe some words of sense and caution into the young man’s ear. He could not be the one to tell Nameeah that her son had fallen. Narmer accepted the quiver of arrows from the soldier who passed them to him, slung them over his shoulder and hefted his spear. There would be spares in the chariot - his brother in arms and trusted friend Kamose would see to that. He left those details in the hands of Kamose and moved through the men readying themselves for battle to speak with his nephew.

Finding him amongst Iahoptep’s own soldiers, Narmer laid a hand on Kissan’s shoulder and squeezed slightly. “So you have your wish,sahbi. You will see battle today and alongside the Pharaoh no less?”

Silanos was sweating. It might have been easy to blame it on the unforgiving sun that shone down on them from above, or the metal cuirass that got so hot, or the fact that he was shoulder to shoulder with so other men. But there was a cold prickle to this sweat that spoke of nerves, of fear. His hands felt slippery on the leather pommel of the sword he held, and he was glad of the helm he wore because it at least partially hid his face so no one would see how pale it was.

He felt like a fraud...not one of these men he stood amongst. Not a soldier. Not even a Lord anymore, and yet here he was. There was no more time for excuses or fucking around, he was here, and this was happening whether he liked it or not.

Silanos was not usually one for praying. He’d watched the Gods rip his family apart and didn’t think much of their supposed ‘favour’, but that morning he’d prayed. He’d borrowed am idol from one of the soldiers he’d been sleeping near and had taken himself off to beg the favour of those who he’d never bothered with before. @ares, @athena, @hades. Whoever was listening. He just needed to not fucking die, and he needed Timaeus not to die. There wasn’t much he had by way of sacrifice, a little wine, but it had to be better than nothing right? And hed watched it sink into the sand and tried not to think how much it looked like blood.

Now, as he stood and waited for the orders that would see them move forwards toward their fates, it was all he could picture, and he felt a little sick. He glanced to his left to where the King stood beside his son and Commander Nike and was reminded again at how out of place he was. How easy it was to regret all of the choices that had led him here.

For all of his apparent carelessness and insouciance, the past weeks had been nothing if not education in consequences for the young man, and he felt the price of each and every moment of idiocy that had left him standing where he was. None of it was worth this.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot he wished they’d just fucking call it already. The waiting was worse. He could see the Egyptian forces, and for all the military strategies Vangelis had made him read, he didn’t know what they were waiting for. If it went on much longer, he was pretty sure he was actually going to puke and wouldn’t that be a trip down memory lane for the King?

Mihail was not unintelligent, nor was he unskilled. He knew how to do many things which he would dare say neither his brother nor many of his usual courtly associates could do. He was the finest archer he knew; he could twist words however he willed them, and he spoke Coptic well enough that the revelation he had been forced to teach himself would come as a surprise to many. But he was not a warrior, and he could not feign himself to be one, no matter how dire his situation.

The journey across the ocean had been horrendous. Terrified of water as he was, the second almost-drowning he had experienced in his life had not been a sobering experience, and even the break in Taengea had not soothed his discomfort. Now they were landed in Egypt herself, and he was expected to fight.

There was not so much concern in the expectation that he should kill a few soldiers here and there. Mihail had no trouble with the idea of taking a life, for he had done it before and he would willingly do it again, but this whole business seemed so inelegant that he could not understand the eagerness that some of his fellows possessed. An arrow shot at a moving target could be entertaining, yes, but in these hurried surroundings, it did not have the chance to provide him with the burst of pleasure that tended to come from each successful shot. He could not run his pretty silver knife against their throat and watch their blood rush out to greet him, for, at that proximity, he was as good as dead himself. This was a rough man's game, and he thought himself the opposite.

It was that which truly raised his distress. Mihail had always been so thoroughly fixated on the fact that he was a lord (and even more since Nethis had brought out those adoption papers with some horrific other-truth spilt all over them), that the idea of anything else did not satisfy him. He was not a soldier, and he could not become one from nothing like all those around him. He had worked — if one could pardon the ironic choice of words — for the smoothness of his palms and the delicate features which graced his face (broken nose be damned), and there was a certainty that this ordeal would destroy everything, and close to kill him.

But this was Father's absurd will, and thus there was nothing the young lord could do to prevent it, even with his beloved words. They could earn him better lodgings on the boat, or the promise of someone with which to lie after everything was over, but that was all. This was the fate that Mihail had been prescribed.

Almost dwarfed in the shining bronze armour that felt foreign and heavy, he lingered awkwardly where he could risk the hesitation, near the rest of the archers, his bow clutched in his hand. This one was less extravagant than the one he had left at home, worried it would be destroyed in all the fuss of war, but it had served him well over the past few years, and he could shoot with it just as well as with any other. He had developed that awkward scruff for which his sisters would have teased him, and his eyes darted awkwardly around, trying to land his gaze on somebody he could recognise. Damocles or Silanos, or anybody at all, though they instead landed unhelpfully on the dark-haired man who allegedly was meant to give him instructions. He knew better than to speak, but the hesitation in his expression made clear that he was awaiting an order.

In all honesty, he just wished to shoot. If he could shoot, then perhaps the nightmare might disappear, and Mihail would find himself back in his element.

Rising up from the bent knee he dipped so as to accommodate for the ludicrous formalities surrounding those pretentious Kotas and the unwarranted sycophancy that oftentimes awashed so freely between them, Damocles stared at Tython and his brood with the same, cold, dispassionate aloofness that he had offered before and paid no attention to doing anything remotely similar to either of his two sons. Amongst those that knew of their past, it was abundantly known that there was little love lost between Vangelis and himself, chief of all because that spoiled brat had done everything in his power to rob him of his rightful promotion three years prior. As for the lesser of the two Kotas thieves, the Silver-eyed man couldn’t care less about Yiannis, who had been promoted to a position of similar worth to the one that his elder brother had stolen from him not long after. It wasn’t to say that he completely disregarded the younger man. Far from it, of the three, he seemed to be the one with the most brains, but given their foul Kotas blood, that wasn’t saying much anyways.



Yet, while he had been given orders that were borderline insulting, inasmuch as his true, raw talent as a militant was concerned, Damocles kept his emotions close to his heart for once and swallowed his pride, quelling his famously sharp tongue as he merely nodded and silently prepared to leave the camp and see to it that his ridiculous orders were followed to the letter. Oh, he felt the familiar sting of rage and anger swell within him, yes of course. Still, since the moment he had left Colchis, his mind had not stopped its machinations and calculations, and though he had admittedly been deprived of his rightful promotion once, he would be as dammed as the men he commanded if he were once more denied the place he was deserving of. Tython and his sons would have their time, and for that they could rest easy, but weary was the head that wore the crown. The Egyptians might be the enemies of the Colchians, but they were not the only opponent of the Kotas. It had taken him a long time to come to grips with it, but as he kept his stoic features expressionless and composed, Damocles began to realize what exactly people often meant when they said that revenge was a dish best served cold, and revenge, come hell of highwater, would be inevitably had. Maybe not now, maybe not even tomorrow, but, if the Gods were good, and his foresight was still as sharp as his blade, it would be soon.



His bright, silver eyes hovered over the rest of the men, most of which shorter than him in height, save for the Generals of the Kotas blood, who were, admittedly, either equal to or greater than himself when it came to size. He recognized the looks of familiar faces. Of the haughty, and unbearably myopic Captain Valerius of Arcanaes, whose very visage seemed to hint to a sort of twisted pleasure aimed at the demeaning charge that Damocles had been tasked, and his apparent friend and equal in dull, uninspiring brains, Timaeus, a man who the Magnemean cared for almost as little as he did Vangelis. Between the two he could not decide which was more useless, the Arcanaean who thought himself smarter than he was, or the Eubocrisian who was too blind in his toady ways to realize that allegiance to the Kotas was a fool’s pursuit. He neither regretted nor felt any shame for choking the Baron’s younger brother with the chains of financial debt, for such action was adequate when the Fates had decided to endow a family with such low cunning and lack of vision as the Valaoritis, but perhaps would find a means to make better use of Silanos, other than merely extracting coins off the young pup. The future held many possible scenarios, some more profitable than others, but for now, there was little use in thinking of such venues. Even if it was a demeaning task, Damocles would still see to it that the fire pits of the Colchian camps were done well and good. He had to lay low for now, for his calculations could afford much, but that was only if they were carried out with the same brain he had envisioned them in the past weeks.



Still, as he prepared to leave and tend to the, belittling task at hand, an odd sight caught wind of his silvery gaze, manifesting in the form of a young man, possibly no older than twenty or twenty five summers, followed by a small garrison of similar-looking youths. They were in rough-shape and in a haggard state, but they had the similar features of the Greeks, and thus, Damocles assumed them to be men of Taengea, who had deserted rank and left the field of battle in shame. Nevertheless, before speaking unceremoniously and harshly lashing out at the errant soldiers, Damocles paid a close ear to their tale, realizing that, though his presumptions had been somewhat true, the band before him was not one of runaways, but of survivors. As he listened, he felt a twinge of unease grip his throat. Was Achilleas safe? Was his previous lover and fond friend caught in harm’s way? Nevermind the state of affairs of Taengean. Gods knew that those coin-mongers and horse-traders could not be counted on when it came to matters of war, safe for Achilleas, one of the few men whom the Magnemean recognized as a man of great ability and martial prowess. His teeth grit beneath his frozen stare, and, for a brief moment, the coldness in Damocles’s features heated towards the same unease that he had felt, only to feel the cracks that formed beneath his forced mask deepen as he heard the messanger’s words:



““His Majesty fell in battle and disappeared…”



What? What was that lunacy? Was this insolent pup void of any sense or reason? How dare he insinuate that Achilleas had fallen to these sand rats and pyramid fuckers? It was beyond offensive, impertinent even! Would that the Gods given him leave to find cause to strike the boy down by his own hand he would have done so right there! There was no way that the bright-eyed Taengean had fallen. It was impossible! He could not have fallen. He simply could not have! That was unacceptable, it was absolutely unacceptable. With his eyes widening wrathfully, Damocles felt his anger bubble up and boil.



Alas, before doing anything of the sort, he breathed in and quelled his unexpressed, but mustered rage, maintaining his composure as he landed a hand on the shoulder of the smaller boy, turning his stoic features into an invitingly warm and friendly smile. “I thank you for your bravery, and commend you for your tenacity. Your labor shall not be forgotten, young soldier.” He said in an soothing, calming tone that denoted none of the famed temper and wrath of the Colchian militant. He would speak with this man again once more, for he had myriad of questions concerning Achilleas and the fall of the Taengean forces, but now was not the time for such inquisitions. He needed to be fed and tended to before offering up his insight. As for the circumstances concerning Achilleas, there would be ample time to deal with that later. For now, he wanted to clear his head off the news he received, and what better way to do that than to order his men around? With an unceremonious nod, he once more turned towards the other senior militants and politely excused himself under the pretense of wanting to take care of his assigned duties, which, admittedly, was a pretty blatant lie.



------



Two days had passed since the Colchians had arrived, and as far as the war was going, things seemed to be, for the most part, going as planned. Yes, he had not predicted that the Taengeans would have fallen in such a brutal and decisive manner, but that was neither here nor there. He had not thought much of the money kingdom’s forces in the first place anyways, so their defeat did not catch him off-guard. Still, his mind weighed heavily on Achilleas. Not long after he heard the news of his defeat, the Magnemean took to his quarters and let out his rage via the training dummies that he often cut down whenever he tended towards exercise, slicing them with far more ease as his anger augmented the strength of his muscles to their zenith.



He had not expected to be so affected by the revelation, with his soldiers whispering amongst them that, for the last two days, the Captain of the Damned had seemed to be far more tense and intense than before. Yet, where once he would resort to shouts and snarls of disappointment, silent, quiet frustration manifested, causing the warriors of Magnemea to feel even more stress at the morose, quiet state of their famously aggressive and unforgivingly sharp-tongued commander. In fact, for the past few days, Damocles had been almost uncharacteristically silent, delegating much of his duties to Alexander and the rest of his lieutenants as he focused on collecting his thoughts and strategized, showing a rare, and, perhaps, far more frightening side than the boisterous ire that the militant was known for.



Yet, while his legendarily iron fist over his forces had only tangentially softened, his resolve was stronger than ever. This war would be the great jump forward to his ambitions, that had been a judgement that Damocles had determined. He would no longer hold back, and his plans would be executed in nothing short of a perfectly flawless manner. Already, his great cunning and foresight had shown, seeing as his tactics at bonding the forces of the Hounds of Death of Megaris and the Damned of Magnemea since the day of rest in Taengea had worked out well, for now the two units were to work together under the authority of Nike, a man whom Damocles had grown to view with just as much disgust as he did Vangelis, nor for anything he had personally done, but for having usurped his rank as Commander three years prior, despite his widespread support amongst the rank-and-file and officers of Colchis. He would make sure that the mistakes of his past would be corrected, and already, it seemed that his intuition had already worked well enough for now, seeing as he had amassed amongst the Thanasi and Drakos forces that Damocles had subtly mend together through camaraderie and shared war games that aligned through his vision and innovation.



As far as he could tell, Mihail had been re-assigned to fight under the charge Maleos led, but that too was not that important. He had already saved the young man’s life, amongst the raging waves of the travelled sea. Notwithstanding, it was not as if the bright-eyed militant had completely raised his eye from the Thanasi youth, seeing as he had commanded one of his own officers to personally look after the boy for him in the coming days. He had already invested far too much of his time and efforts to make sure that the royal was safe, and he would not be foolish enough to let the young man be entirely away from his field of vision, even if it was through an instructed soldier. Damocles did not fear much on that front, for, despite his somewhat less outgoing presence as of late, the Captain of the Damned still commanded the respect of his unit with virtual certainly, controlling the army as if it were an extension of himself, rather than its own separate entity. Ten years he had led those soldiers, so of course, it was only natural that he held a strong grip over his men. Still, he would not be arrogant enough to allow himself to be conceited and allow just preparations to be allowed.



Recalling the poison he had commanded be brought on-board the ship, the ruthless militant instructed that each and every one of his warriors coated their weapons with the deadly substance he had procured, increasing the lethality of their swords, spears and arrows. Once more, it seemed that he had made the right call in securing such a large amount of poison for the use of his soldiers. It was not as if the use of such a thing was entirely unheard of, for he recalled how Phaedra of Molossia had used a somewhat similar tactic in the past before, albeit in smaller-scale. Perhaps, it was the mark of ruthlessness, or perhaps it was mere pragmatism, but he was not going to allow any of those sand rats to come out alive whence met by his forces. A single cut would be enough to spread the poison and fester the wound towards its excruciating conclusion. Maybe Timaeus and Maleos would have disapproved of his methods, but their opinions did not matter, for one was away with archers and the other was sent to rescue Achilleas, who Damocles still refused to believe was cast from this world, despite offering prayers to Hades since hearing of his defeat.



Alas, even all the schemes and calculations of the world meant little if they were not carried out. Thus, after issuing countless commands and instructions to his lieutenants, Damocles finally set forth towards the field of battle. Dressed in the dark armor of a man who carried himself through years of experience, the Captain of the Damned stood proud and authoritative, standing at the front of the joint armies of the Damned and Hounds, with his trusted shield, Aegis, and his spear basically tied to his clenched fist. It was true that the Egyptians did boast larger numbers, but war was not a mere game of arithmetic, it was a game of strategy and determination, and with his compressed rage dually aimed at both Nike and the Egyptians, Damocles was certain that no man that stood before those sands held-on tighter to his ambitions than himself. It would not do to win. He had to crush his enemies, to wound them, shame them, break them, and at the last, bring them to the bloody debt that he was owed.



Thus, he waited, recalling the taste of blood upon his tongue as he readied himself for battle while waiting for either Vangelis or Tython to give the order to commence, as was the role of Generals and Royals of war. He would not let the opportunities of war be denied him once more. Yes, he had once been, perhaps, too bold in his desires, but that was then, and this was now. All his losses, and his humiliations would be eclipsed in this war, erased and made small by the light of his victories and the deadly precision of the creeping shadows that hung predatorily above those he wanted to destroy. Dark may be the color of his armor, but glory would be the new coat of paint that would decorate his breastplate once this was all over. This was his time, and no Militant, Egyptian, Baron, Commander, General or even King would stand in the way of his God-manifested destiny.



Once the signal was given, the towering militant’s words rung clearer than a thunderous bold hurled by Zeus himself. “Earn your shields, men!” he snarled, as the Colchians behind him raised their heavy hoplons with a responsive, but uniform snarled before the intricately organized army settled in position, their spears poised forward and their shields raised strong and adamant, close to their chest as they braced for impact. Then came the Egyptians, disorderly, messy and rawdy as they were, rushing barbarically at Damocles and his forces, while he patiently waited as his lieutenants quelled the passions of the Damned and Hounds by telling them to hold.



Then, came the boom, the distinct sound of shields slamming against them. Seconds become hours, and hours days, but as the light fo the day blackened by the approaching forces of Egypt, Damocles held on, yelling at them to push forward and hold the line, as he and his men dug their heels against the sands and dragged their heels against the shiefting ground beneath them, steadying their footing until it was found. Amidsts the yelling and the strained grunts of efforts, a moment of quiet finally broke through, and though the Egyptians pressed hard, the Silver-eyed militant was not going to let his men break rank. “Push!” And with that, the joint-forces of the Hounds and Damned repelled their enemies in a beautifully coordinated manner, giving enough room for them to strike down their foes with their spears, before repeating their efforts once more, drawing forth the first blood spilled on that day.

Dorothea had made it so far. She hadn’t been thrown off the ship to Egypt, though she was sure that thought had crossed the captain’s mind. And she hadn’t been rejected outright by Lieutenant Phaedra, though she was sure that she held very little ground there. One misstep and perhaps she would be rejected—forced to join another unit or worse, leave Egypt. However, they needed all the help they could get here, that much Dorothea had surmised. Her own king was nowhere to be seen, presumed dead. The Taengeans had not done well at all. If she was willing to fight, even poorly, that might be better than nothing. Of course, Dorothea had no intention of fighting poorly, but still needed to prove her skill to everyone else.

All of this, however, was nothing in the face of what was to come. Dorothea knew that. It seemed the Egyptians were even more brutal than assumed and fought seriously. She was glad for once that her brother was in Athenia and that she wouldn’t have to worry about him on the battlefield here. She had prepared herself for many things on their long boat ride over and thankfully that had not been one of them. She feared for him enough with whatever was happening in Athenia. However, this war seemed far worse.

There was much to catch up on in the evening since they arrived. They were behind the other Colchian forces, but had not missed any fighting. There wasn’t much time to prepare, though Dorothea wasn’t sure what else there was to do. She cared for her bow for what must have been the hundredth time since they arrived, knowing that it was her most precious weapon. Dorothea was an excellent shooter and rider, but if she lost the opportunity to engage in either of those things, she would be lost. The Dimitrou sincerely hoped that it would not come to that. While she knew that her thoughts and worries could keep her up on the eve of the battle, Dorothea forced herself to relax, to think calming thoughts. She would need to be rested for the days ahead.

The morning of the fight had her nervous, but calm. It felt eerily similar to when their family would go on a hunt. There was some energy in the air. Nobody knew what the day would bring, but they hoped it would end in victory. That was what she hoped for today too. And she would play her part as best she could.

Dorothea, dressed in a uniform kindly loaned to her by another archer, had tied her hair back tightly in a braid so that nothing would distract her while shooting. She had her bow and arrows ready, though knew she would likely go through everything that she had brought with her. She would rely on the extra arrows the army provided. Hopefully they would fly just as true.

She made her way to where Lieutenant Phaedra’s unit was told to wait, arriving early but finding herself not alone. It seemed others were just as anxious as she. Nobody had said much about her last minute addition to their group, seeming not really to care. Perhaps she would have to first prove that she belonged with them before they would invest. That was fair. Dorothea probably would have done the same. Why care about the noble girl who was just as likely to get herself killed? Perhaps if she stuck around, she would be worth caring about. At least, that was what Dorothea told herself. Even if not, it wouldn’t change any of her own actions.

Slowly, slowly, it became time. Others had arrived, as had their commander. Dorothea stood with the other women—something she had dreamed of for years—and waited for Lieutenant Phaedra to give her orders.

The days rolled past with that calm quiet that always settled in before a battle. This was a feeling that Tython was quite used to, just as he was used to bringing the fight to the enemy and beating them back for the sake of all of Greece. Without him and without his tireless efforts in the northern lands, the savages would have found their way south long ago. This time around, though, his intention was to keep the Egyptians in their place and Greece safe from their grasp. This conflict would end in much bloodshed, but the men who fought here knew that they could die here. Even Tython was prepared to fall if it meant the rest of his troops moved on to victory.

Readied and standing with his own troops, at the front of his ranks, Tython stared across the expanse in the direction of their enemy. Once their friend, the tenuous peace between them seemed to bring them to conflict once more. It would end soon, he was sure. But victory was up in the air. And it would be until the sounds of screams and battle cries died down. This had the King silently praying to both @athena and @ares for all of the guidance they could give a man practiced in the ways of war. The trials. The tribulations. The pain...

From his position, Tython let his head turn from side to side, looking down his own lines to his own men and his own family. He looked once to Vangelis, nodded to himself, and then looked forward. This would be the last time he went to war, he decided. Is boys were old enough tot ake the helm now. A King did not need to lead on every battlefield, and he wasn't entirely sure that he would be leaving this one.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, it was the Egyptians who made the first move, and before long, the two armies were in a head on clash for control. For victory. For life. The King fought as he always did, with a string hand and a swift foot, his gaze on his targets, on his men, on the people who fell beneath blade or spear. How long this would go, even Tython didn't know, but the man called orders and would shift his troops around, trying to make the most of this potential victory. This win that the Colchians needed to claim for themselves if there was any hope of staving the Egyptians off from Taengean shores. Their closest landing point in Greece.