The battlefield smelled of blood, sweat, and fire.
Even from a distance, I could see the damage done in my absence—bodies strewn across scorched earth, war banners torn and trampled, soldiers moving with exhaustion weighing down their limbs.
Azov was struggling.
And I had been sitting in a manor by the sea while my kingdom bled.
I rode through the outer camp, my presence turning heads. Soldiers stilled at the sight of me, some murmuring my name like a ghost returned from the dead. Others stared in silence, shock and something like hope flickering in their tired eyes.
I did not slow. I did not speak.
I was here for one man alone.
King Cyrus.