Kyros dropped from the vortex in a foul mood. He still wasn't over what had happened to the minion. Klaudia was there. There was no room left to doubt that she was going to berate him for his foul deed. He glared at her, ensuring his current displeasure was on full display. She nodded softly in acceptance, not wanting to make all the tension in the room explode onto her.

He bent over and planted a peck on her forehead as he passed. The ascent to the personal chambers was silent, save for the clicking of his armour against the stone. The mood there was solemn; there was no ascertainable sign of life. Not a single minion scurried past with broom in hand, nor was Joseph seated at the dining table.

A calming serenity flowed through the immaculately silent halls of the quarters. Kyros counted his breaths. One two three four, one two three four, one two three four. The only sound besides his breathing was his feet meeting the polished corridor. The sound of water radiated from the doors of the main baths. The culprit was most likely Artemis. Joseph preferred his personal tub and the minions wouldn't dream of using their master's facilities.

Ignoring the noise, Kyros continued his stroll. He stopped at a bold door; standing at a height that towered over even him; behind it lay his study. The door slid open, swinging inaudibly on its brass hinges.

A grand desk took his attention immediately. It was a stoic feature of the room; the deep brown bringing out the colours found in the tapestries and knick-knacks sat on shelves. He would need to grow his collection further. Atop it sat tightly-wound scrolls, each taking up a singular diamond-shaped slot in his desktop scroll rack. It was fun trying to get that built; he had to explain to the minions what a wine rack looked like. He would have to thank Joseph later for actually handing over some of the reports like he asked him to.

With a snap of his fingers, a brown dressed in a cassock slipped out from a small door in the wall. Its silver buttons shimmering in the fire-light. Under his direction, the minions had a tunnel system that let them get with more ease than anyone else. He needn't give an order, the minion was already filling the kettle with the jugs of water kept by the fireplace in the back. Kyros slumped into his leather seat, resting his head against the cushioned back.

He perked up in attention, grabbing the closest scroll to him and unravelling it onto his desk. No one in the tower had a clue what wood it had been fashioned of. They only knew that the tree was from Evernight and that the wood had a nice rich brown sheen to it when the Ruborian carpenter had applied the shellac to it. The goose-feather quill Joseph had lent him rose from the ink-pot, its tip dyed a fine scarlet from the Ruborian ink it was resting in. He scanned the document; they never contained anything of great importance. It was simply that he needed something to keep himself busy with. The quill rested its nib against the vellum and signed his name with a quick flourish.

The minion poured the boiled water into an ornate teapot behind him; the kettle clinked as he lifted it from the rack. The minion stirred the beverage twice; mixing the saffron and black leaves. The scent of fresh tea filled the room, a pleasant scent that Kyros was rather fond of. Normally he wouldn't let the minion stir the tea, but the lid to his teapot had mysteriously vanished not too long ago and he was yet to retrieve it. There was coffee too; kept in a silver jar on the other side of the mantle as the tea.

He spent most of the next two hours reading through scrolls he didn't need to and drinking tea; a most calming exercise. He sighed, leaning back against the chair. It was heavy enough that he couldn't get it to tip backwards easily, but he reckoned it would fall pretty fast if he did. The minion had their watch taken by another sometime during his work; entering and exiting via the tunnels in the walls. It was amazing how silently they could scurry around the tower. Scary almost, pondered Kyros.

Gnarl shuffled through the door; feeling the toll of the extensive flights of stairs. The door swung open as Kyros downed yet another cup of tea. They were a Ruborian set and they tended to serve their tea in the same style of cup as the Arabs of his own world did. It was an enlightening experience for someone who had always had a mug at his side. He even had a Ruborian come in and teach the cup-bearer minions how to prepare tea and coffee in the local style.

The wizened minion rushed to Kyros, a far cry from his usual steady shuffle. It was no use trying to speed Gnarl up; between his age and the state of his decrepit body, there was no hope.

"My lord," huffed Gnarl. "I do believe we have a problem."

The duo had descended to the throne room as fast as Gnarl could push himself. He excused his speed with the fact that he had just made the almost kilometre-long journey down to the minions' quarters. That explained that he was out of breath.

Gnarl saw fit to continue his previous report. A quartet of minions accompanied them, carrying Kyros' armour wrapped in fine silks to prevent their paws from dirtying it.

"A clan of bandits has seen fit to attack your territory. We repelled them at Wejh and Zaagi. However, your scouts have reported that an army marches towards Abrar; believing it recently sacked and ripe for them to move in. Bloody vultures!"

"How many does this army consist of?"

Matthew took his trademark step from the shadows. "I've not seen them myself but reports seem to add up to around three hundred."

Kyros took a double-take at his appearance then frowned. "That's not all that many. Our school had more students than that."

Matthew nodded, agreeing. "Yes, but these people are from little more than a nation of raiders and thieves. They likely only sent out a mid-sized force. I think that they might want to see about moving into some of the cities in the surrounding region after Abrar."

"So it's an expeditionary force?"

Matthew shrugged. "In a sense; though I don't think that they can expend more than that one a single target. Take into account that you can field only fifteen directly and that the garrison of Abrar is what, one hundred minions? And we have a bit of a problem on our hands. It's only been a few hours since you took over; the walls aren't repaired yet and I doubt the populace will welcome you with open arms. Hell, the minions might still be finishing looting the place."

"So we have a problem on our hands. Gnarl, is that catapult still there?"

Gnarl took a second to recall what had happened. "I do not believe so, Sire. However, Grubby and the diggers should be able to move it to wherever you would desire."

Kyros nodded, giving his decree, "Have the catapult behind the walls, facing wherever the enemy is supposed to be approaching from. How far from the city do we think they are?"

Matthew took his turn to reply, "Reports indicate that they might take three hours. They all seem to have horses and spare camels we've tracked from Farah. They might have a guide too; even if it's just one or two of them who know their way around the region."

Gnarl had begun his walk down to where Grubby was hiding, supporting himself with his gnarled staff and mumbling about ballistae.

"Do we suspect Farah of endorsing them?" Kyros couldn't help but draw a connection between the rival shiekh and the moving force.

"I don't think so. I reckon that they bought - stole more likely - the camels. The troops from Djumal should be returning to the city too. That'll be more than both our garrison and the attacking bandits combined."

"Any chance we could pit the two against one another?" Klaudia spoke up from where she was standing behind the throne.

"That could work. I don't know if the soldiers would have reason enough to fight though." Matthew voiced his doubts over the plan; playing devil's advocate despite his support of the idea.

Kyros thought that it was a rather solid – if simple – plan that Klaudia had brought up. "I reckon that the fact that there's a horde of bandits moving towards their home should be reason enough. It's not like they know that I've taken over do they?"

"Not unless I've made a mistake. Which I didn't" Klaudia snorted. It was true though: Matthew wasn't the type to submit something if he thought he had made a mistake. A perfectionist of sorts.

"Well, then that makes life a whole lot easier, eh?" Artemis voiced her opinion, running a wooden hairbrush through her damp hair. It glistened in the evening sunset, giving the girl the appearance of a celestial being.

Kyros snorted, "Sure does. Don't have to worry about fooling them if they don't know about it in the first place. Makes sense that they don't too; to be fair."

"It has only been a couple of hours," Matthew concurred.

"So we're going to try and direct these two groups into one another then I'll go in and mop up, right?" Everyone in the room agreed so Kyros continued, "We'll still have the catapults up though. It's good to have a back-up plan."

Artemis interjected, "I can oversee that on the city-end. I haven't been out in a while."

"Sounds good." Kyros nodded. "That's settled then. Let me know when they start fighting. Matt, are you gonna go help redirect our visitors?"

"That was the plan."

"Wonderful."

It didn't take long for the approaching armies to begin their combat. His minion attendant had slid out of the walls and informed him in a slow annunciation. The minion was trying to speak in a dignified manner, likely picking it up from Joseph.

Kyros already had his armour on, having donned it in the throne room as the rest of his group filed out. He slammed back the rest of the tea he had in the cup, gently resting it on his desk. The minions would everything up for him. His axe leant against the doorway, transferring smoothly into his outreached hand. He walked out of the study completely ready to deploy.

He heard the cries of battle even from within the city. Orders and calls for help were indistinguishable in the melting pot of shouts and the tunes of woodwinds and hand-drums. It would appear that the Ruborian soldiers had with them a band.

Over the flat roofs of the city, the arms of catapults stood austerely. If Kyros squinted, he could see the silhouettes of minions crawling around the frames. He summoned his horde, already on the move, jogging in his plated armour. His horde sprinted after him, struggling to keep up with his much longer legs even despite the added weight of his armour.

Artemis had erected the catapults in a far better position than he had hoped for. The path was clear and a round tower stood just clear of the rightmost catapult's firing lane. Already, a trio of spotters had taken position on the tower, directing their fellow minions in the messy speech typical of their kind.

Artemis saw him before he saw her. She snuck around, the minions ignoring her, knowing her allegiance. Her arms latching around Kyros was enough to make him jump; he was ready to charge into battle. The offender caught the flinch, laughing.

"Did I scare you?" she asked, feigning concern.

"Piss off." Kyros didn't mean anything mean, chuckling at his own surprise.

The tanned arms unwound from his front and Artemis hopped to stand before him.

Exaggerating her salute, the girl reported, "All weapons are primed and ready, sir! Do you wish to inspect?" She had been to enough of his parades to know – more or less – the routine.

"I do." Kyros played along; he would have to go in the direction she was going to lead him anyway.

"Right this way, sir." She set off without concern for her trailing party. Seeming almost joyful in her stride.

Kyros nodded at his horde and scurried to the catapult in the middle. The local garrison staffed the other two. His helmet lifted off his head, resting beneath his arm.

He had cut his hair short after a Ruborian tried to grab it in a scuffle he had. The trio of bandits had for some reason thought it smart to attack the two of the burliest men he was sure they would ever see. Perhaps they would have been more reluctant if the minions hadn't been off hunting. Still, it didn't save them and at the same time presented a hole in Kyros' strategy. He had been growing it before, but it was no great loss. It wasn't hard, even with the more primitive hair-styling tools of the current time. It was short on the sides so the colour of his skin intertwined with the golden hair. The top had been chopped down to where he was just able to brush it around with his hand.

It was a good choice for the climate of his current surroundings too. A good day in Ruboria was the same temperature as a hot day back home. He could feel the beginning of sweat across his armoured body, it didn't bother him though; he'd end up soaked by the end of this ordeal.

He stepped up onto the command plate of the siege weapon. Already, through the directions of the spotters, the catapult stood aimed at the centre of the approaching enemy. They were oblivious to the imminent threat; sparing not a glance at the towering walls of Abrar. Kyros didn't expect them to, knowing their circumstances and lack of knowledge of what he did.

His right arm came down in a chop, the crews released the tension and sent boulders soaring into the crowd of men. Frantic blasts of pipes overtook all other noise as the whistling of the incoming boulders alerted the combatants. Still, it was too late for many even with the signals. A fine paste of gore and armour plastered the area where the rolling boulder had struck. Packed earth lay dented from the impact. Then the same thing happened in two other locations.

Both sides of the battle seemed to recognize the city as the greater threat. Even with the walls in this section being at full strength, seeing a sea of angry killers turn towards you was not a good sight.

Shit. A single word invaded Kyros' thoughts.

Two more volleys soared overhead. The speed told of both the efficiency of the crews and the disorganization of the attackers. They did plenty of damage, but the defenders were still outnumbered to an unbelievable ratio.

The crews rushed to man other positions. Members of the Order of the Black Flame made their appearance, claiming a "dog-eared angel" summoned them. His doubts of the divinity of the messenger aside, Kyros was more than grateful for the added manpower. Many had with them bows or bombs, favourites of the Order. They manned the walls alongside minions who had explosives of their own. The rest joined forces with the phalanx behind the gate; prepared for the mighty entrance to crash open.

Kyros, now farther back from the walls realized that their plan to attack the walls was foolhardy. The returning troops had neither rams nor ladders. The bandits might have ladders but they would be too far behind them now to be of much use.

He had never considered, of course, that the enemy might have some explosives of their own.

He stood behind his troops, berating himself as the gate shuddered under the blast of explosives. The attackers sure had a hell of a lot of bombs for an army of thieves. The blasts thundered once more and the minions began to bang their weapons against scavenged shields. The guards set their halberds into the ground, preparing to hold back the incoming tide of angry men.

Finally, the moment came. The gates thundered open under the unrelenting waves of explosives. They slammed against the sides of the gatehouse, blasted past the extent of their hinges. The invaders were visible on the other side of the smoking hole. The challenges of the minions redoubled in the face of impending death. Shields clanged and minions hurled obscenities.

From the corner of his eyes, black shapes shifted along the walls. The Order members took positions that would make the best of their abilities – and their bombs.

Invaders poured in, clambering over each other in a bid to claim first blood. The two armies became indistinguishable except for the differentiation between the outfits. The dusty uniforms of the returning soldiers displayed a stark contrast to the mix-matched apparel of the bandits.

The first wave was quick to fall to thrusts of pikes – the second line of guards shoved them towards their foes. It deterred not the determined warriors.

Kyros blew on a horn strapped to his waist, a low hum for four seconds and a slightly higher hum for another four sounded in the ears of everyone nearby. They all knew this signal; the few minutes they spent going over it were enough.

Immediately the pike-minions backed up, their ranks spreading out to form a box around the opened gate. The blasted doors served as natural barriers at the ends of either wing. Ruborians strung their bows and drew their throwing knives. Kyros hoped that the line would hold.

Like rushing water, the attackers poured into the new space. Some on the edge ended up impaled, pushed onto the pikes by their rushing comrades. Thrusts of free pikes and an arching volley of arrows marked the true beginning of the defence. They all knew what to do; if they could not hold the gate, fall back and fight them in the streets. Victory or death; stain the streets with blood and live to tell of it.

Bombs flew in from overhead. The general commotion of combat drowned out the clinking of the metal shells. The explosions weren't. Bodies went flying in every direction, slamming into defender and attacker alike. Minions crumpled as flying corpses slammed into them. Each one had to scamper back onto their feet lest the shaken enemy take advantage of their position. Most did; some did not. The death cries of each soldier panged in his heart despite their connection to the town rather than him.

His own horde stood behind the pikes, three groups of five stood ready to receive anyone who got past the garrison troops. More arrows flew into the mass of soldiers and Kyros remembered that he could move. He had stood paralyzed on the rooftop he shared with a handful of archers. There was no way to utilize his ability to create fissures in the earth without slaughtering his own troops, but he could still use fireballs.

Magic raced down his arm as he held it out. Welcoming heat enveloped his skin. He felt no pain from it, the flame offered subservience; an odd sensation to get from fire he supposed. The tips of his fingers ignited and the balls quickly expanded, joining together as more mana flowed down his arms in swirling paths to fuel the magical flame.

With a buck, he released the fireball. It flew at a terrifying velocity, ripping across the open space above the short defenders. The attackers were unprepared for a ball of flame to crash into the front lines of them. It quickly spread, fuelled by Kyros' magic and his desperation to win the battle. Men screamed as their fellows turned to ash. Minions clambered over singed corpses and their fallen comrades to press the advantage.

He repeated the performance twice more, aiming farther back into the unending swarm as they funnelled in through the gates. Similar – greater – results were yielded to that of the first cast. The fire in the back spread more willingly, encouraged by tightly packed bodies and dry apparel.

Kyros hid the grin he displayed behind his helmet. He jumped down from the rooftop with a crash, slamming into the paved streets. His armoured feet took him out of the slight crater and towards the defensive line. Arrows flew overhead, their shadows pointing him towards his targets.

Then the wall to the left of the schiltron collapsed. Rubble hit the ground and dust obscured Kyros' vision of the impact site.

A million thoughts rushed through Kyros' mind at once, rendering him stunned while he composed himself. He could see soldiers warily scouting out the new entrance, keeping eyes out for the source of the fires they could see amongst their comrades. They retreated into the settling dust when they saw him. All else took the backseat as he rushed toward the gap, calling his personal horde to stand behind him.

Kyros' chest tightened as the stress of releasing more mana took its toll. The energy rushed to his fingertips and pooled at his feet. His limbs glowed brown as they channelled the power he would need for such a move. The scent of fresh soil permeated the air, Kyros breathed it in a steeled himself for the upcoming attack. His minions fended back an attacker as the pooled power met its pinnacle.

He stomped his foot down with all his might, hands arched down towards the earth as he released the magic. Air crackled at the violent release of power. The earth cracked, the sound deafening him and everyone nearby. The tonnes of sand and packed dirt spilled into the growing fissure. The crack rushed towards the swarm of attackers, now realizing their problem, spreading at a speed that denied the laws of physics.

Dozens of terrified warriors toppled down into the great hole in the land. It kept expanding, releasing the eldritch glow of mana. The ravine seemed to chase the soldiers who clung to the remnants of the wall for safety. His minions encircled him as Kyros stood in place, his breathing heavy and ragged. He was barely aware of his location; knowing only that he couldn't let the rest of the men by the wall survive. His mind blanked and a warrior's instincts took the place of reasoning.

He gulped, supporting himself on his axe as he rose up to his towering height. Fear welled in the eyes of his foes as the titanic figure rose after such an expenditure of power. Still, they far outnumbered him. Even with the aid of the archers and his band of demons he had no hope.

Glowing eyes locked in on their target. One step, two steps, three steps, swing. The man fell to the ground his a massive gash in his chest. The one behind his target stepped up with a thrust of their spear. Grip the spear. Kyros followed suit, caring not that he had lost the ability to think besides the need to kill. Magic infused itself with his gigantic axe as it cleaved another four men clean in half.

His minions fared well, grouping together in teams of three to take down a man before moving onto the next. Arrows clotted out the sun as a hundred projectiles slammed down into the mass of foes. Screams rang out at the ability of the one foe. The minions fell back, forming a defensive line; good soldiers follow orders.

Kyros went berserk. There were no allies to concern himself with, only the threats on all sides. That made them easy to hit. His axe whipped around in every direction, his feet moving in perfect coordination. A dance of murder. No blade could cut him nor any spear pierce his flesh. Such trivial matters as the abilities of man were unimportant in the face of such great slaughter.

His fist crushed someone's windpipe and the stomp of a metal foot brought another bending over, open to an upwards chop of his axe that sent the corpse flying into the masses. Minions cheered him on, repelling the occasional bandit who thought to escape the madman amongst them. More arrows flew in, bodies joined their comrades all around him.

He lacked all memory of what occurred for a while; blacking out and focusing solely on the slaughter. Perhaps it was a type of tunnel vision, afflicting him in the heat of battle when his primary concern was survival.

Unconsciously he brought forth a fireball and, forgetting to release it, let it make its way to the tip of his weapon. The super-heated blade fell enemies with ease as Kyros spun about. It seemed inefficient to those watching; the kind of move that left one open to counterattack, but such things do not apply when one's wielding an axe with a metre long blade.

Things changed when he tripped over a pile of hacked-up bodies. Kyros stumbled and hopped, hoping to regain his balance. His foes tightened their encirclement of him, no longer having to fear the whirlwind of destruction.

The Overlord's arm raised up, ready to slam down into the head of a man who had bent over himself from a jab to the gut. It never connected. The limb came clean off, the sword making the precise shot between the chainmail and plates of armour. It would have had to have been enchanted, he would later come to realize. There was no way that a simple longsword would chop his arm off as cleanly as that. It didn't matter at the moment, the limb caught his eye with its sudden drop. His axe cleaved clean through it in instinctive response. The limb spread across the ground, severed into two pieces at the elbow.

His brain registered that a limb had been lost, but no pain ensued. The top priority, now more so than before, was still to win the fight. Magic rushed to stem any bleeding and the best attempt at a fireball he could subconsciously manage with a stump of an arm cauterized the wound. That hurt; like hell. He ignored the pain, relying on the focus he needed to stay alive and his magic as much as his own willpower to ignore his left arm.

"Stand up and fight," he whispered to himself, each syllable stabbing into the fog in his mind.

He spun around, the spiked heel of his boot stabbing into the stomach of the bastard who had cut off his arm. It no longer hurt, he noticed. Yanking the foot pulled a good chunk of guts out with it, enough to make the man collapse to the ground like a sack of rocks.

The rampage continued, fuelled by spite and a refusal to lose. It made more sense to himself to just not die. Why would mere men be able to slay a being above them like himself? Compared to him they were beasts, fighting terrified of the ferocious predator. They were dirt compared to him. Minions charged in, ignoring any standing orders that they might have; the safety of their master was of the utmost importance.

He took any opportunity, no longer feeling bound by whatever shred of honour he brought onto the battlefield. From then on he would remember that chivalry had no place in a fight between common men; he would hardly consider himself of knightly disposition.

Explosions rang around him, the ringing in his ears persisted as he charged at the next man who awaited death. He knew that they couldn't see his face, covered as it was by his helmet, but they all surely knew of the bestial expression that was displayed underneath.

A mighty cry resounded from within the thinning pile of invaders. A terrifying battle call of a man whose sole focus was on the complete annihilation of his foe. It didn't occur to Kyros that he had passed through the breach in the walls – using magic to leap across the ravine in a zig-zag manner – in search of his prey. He seethed, gritting his teeth in anticipation of the next struggle. The act of fighting for his continued life brought him a primal satisfaction. The knowledge that he was stronger than any of the disfigured bodies on the ground behind him reaffirmed his desire for more blood.

No more blood was available. The remainders had laid down their arms, unwilling to fight against an opponent seemingly more monster than man. An armoured figure who slaughtered a hundred men and lost his arm with not but a moment of pause was not one that they wanted to resist. Eyes of a glowing grey defined the helmeted face; cementing the visage of a monster. Each step he took left a trail of blood behind him, none falling from the cauterized stump of his left arm. The sands of Abrar turned red with blood.

He was greatly surprised – and disturbed when he woke up. He knew that he wasn't sleeping; it wasn't unknown to him that he became ultra-focused during battle. It was the missing arm and lack of anything more than a fuzzy memory to identify how it had happened. The mountain of bodies behind him and the trail of sludge that he left as he took each step. The dread – greater than anything he had ever seen before – shared among the faces of the surviving attackers. All these factors worried him; what had happened in the fight?

Pleas of mercy filled the air in a tongue untranslatable to Kyros but familiar nonetheless. Sense flooded into his mind and the bloodlust faded. The adrenaline began to subside, the combat over and the foe slaughtered.

He approached the bulk of surrendered warriors, mixed together regardless of their allegiance. Their creed was irrelevant in the face of the demon-on-earth who stood before them. His armour was bathed in the lifeblood of their respective comrades, a haunting reminder of his ability. The lack of a left arm made his figure more menacing; the knowledge of what was possible despite lacking the limb made sure of that.

Already, tales had begun to circulate around the members of the order – those who witnessed Kyros' feats swore him some model of divinity. The ones who Artemis summoned claimed her a messenger of the divine. Quickly, a connection was drawn and meetings were held as the rumours spread to the rest of the populace.

There was no concern for the multitude of prisoners they had taken – Kyros noticed. His minions normally had no regard for them beyond their duty to keep them alive. Even he, though more humanitarian than the minions, couldn't bring himself to relinquish a shred of compassion. It was only natural, he figured; they had maimed him, after all. Still, to Kyros, who would before have claimed to possess a soft heart, it was both concerning and completely natural to give no consideration to the prisoners.

The chain rambled on, prisoners bound by lengths of flax rope to one another by the waist. Kyros stood on the roof of a nearby house; stoically monitoring the progress of the unending number of captives as they shuffled along. There was no sensation coming from the left stump: something odd in and of itself.

His attention shifted from the line of men to the mounds visible through the holes in the walls. Each body had been stripped and everything taken. Clothing and jewellery made their way into the hands of new owners. Weapons sat in a pile patrolled by minions: they would be taken back to the tower and smelted into something more uniform for the minions. Then, the bodies had been buried.

None of the dead received the decency of an independent grave. Their bodies lay in immense pits, dug by their surviving comrades. It was sickening; the cold expressions of each body as they were thrown atop another and shifted to make room for the next one. Kyros just hoped that he wouldn't have to dig it up anytime soon.

A throng of villagers flowed towards him, singing praises of the great warrior who had proclaimed himself their ruler mere hours before. They gathered around his elevated position, kneeling and prostrating themselves. Kyros' eyes darted about, trying to discern what had brought such a display to be. He couldn't make anything in particular out. What concerned him more was the general worship of him. It was like they considered him a divinity.

He wasn't terribly troubled by the idea of worship; it was no burden upon himself if the people built temples in his name. It was what they were worshipping him for. He had killed their fathers, their sons and nephews. He had destroyed families in the battle still visible from the fires burning. Still, they came out of their homes to kneel before him like he was a beloved king returning victorious.

Kyros stepped down from the rooftop, descending the clay staircase moulded to the side of the house. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before him. Peasants reached out to touch his armour – still stained with the blood of their countrymen. Merchants kneeled down in their embroidered robes. Criminals and nobles joined together in the crowd. The magic of the Towergate welcomed him, freeing him from the ill-deserved adoration.

He scrubbed as hard as he could but still could not wash all the blood off. His armour was sat in a corner of the bathhouse. Why Kyros had thought to bring it into the bath with him; he had no clue. The stains remained, unyielding to soap and friction alike. He sighed, and decided to leave it to the minions – they would consider it an honour to clean a possession of their lord.

His skin too, bore the stains of battle. Kyros knew that there would be some that would not come off in water; that something would always stay to remind him of his actions. That blood would always stain his hands.

A long sigh emitted from his mouth as Kyros slid into the bath. It was heated by grand fires on the floor below. Gnarl assured him that a tribe of red minions would be more than suited for the job upon their discovery. He had always doubted the recounts people had of their woes flowing away as they relaxed into a hot bath. Now, he realized, there was some truth to that statement. The image of his glorification would not leave his mind, but no other worries were perturbing him.

He leant back, letting himself go as he accepted the hot water and the relaxation of his burning muscles. The burning nerves – a result of his expenditure of mana – the water soothed not. Still, he would rather suffer through aches and pains than be laying at the bottom of a grave.

Upon the opening of his eyes, Kyros realized that there was another person in the bath. He hadn't heard the hefty door swing open, nor their footsteps against the tiling, but perhaps he had simply been too deep in his own mind.

Klaudia had slipped into the water opposite him, staring at the stump that used to be a functional limb. She turned her attention away from it when his eyes met hers though

"What happened?"

"Son of a bitch chopped it off."

"Suppose you killed him then?"

"All of his friends too."

Klaudia nodded; that was what she had expected. The questions were over; she didn't want to hear the details. Her support of Kyros' actions was far less than that of Artemis.

The water parted as she slid over to where Kyros sat. It took her a few seconds, considering the ridiculous size of the bath. Kyros' lap became her new seat, much to his surprise.

Supple skin rested upon him, pushing out the water from between them. Klaudia giggled as she felt Kyros' erection press against her thigh.

"Let this heal." She brushed her hand against his left arm. "And I reckon we can shag after."

"We could now." Kyros leant in and whispered in her ear.

Klaudia kissed him. "I'm not fucking a cripple."

"Wait; the fuck do you mean by heal? It's gone; vanished."

"I'm sure you'll find a way. We can't have sex otherwise."

"You sure know how to motivate me," Kyros drawled

The girl on top of him spun around, doing no favours for the erection harboured beneath her legs.

"I know." Lips met and their skin rubbed against one another.

Kyros rose from his comfortable position wedged between Klaudia and the clinging Artemis. His robe didn't quite fit: the left end drooped pathetically. He managed to dress himself after a few seconds longer than usual and descended the stairwell.

Joseph had already moved onto his second tankard, Kyros assumed it was beer, but couldn't' smell it. There were no papers strewn in front of him. That normally meant that something important was happening and he was going to show Kyros.

"The prisoners have all been moved into the dungeon complex. Master Gnarl has raised his wish to speak with you. I believe that it is concerning your arm, mein herr."

"Alright. Do you know where he's gone?"

"I believe Gnarl is inspecting the prisoners as we speak, Sire."

"Thanks."

His breakfast was simple; porridge and a selection of fruit from the conquered villages. It would keep him full until his next meal. That was all that mattered to him.

With his stomach filled, Kyros began the descent to the dungeons. There were plans in the works for a better system of transport. The minions were going to carve out runic clusters that should act as miniature Tower-gates. However, not a single one of them had the experience nor knowledge required to design such a scheme.

When Kyros saw him, Gnarl was banging his staff against the metal bars that held a quartet of terrified Imperials. Their bronzed skin gently shone in the dim lighting of the complex. Gnarl uttered abuses at them, taking pleasure in the treatment of them now that they posed no threat to him.

"Gnarl." The minion looked over from the cage, bowing his head in reverence.

"My lord. It is good to see you up after taking such an injury."

"It hurts like a piece of shit though." Kyros had tried his best to ignore the constant pain that emanated from his lost arm. It wasn't hard, he had trained his resistance, and his magic subconsciously rushed to lessen any pain. Even the new sensation of a phantom limb, which was far more noticeable today than the day prior caused him little trouble.

Gnarl ignored his previous statement. "I may know a way to regain that limb, Sire. It, however, will require the liberal usage of many of your new captives."

There was no room to doubt what Gnarl meant by use. The men in the closest cage, able to easily overhear their conversation seemed to understand that as well. Their eyes collectively shone in terror, knowing that the hunched demon would choose them as the first to be utilized in his scheme.

"However, it will require some . . . additional catalysts. If you do not wish to venture out of your territory, I believe that the blood of sandworms features great regenerative properties. Although, they are extremely dangerous, my lord. Their scales deflect blade and spell alike. Alternatively, herbs with near-mythical properties are said to grow near certain bodies of water throughout the wastes.

Kyros snorted, glancing at his left arm. "Guess I'll be looking for herbs then."

"Very good, Sire. Say the word and I shall have the minions ready to venture out with you."

"No, don't worry." Kyros raised his hand to halt the minion. "I'll take the other people here. Leave the minions to processing everything."

Gnarl seemed confused and slightly worried. "As you command, Master."