Ozymandias, the Warrior King of Vale, sat in a tent, dreading the coming battle. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind outside the tent, blowing sand around the makeshift camp, getting everywhere and on everyone. He envisioned the lonely and level sands stretching far away into the horizon, where his great enemy laid in wait.
He had made the journey from Vale quietly, hoping to surprise the Mistralian and Mantlian forces on their way to rout Vacuo. His most trusted scouts had reported the army was nearing his location.
He didn't dread the battle itself; he knew his own power. Two relics, his own magic, and maidens made for a formidable force. Centuries of experience ruling, and fighting made him nearly unstoppable with those tools. No, that was not the source of his fear. It was the aftermath.
He knew, intellectually, that the leaders of the Mistral and Mantle Coalition would bow before him, and the War Chief of Vacuo, who had been elected by the largest nomadic tribes inhabiting this desert, would likely follow. Emotionally, he hoped with all his heart that they would not.
This was what they had always wanted, all those centuries ago, and it was nearly within his grasp. He could become King of Kings and rule over all of mankind. That terrified him. He had walked away from that life, the life of a conqueror and it cost him. It cost him so much. How had he ended up in this situation, nearly a millennia later?
His crown, the Relic of Choice, felt heavy on his brow, as it usually did. He didn't dare to use it now if just to confirm his worst fears. Once, long ago, he would have fallen into that sweet, poisonous embrace. He knew better now, for to know the future is to be destined to repeat it. Or at least he thought he did. What did it say about him that he chose it for his crown?
A holler sounded from nearby and the camp exploded into action around him. Shouts, the shuffling of equipment, and men quickly donning armor and sharpening blades filled the air. He heard laughs of nervousness, cries of fear, oaths of vengeance, and promises to loved ones echoing around him. His tent became the eye of the storm that would grow into a raging tempest.
The tempest of War. Oh, how he hated it with all his hearts and souls. Yet, mankind never learned. Even with the Grimm at their backs, slowly consuming their territory. They never learned. He hung his head in shame. He was a part of this mess; he couldn't absolve himself of his sins in this. He had tried with all his might to avoid this outcome, yet here he sat, readying for death.
He was sure Salem appreciated the irony. The Warrior King afraid of war. But what else could he do? He knew not of how to stop the flames of hatred in humanity's heart.
He heard footsteps approaching and he knew his time was up. He would do what he had to for the sake of mankind. Even if it meant he was forced to treat them like children. He would not let Salem get her sweet victory. Not yet at least.
He glanced down at the Relic of Destruction resting in his lap and his cane leaning near the bedroll. They were a large part of his power, truth be told. His magic was not the same as it used to be. He wondered where he would be if he didn't have such tools at his disposal. What kind of King would he be? Would he be one at all?
An idea struck him then. A radical, absolutely insane idea. He thought it over, as meticulously as he could in the short time left to him. There was a chance it could work, a chance that he could have that long-standing peace he had always dreamed of. How could he criticize humanity when he himself clung to the power structures of old he helped create?
How had he been so blind, so clueless to the path before him?
It would be a gamble, a slim chance indeed. Humanity might reject him once again, and see him as weak and afraid. A chance they wouldn't give up their comforts of power and status. That they would return to the comfort of old divisions and hatreds that they were familiar with, instead of striking out into the unknown.
His tent flap opened, revealing his General in full plate, standing at attention. "Your Grace. Our scouts have reported enemy forces cresting the dunes to the east. They will be upon us within the hour. Your orders?"
He turned his gaze down to the Relic of Destruction and closed his eyes in grief. He knew what must be done for his plan to work. Peace could only come after war and destruction. He hoped it was a long, long peace.
Because he knew the destruction would be great and terrible.
"Gather the troops. Send for my Warrior Maidens. We will join you shortly."
The General gave him a startled look. " 'We' your Grace?"
Ozymandias, The Warrior King of Vale, stood up. "Of course, old friend. This will be the final battle. I'll make sure of it."
May the Gods forgive me for what I must do.
The Warrior King, The Last King of Vale, marched to end the war that had consumed humanity. In its place, he hoped he could usher in something greater. A new era for the remnant of the world he was trying to save.
I pray that someday, you will understand what I did here. Why it had to be done.
I carry on, for one purpose, and one purpose only.
For Humanity.
