Battle-weary writer Amir Hafizi scans the lifeless battlefield behind him.
In front, lies an army.
No companions, no fellowships. They've all left or dead.
Only angels and demons stay with him. And old ghosts of guilt and regrets.
He swallows them all. Takes a deep breath, inhaling the rust smell of blood and stench of carrion.
His hand wraps around the hilt of his bastard sword. His eyes fixed on the line of the army in front of him.
With a shout, he surges forward. Trampling on the bones and bodies of fallen foes and comrades.
Cold metal strikes sparks as it hits the fallen's armours.
The drums are close. And blood rushes between his ears.