“KILL THEM ALL!” the madman raved as he knelt in the dirt, clutching the bloody stump of his shoulder. Willem struggled to shake the confusion and shock out of his mind, struggled to move his stiffened limbs.

It was all happening too quickly, all of the madness around him leaving like a lone raindrop in a storm. The Mace army hastened to ready themselves for combat, taking to their shields and swords to a drilled practice dulled only by weariness and apathy. In contrast, their legions slammed together with a brutal discipline, shields rattling over one another in the front ranks, javelins beating the dirt in the back.

These men came from all manner of House and history, Willem knew. He counted House Tyne to be the greatest of their number, but there were legionaries from Houses Aless and Muran. They had won these men like chattel, exchanged them as if they were mere mercenaries. Yet they were not soldiers of fortune—not at heart. They were farmer’s sons and young husbands, drafted to fight for some local lord in a mad scramble over the throne. They were confused, uncertain, lost. This battle—the first battle—would be the most important. It would show them that past ties no longer mattered, that they were one legion now.

Yet this first battle also came with great risk, should they gain notions of rebellion. Conscripted hands all too soon turned their ire on their leaders, Willem knew. The only reason half of them had yet to desert was because of orders, discipline, and fear. There would be no riper chance for their painstakingly obtained army to suddenly flee, or perhaps to even turn those blades on them.

And so Willem felt the tension that crackled in the air. Soldiers flickered their eyes, not only focusing their attentions on the Mace legion, but also at their fellow legionaries. They eyed their Third Swords; they scanned the demons. Their eyes darted briefly over the plains to the west, wondering if they could but flee in an instant. All it would take was that first man to seize the opportunity, and their morale would shatter like a broken dam.

“Fear… ” Kha whispered softly into his ear. “Give them fear… before they grow too confident…”

Willem heard the air around the demon suddenly begin to crackle and writhe, filling with a wild energy that made him shiver in expectation. Coiling ribbons of purple mahji danced in the air, their movements changing suddenly from flowing to erratic. Their motion grew wilder, the heat in the air building until finally there was an ear-splitting crack that echoed through the plains. Willem started in sheer reflex, his heart leaping in his chest as a pillar of light crashed down from the clear, cloudless sky, striking Kha with coursing power before surging into the ground.

Lightning, some primal part of his mind noted, cowering in instinctual fear. The air still burned of sulfur, tinged with that latent energy that still danced. Yet another though jolted him out of his inaction—give them fear.

Almost without giving it conscious thought, he reached inside himself for the threads of mahji nestled within. His shock seemed to make the task easier, giving him a mindlessness not unlike a trance. Those burning strands within him gently flowed through his veins, streaming up through his arms and out of his fingertips until they whipped like ribbons in the wind.

Yet as his mahji glowed and burned away in the air, the wind too began to grow in speed. Faster and faster, the gale continued to grow until it became something torrential that whipped through the air like a thousand blades. Soldiers in all legions slammed down their shields, desperately trying to hold onto something as the grass and dirt started to get torn up by the wind.

And at the center of that storm stood Willem and Kha, their demonic bodies surrounded by crackling purple bolts of mahji, their very presences radiating power. Fear. Terror. That would drive thoughts of mutiny aside. Power was always the swiftest way to win over men's hearts.

Not enough, Willem thought desperately as he felt the burning fatigue begin to gnaw away at him. This was no concentrated wind, trying to hold up a pebble. This was a massive storm, wild and primal in its own right, and it threatened to run away from him if he did not hold it in check. More. I need more.

Even more of the mahji flowed out of him now, a grand display of arcane power that tinged the air with the stench of sulfur as it began to burn. Swirling air began to shimmer, at first only the few inches above the ground, but then more and more. Steam curled off the grass, the air now unbearably hot even in spite of the speeding winds.

Willem watched as their armor began to glow faintly from the heat, the men turning pink as they were nearly cooked alive in their plate. They began to claw furiously at their straps, desperately trying to shed their armor before their flesh was seared by the steel. Their faces were slick with sweat, their expressions nearly hidden underneath their helmets. Yet there was an unmistakable emotion in their eyes, glinting through that shimmering, heated air.

Fear.

Willem turned, gasping for breathe as he let the mahji go. It trickled out of him like a cut cord, loosely crackling and burning away. The winds died away with it, the unnatural heat melting as well. Yet even as his magic faded away, those looks of fear did not fade. Be it Mace’s army or even their own legions, it was the same. Those soldiers all stared at him with eyes of terror, shivering like rabbits in the gaze of a wolf.

Was this—was this how I had looked, begging on those streets so long ago? Did I also wear those eyes? That terror made him tremble—tremble at how far he had come, and tremble at this new power that he held in his hands. He clenched his fists slowly, hearing the last of the mahji fizzle and crackle out of existence. The air bubbled and shimmered with latent heat, the skies storming and reeking of sulfur. No, it is not me that they are afraid of. It’s the magic. I’m still just a small boy, behind all this armor. Beneath this body, beneath this magic. I’m still weak.

If only he was not so weak, then he would not have found it so difficult to meet those terrified gazes. If only he was not so weak, then he would not have trembled under the weight of that fear, that fear that felt like a mountain upon his shoulders.

“Kneel.” someone growled out. Willem blinked, his mouth agape as he struggled to drag in a breath. Joy loomed still over that now-indisposed king, his hands spread wide, purple mahji crackling from his claws as well. The enemy legion could not had made decision any quicker upon the sight of magic. One channeler for a battle, two for a castle, and three for a war—that was the long held rule of thumb. Little do they know, but the three of us are here for a war.

The ground rumbled and shook as a thousand men suddenly kneeled, their shields slamming into the ground, their blades buried in the dirt. Clenched fists beat against their chests, over and over in a percussive thunder that echoed off the rocks and bluffs. “Hail!” they shouted, a thousand voices rasping as one. “Hail!” they chanted, almost enough to drown out a single voice of dissonance.

Almost.

“YOU BASTARDS!” the poor, kneeling king shouted, his face now purple and his veins bulging. Spittle flew as he spoke, slashing his hand through the air at his own legion. “Is this how you treat your king? Die then! DIE!” His eyes were wild with pain and fury, his posture that of a desperate, cornered animal. His gaze flickered quickly to the demons before settling on Joy. Something flickered through those eyes, something buried deep that even Willem could not make out. Perhaps it was contempt. Perhaps it was humiliation. Perhaps it was merely rage. Yet it drove the man to madness, and King Mace, first of his name, lunged at the demon with a guttural scream. His mouth was open, his teeth bared. His eyes were wild, bestial, and in that moment the king no longer looked like a man. He looked like an animal.

And he was met as an animal should be.

There was a sickening crunch as black claws punched through his stomach, the blow enough to stop the lunge yet not enough to stop the beast. “DIE!” the creature shouted, clawing desperately at Joy as if those clawless fingers could break through hide. “DIE!” the poor thing shrieked, before another hand buried its talons into his throat. Blood spurted out of that gaping hole, and yet still the beast struggled. It bit down onto the arm that held it, teeth clinging madly to the fur and scales. It still clung even as that hand struck once more, punching through the temple and finally snuffing out the light in that wild animal’s eyes.

Still those dying muscles clung, and Joy struggled to pry of the king’s head. Blood and tears covered its face, flecked with specks of brain. The demon gave a grunt as it twisted and tore, finally ripping off the man’s head to bear it aloft as a trophy. Once more did the armies chant. Once more did they crown a king.

And once more did Willem see their eyes swallowed by fear.