The camp was scattered across the plain like a temporary city, thrown together by a few thousand men who knew exactly what they were doing but had zero interest in lining up for anyone.

  Tents everywhere, set up wherever there was space.

  Big pavilions for the officers, long tents for the squads, little triangle shelters for whoever slept wherever they crashed.

  Fires burning here and there, pots simmering without hurry.

  Ropes stretched tight, poles stuck into the ground crooked, armor tossed on the dirt just to get it off someone's back.

  People talking, people eating, people swearing.

  Routine.

  No tension.

  In the distance, the city walls. A gray block on the horizon. Far enough away to look fake.

  Two siege towers, half-assembled, stood there like a project left for later. Carpenters worked around them without rush, with that "we're definitely not leaving today" kind of calm.

  In the middle of all that slow-moving life, the only truly motionless thing was Micheal.

  Sitting in front of a tent bigger than the others, chair tilted back, long legs crossed and planted on the table.

  Bare-chested.

  A tiny booklet in one hand, flipping through it lazily. The other resting near a beer, ready to grab it whenever he felt like it.

  As in: he'd become the kind of gorgeous bastard that makes you wonder what the hell happened to him in the meantime.

  He was over six-foot-three, and you could see all of it.

  Long legs, solid torso, shoulders wide enough to make any doorway look narrow.

  Muscular, but just the right amount: a full chest, sharp pecs, abs carved like someone had gone at him with a chisel.

  No meathead swelling, no overblown bulk.

  Just that marble-cut build—compact, defined—that gives you the feeling every centimeter is exactly where it should be.

  His skin, sun-warmed, sat tight and clean over his body without a single useless detail.

  The only mark was a thin scar along his left rib, a pale line that didn't ruin a thing—if anything, it looked like the finishing touch, the detail that completes the picture instead of breaking it.

  ---

  The soldier arrived without making much noise, walking with that brisk gait of someone who doesn't want to disturb but knows he needs to be noticed.

  He was dressed like a regular grunt: a mud-colored padded gambeson, worn at the seams; a belt pulled too tight with a common soldier's sword hanging from it—nothing elegant, just practical; a short cloak thrown over one shoulder, stained with dust and smoke.

  His boots were dirty up to the ankles, and the metal on his left bracer was scratched up like he'd used it to shove half the damn plain out of his way.

  He stopped a couple of steps from Micheal and cleared his throat.

  "Commander... a messenger has arrived. From the city."

  Micheal lifted his eyes from the booklet just a little.

  One corner of his mouth curled into that slow, sardonic smile—one of those smiles from someone who enjoys things a bit more than he should.

  "Oh," he said. "I didn't expect she'd want to talk to me."

  A flick of two fingers.

  "Bring him here."

  The soldier nodded and disappeared between the tents.

  A few moments later, the messenger appeared.

  He wasn't wearing armor: he had on a long, heavy wool cloak, ash-colored, fastened at the chest with a metal brooch shaped like a spear.

  Underneath, a light gray tunic, clean in a way no field soldier could ever manage.

  Tall boots, polished—too polished.

  His hands were covered by thin black gloves that clashed with the rest of his outfit.

  He carried himself straight, almost rigid, the kind of posture that doesn't come from military life but from diplomatic training: perfect back, squared shoulders, each step measured like someone had timed his walking since childhood.

  "Don't say a word," Mike ordered. "Give me what you're here for and wait right here, in front of me."

  Inside the message of the Queen:

  "You piece of shit, I knew you'd come back. Listen carefully, you son of a bitch: I know damn well the only thing you want is to fuck me, so there's no need to destroy the city, to slaughter civilians left and right with that animal brutality of yours that everyone here knows all too well. I'm ready to let you fuck me however you want. Use me, rape me, do whatever the hell you want with me, but leave my people alone, you bastard."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Micheal finished reading and lifted his gaze from the parchment, his mouth slowly opening into a smile.

  Then he burst out laughing.

  "My people," he thought, and laughed heartily—a laugh that barely concealed sadistic amusement.

  The messenger stiffened. So did the soldier who'd stayed there to keep him from running.

  "This whore's gotten a little too into her role as the wooden-pussy queen!"

  He yelled at a soldier passing nearby:

  "Hey! Get me something to write with!"

  Then he fixed the messenger with a wide, proud, wicked smile—the kind of smile that makes you understand exactly how fucked you are, and how much he's enjoying the moment.

  ---

  The soldier came back with paper, ink, and a wooden board that still smelled of fresh resin.

  Micheal settled better in his chair, placed the sheet on the table in front of him, dipped the pen in the ink, and started writing.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  Like he was composing a fucking sonnet.

  The messenger stood there, stiff as a pole, with the guard soldier behind him who occasionally scratched his thigh because he clearly had something bothering him but couldn't afford to move too much.

  Minutes passed.

  Many.

  At one point the messenger shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and Micheal raised his eyes just to look at him—didn't say anything, but the guy went straight as a spindle again.

  Finally, Micheal set down the pen, blew on the sheet to dry the ink, and folded it with exaggerated care.

  Inside the message:

  "So you've finally admitted how much you want me. But no, I'm not accepting. Not because the idea of possessing you doesn't appeal to me—quite the opposite—but because it would be too easy. Too boring. I don't want prey that offers itself—I want to hunt it. I want to see you resist, fight, still hope you can stop me. I want to earn every inch of your city, every shred of your dignity, every single moan when you break. So get ready. Gather your forces, pray to your gods, do everything you think might save you. Because when I get into that city—and I will—I want you to know you gave everything. And I want you to understand it wasn't enough. This time you won't stop me. This time I'll take everything I want, the way I want it, and you'll watch me do it."

  Micheal turned to the guard soldier.

  "Go get me one of my messengers. Any one will do."

  The soldier nodded and walked off between the tents.

  Micheal stayed there, chair still tilted back, his folded sheet resting on the table, and took a moment to get a good look at the city messenger's face.

  The guy was stiff as a board.

  But now there was something different.

  He was sweating.

  Not much, but enough.

  Eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw clenched, hands empty at his sides.

  Surprised.

  Scared.

  A nice combination.

  Micheal let the chair fall back on all four legs, stood up slowly, and walked around the messenger until he reached his back.

  He placed his hands on his shoulders.

  Started massaging them.

  Slow.

  With the confidence of someone who knows the other won't move an inch.

  The messenger stiffened even more—if possible.

  "You're wondering why I'm sending one of my messengers and not you, right?"

  Silence.

  Micheal kept massaging.

  Calm.

  "See, a commander has many responsibilities. And responsibilities are stressful. So I always delegate all the work to others. In the end, it's the level of divine power of the various factions that makes the difference when you're at war. The rest is a delicate and incredibly boring balance of personal interests."

  Pause.

  Hands still resting on the guy's shoulders.

  "Bullshit that rulers make up because they don't have a thirst for conquest and don't want to be caught unprepared when someone who does might aim for them."

  Another pause.

  "Anyway, I have a lot of free time."

  He moved closer to the messenger's ear.

  Lowered his voice—a high-pitched whisper, almost childlike, like in B-movie horror films.

  "I need toys."

  Pause.

  "And here comes one."

  The messenger swallowed.

  Hard.

  Micheal grabbed him by the arm.

  Hard.

  And dragged him through the camp.

  The messenger stumbled immediately, tried to stay on his feet, but Micheal was walking too fast to give him time to recover.

  He hauled him like a sack.

  The soldiers turned.

  Some burst out laughing.

  Others just snickered, elbowing each other, tossing out comments just to enjoy the show.

  "Hey, handsome! Where you going in such a hurry?"

  "Bring us back a souvenir!"

  "What a fucking face on him!"

  Even some of the whores Micheal had circulating through the camp stopped to watch. One of them, a blonde with her hair tied in a dirty ponytail, laughed so hard she had to lean against a tent pole to keep from falling.

  "Poor darling," said another, in a fake sympathetic tone. "Maybe you should've stayed home."

  The messenger didn't answer.

  Couldn't.

  He was crying.

  Micheal kept walking, crossing the camp like he was walking a disobedient dog.

  They passed the kitchens, the weapon depots, a group of officers drinking while sitting on wooden crates.

  One of them raised his cup in an ironic toast.

  Micheal smiled but didn't stop.

  They reached the living area, the one with the bigger, more orderly tents, where the higher-ranking officers slept and where Micheal had stationed his personal attendant.

  "Arthemud!" he shouted, without stopping.

  From the nearest tent emerged a thin man, short-cropped black hair, sharp face, the look of someone used to receiving orders and executing them without questions.

  "Commander."

  "Get me binoculars and follow me."

  Arthemud disappeared into the tent and reappeared seconds later with leather and brass binoculars hanging from a strap.

  He started walking behind them without a word.

  Micheal kept dragging the messenger.

  The guy was openly sobbing now, tears streaming down his cheeks, breath broken, body shaken by tremors he couldn't control.

  Micheal glanced at him and laughed.

  "Look at him cry? HAHAHA, fuck, he can't do anything. He's completely at our mercy. Isn't that crazy?"

  He turned to Arthemud, who was walking behind with the expression of someone who'd seen it all.

  "And he came of his own free will! I mean, if you can't handle the risks of the job, why didn't you find yourself another line of work, you microcephalic fuck?"

  The messenger kept crying.

  Micheal kept laughing.

  They passed the last row of tents, leaving behind the sounds of the camp, the voices, the laughter, the crackling of fires.

  Ahead of them stretched an empty expanse.

  Dry earth.

  A few scattered stones here and there.

  Nothing else.

  Micheal stopped, let go of the messenger's arm, and the man immediately collapsed to his knees, hands trembling, breath labored.

  Micheal turned and stepped behind him.

  Placed a hand on his back.

  The earth beneath them began to move.

  A light tremor, then stronger.

  The ground lifted.

  Slowly.

  Like something underneath was pushing upward.

  A mound formed, small at first, then bigger and bigger, until it became a solid, compact rise, almost three meters high.

  The messenger tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't support him.

  He fell forward again.

  Micheal ignored him.

  Concentrated.

  On the messenger's lower back, something began to form.

  Mud.

  Dark, dense, emerging from nowhere, sliding over his back like it was growing from his skin.

  It solidified into an elastic band, wide as an arm, that wrapped tight around his waist.

  Then the band began to stretch.

  Slow.

  Steady.

  It extended to the sides, meters and meters of compressed mud stretching through the air like it was alive.

  The two ends bifurcated, splitting into two distinct strands.

  In front of them, from the ground, two poles emerged.

  Tall.

  Straight.

  Planted in the soil with unnatural solidity.

  The ends of the band wrapped around the poles, fixing with a grip that wouldn't yield for anything in the world.

  A slingshot.

  Enormous.

  Perfect.

  Micheal smiled.

  He approached the messenger, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pulled him back.

  The elastic mud stretched.

  More.

  Even more.

  The messenger screamed, a strangled, desperate cry, hands trying to grab onto something, anything.

  Micheal kept pulling.

  His body was dragged backward, downward, the band stretching more and more, taut to the limit, trembling from the accumulated tension.

  The kinetic energy building up was monstrous.

  Every additional centimeter was a contained explosion.

  Arthemud watched from a few meters away, binoculars still hanging from his shoulder, arms crossed.

  Micheal pulled again.

  And again.

  Until he felt it was enough.

  He stopped.

  The messenger was bent almost ninety degrees, body completely pulled back, the band taut like a bowstring ready to release.

  Micheal turned to Arthemud.

  "Binoculars."

  Arthemud threw them.

  Micheal caught them mid-air with one hand.

  Then let go of the messenger.

  The mud snapped.

  A piercing whistle tore through the air.

  The messenger's body was catapulted forward with unimaginable violence, a human projectile fired toward the city walls.

  He flew.

  Fast.

  Too fast to follow with the naked eye.

  Micheal brought the binoculars to his eyes.

  Followed the trajectory.

  The messenger crossed the air like an arrow, arms and legs flailing uselessly, mouth open in a scream no one would ever hear.

  Then he hit.

  The city walls.

  Gray stone.

  Solid.

  Relentless.

  The messenger's body crashed against it with an impact Micheal could see perfectly through the lenses.

  It opened up.

  Literally.

  Like a mosquito crushed with a powerful slap against a steel wall.

  An explosion of red.

  Pieces.

  Shreds.

  Nothing that still resembled a human being.

  Just a wet stain that slowly slid down the stone.

  Micheal lowered the binoculars.

  Smiled.

  "I've always been pretty good at Angry Birds," he said. "But fuck, I could've done better with that one."

  He laughed.

  Hard.