It was the sound of boots that first roused Joy from his slumber, early in the morning. He could hear their echoing cadence, a rolling thunder that stamped across the ground. The rest of the camp had been stirred awake as well, from the alarm that suddenly pierced through the haze of dawn. Soldiers scrambled for arms and armor, the tents springing to life with motion. It was not with the haste of instinct, but rather the mindless motions of routine. These soldiers had the response drilled into through ceaseless practice, until their bodies acted even before their minds did. A curious way to engineer instinct, Joy noted through his musings as he struggled to shake off sleep.

Joy bolted to his feet in a sudden lunge, springing out of his resting slouch. He had smelled the army before he saw them, before his eyes had even opened. The metallic stench of rust, the fatty oil, the cloying sweat, he caught it all on the wind even before he had fully awakened. Yet he caught on the wind the stench of disease—and the stench of death that so frequently accompanied it.

He hurried outside, joined by his officers and the fastest-dressing handful of soldiers. Along the way, he caught the flag of white that fluttered so high on the battlements of the Capital, so innocently over the still-rotting heads of the nobility. He could see the opposing legion now as they filed out of the Capital, could see their wave of glimmering swords and spears. They carried their shields on their backs in marching style, the massive lengths of wood and leather nearly two heads higher than where their helmets ended.

And there were fewer of them than he had first imagined—or at least, that he had hoped for. More soldiers meant more fodder for the skal’va when they eventually served him, but could this even qualify as a true legion? Half of them looked far too thin, their armor nearly falling off of their bodies, their faces sunken and gaunt. Near the end of the legion trailed what seemed to be civilians. They too were malnourished to the point of nearly starvation, their eyes dulled with desperation and fear, yet still glinting with that faint spark of hope that always came with change.

More mouths to feed, he thought to himself dimly, even as his own legions were forming up to meet them. Perhaps he would turn those fools loose to the plains, let them starve and fight as they wished. Or perhaps they could be fed to the demons. Those fools never did find an end to their appetite.

The two armies met at the foot of the bluffs, perhaps a hundred paces in front of the Capital. Mors and the other Third Swords of the various legions were already in the front, waiting for Joy as he stalked his way through the soldiers. The men—his men—eyed him with a mixture of awe and fear. Most had only seen him as a distant figure, yet for those that were now close enough to smell his breath, his overpowering aura and warmonger’s lust nearly had them trembling with terror. There were a few demons scattered amongst the ranks as well, mostly pups that were impatient and curious. The soldiers seem to view the pups with the delicate care one might to a krull suckling: a beast no taller than the knee and yet born with a strong enough kick to send a grown man flying four paces.

As he made his way to the front, the crowd parted, leaving him face to face with a rather clean-shaven legionary—a Third Sword, from the various adornments on his armor. Curious, Joy could not help but note, that this man is so well fed while half of his army starves.

“And you are?” the demon snarled out, his voice intentionally low pitched and intimidating. The tactic worked; a glimmer of fear sparked in the man’s blue eyes. He took an involuntary step back, as did many of the others near him. Yet he caught himself, apparently angry with this weakness, and attempted to cover it up with bluster and fire.

“Fucking beast.” the man spat out, as if apparently oblivious to precarious danger that his own men were in. “I am King Hyron Kell, crowned first of my name at the Capital, last surviving Third Sword to the legions of House Mace.” He said this with an imperious pride, looking for all the world as if the legions of House Mace were not merely a quarter of Joy’s forces gathered here outside the Capital.

“Kell?” Mors asked in surprise. “So it was truly Lord Mace’s head that hung above the crenelations last morning?”

Hyron Kell answered this, as he did everything, with yet another sneer. “Lord Mace,” he declared sarcastically, “was a fool who gorged himself on half our stores while the legions starved. He and his foolish men got all that came to them.”

Ah, so they were fighting amongst themselves. “They why is it that you come now?” Joy growled, getting back to the task at hand. “Your surrender?” He never was much good at politics, at all this incessant word-spinning that humans prided themselves upon. It gave him half a headache just listening to this pitiful man’s words; he had half a man just to rip out his throat.

“Surrender? No.” Hyron replied tersely, and the air suddenly electrified with an abrupt tension. Soldiers in both armies suddenly shuffled where they stood, readjusting their armor and reaching for the comfort of their blades. “We merely ask for passage to the north. I know not what quarrel you had with Lord Mace, but it is none of our concern. We want nothing more than to be done with you all.”

Joy nearly laughed in reply, his lips peeling back to reveal pointed canines. “And what makes you think I seek no quarrel with you?”

Hyron walked closer, thrusting out his chest as if it would scare the demon that loomed over him. “Now see here, Mace men fight with ten times the strength of any ordinary soldier!” The men behind him gave a ragged cheer at that, in a motion that seemed more drilled muscle memory than true spirit. It would have almost been an impressive feat, had not some of them been so weak that they were staggering in their armor.

“You won’t kill us without a fight, you filthy swine.” Hyron continued, oblivious to the lackluster state of his men. Is the man truly a fool? Joy found himself astounded by this apparent bluster—how did this man come by the wits to lead an army, or were his wits merely borrowed and then returned? Or is it that he knows bravado is his only way out? Nevertheless, Joy greeted both of these options in the same way. With a laugh.

It was a harsh, guttural thing that started as a fire from the stomach. And yet he found his officers joining him, the wave of laughter spreading through his army. Hyron’s face flushed a deep red from the humiliation, his own legion growing restless in uncertain response. Joy waited for the laughter to die down before continuing.

“Truly you have lost your mind if you think that you can do more than weep under my forces.” There was an anger that glittered in Hyron’s eyes at that, and then Joy had his answer. No, this man is not pretending—at least, not wholly. Crowning him king was a mistake; the power has turned him mad.

“You crow-cursed animals just don’t know proper respect.” he seethed, veins bulging with rage. “You are speaking to a king! Fucking kneel, beast! KNEEL!” the man yelled, his expression livid. Behind him, his men all rattled into fighting formation, drawing swords and reaching for shields. There was a resigned determination to their faces, as if this was what they had expected all along. Joy met the madman’s ravings with the only to respond to words: action.

Stepping forward in a swift motion, his legs suddenly exploded with power. These men had never seen a demon before, had never expected the raw power in a body fashioned from the earth. Hyron was caught completely off guard by the motion, and barely had time to blink in surprise before Joy was close enough to nip his throat.

The demon reached out with clawed hands, each finger tipped with a curved talon large enough to be mistaken for a knife. They latched onto the foolish man’s shoulder, punching through the metal with a mere show of force and digging into the soft muscle underneath. He tore through the tendons and fibers, even feeling his claws grating against the bone in that swift moment, before the man could even blink out tears in pain.

And then, without warning, Joy tore the arm out of its socket.

It came with a popping resistance, tender ligaments struggling to resist futilely. He twisted as he pulled, feeling the muscle tear under pressure and tension until it finally gave out. And he watched as that ragged stump pumped out an unending flow of scarlet blood, puddling swiftly on the ground underneath the still-stunned king.

Joy threw the twitching arm at the man’s feet, watching as the king suddenly shrieked with pain. He clutched at the bloody stump, tears streaming down his blood-speckled face as he fell to his knees. Then, forcing words through ragged breaths, he shouted to his troops.

“KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!”