Death above all

Four soldiers moved purposefully from the field, where just days prior a brutal battle had raged, to the camp, each bearing a somber burden—the body of a fallen man. Their steps were laden with the weight of the dead, a burden not only of flesh and armor but of honor and duty. The soldiers' expressions were a tapestry of emotions, ranging from seething anger to a resigned sneer, a silent testament to the turmoil that churned within them.

As they navigated through the camp towards the king, their path seemed to clear, a silent reverence emanating from those they passed. When they reached their destination, they knelt, a gesture of deference to their new sovereign. One among them spoke, his voice steady but tinged with the gravity of the moment. "Your grace, we have brought him," he announced before carefully removing the veil that shrouded the face of the fallen king, revealing the countenance of the usurper they had battled and defeated just three days prior.