I don’t give a damn what Death and Conquest say: this weird feeling isn’t normal. Every muscle in me twitches, and the branded seal on my neck keeps itching like it’s trying to go up in flames – that or tempt me to scratch it off in bloody ribbons. No, nothing about this is right. It’s not so much that something’s wrong, but...tch, there aren’t any words to explain. It’s a feeling. A spark up and down my spine, a twitch in my fingers, a song in my sword.

I pace around my rooms, swinging the blade at anything and everything. Punching bags spill their beans to the floor, heavy metal weight plates crash where they land. Even the large mirror that makes up the entirety of the back wall of my personal fighting gym shatters upon contact. I lash out, I break, I destroy. That’s all I’m good for, right? They all look down on me -- even Conquest, my right-hand horseman, my partner in bloodshed. Their crown, my blade...it gives me chills just thinking about it.

“Read the records,” Death always says. Yeah, sure, and read the stories of all the great Wars before me. How they had all the fun and all the glory, while I languish here in small skirmishes and frustration. But there was that feeling...a strange shudder down my neck, a pricking at the seal branded where neck meets shoulders and becomes the back.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

With a final growl of frustration, I jump up onto the climbing wall on my left and pull myself up until I reach the top perch high near the ceiling -- a makeshift bird’s-eye view of the massive space. It’s wide and open: plenty of space for me to fight and play. Plenty of space to realize that I’m very, very alone. I hook my foot under the metal bar at the edge of this tactical nest and let my body swing. There, I dangle, and I think. Death was lying -- she had to be.

If not...I don't even want to consider what kind of thing could possibly leave Death unsure. No one hides from Death. No one, no thing. Even the victims of the demonic or divine -- Death comes in the end. But we’re all on edge now, ready and waiting.

Waiting...but for what?

I cry out: I hate waiting. I was not made for waiting. I swing, I land, I take off. My mount awaits me there on the ground, the great steed snorting fire and agitated. I grin, “Me too.” Itching for a fight, ready for answers.

Zoom!

We rage. We’re off. War’s a comin’, boys and girls, ready or not.