A Threat

The next morning Cyrus faced the army at the center of the battle, holding up Xeik’s head for everybody to see. The atmosphere glowed expectantly in combination with the sickly stench of burnt meat and a lingering smell of gunpowder that always hung in the air. The warm glow of the sun the next morning generated shadows stretching over the field over the debris of the battle that had happened the day before. Armor, swords, and shields were demolished; dead bodies of warriors were scattered around. The sky above was dark, grey, and heavy with the smoke of ashes and the wind carried the weak, dull moaning of people who were lost in the fires.

With a look of desolation and resolve, Cyrus looked at the aftermath of the tragedy. His face was now smeared with dust and perspiration, his lips tightened into a narrow grim line as he spoke to the remaining soldiers of the South pack. ‘Put away your arm,’ he instructed, sharply yet still tired. "This battle is over." His eyes roamed to and fro o