The hollow king and his war horse... The battle had ended. The field lay silent, a slaughterhouse under ashen skies. There stood the hollow king, armor crusted gold with blood that was not his own, crown askew, eyes two vacant pits. Beside him his war horse, flanks heaving smoke, teeth bared, coat matted red. Two demons now, glutted on death, shunned by their own men who whispered that something human had left them both. Demons born of carnage. I am king in name alone; inside there is only wind and borrowed steel. We tore victory from the living and now wear their blood like robes of state. Yet this fury already drains away. The king placed a weary hand on the horse’s neck and spoke, voice calm amid the ruin: Glory is a shadow. Power is a echo in a hollow chest.What remains, then? Only this: that we did what the hour demanded without delusion of permanence. The demon passes. The rational soul, even in a hollow king, can still choose to lay down its rage and walk free.” Thus the two demons hollow King and bloodied beast turned together from the field of death...