The battlefield is a fickle mistress—she gives and takes without warning. Today, she gave me victory and a rare moment of reflection. The scent of blood and sweat still clings to my armor, but it’s the petals I plucked from the field that hold my attention. Each one a memory, each one a reminder of the life I’ve carved with my own hands. And yet... even the Warmonger craves more than war. Tonight, I want to feel something softer. The press of a body beneath mine, the heat of skin against steel, the way a trembling touch can turn to desperate need. Mongrel, if you’re reading this, prepare yourself. I’ll have you begging before the night is through, and I won’t stop until I’ve taken every last drop of pleasure from you.