On an afternoon hotter than any before, I stood over a heap of burning corpses with the chaos of battle surrounding me.
Smoke filled the air — the stench of flesh and the screams of the dying followed.
For any sane man, this would be hell on earth. For a man like me, it was business as usual. Today, however, it was personal.
From the distance, a voice screamed: "Victor Zefar! You Devil. I'll kill..."
It was cut off by a blade, the steel ripping through his throat.
I didn't bother to look back. I didn't need to.
I climbed down from the pile of scorched bodies; my black cloak barely kissed the ground as the wind met me.
By the time my foot hit the blood soaked sand, my enemies had been brought to their knees. What force on Earth could do this?
I called them Slayers. They were my army, my sons: my wrath made flesh. We were humanity's peacekeepers, the only armed force in Babel. In the Empire Of Men, we were soldiers.
Why were we here then?
I faced the captives.
"I am Victor Zefar — King of the Slayers. I come to you as judge and executioner."
Three years ago I met the woman you called queen. I helped her — and I knew exactly why you'd sent her.
She'd been sold to me as a slave , sent as an assassin — but the truth set her free.
When she realized I knew her mission, she never begged for herself. No , she only begged for you.
I froze, my rage barely contained.
"She begged me to spare you disgusting savages, traitors, demons in human flesh!
How did you repay her? How did you reward her loyalty? Tell me, people of Oma — how did your queen die?"
Silence fell. They stared at me for a minute but it wasn't a man they were seeing. My glass mask reflected their guilt back to them.
They couldn't stand watching their damned souls anymore They lowered their heads.
My Slayers stood behind each captive, waiting for my command. Their silence dared the heartless killer inside me.
I brought a hand to my neck — a gesture my Slayers knew all too well. Their blades dropped to the necks of the Sons of Oma.
I wasn't here to waste time. I had not started this war to play games or show pity.
I wanted answers first; vengeance came second.
My reply to their silence was an order: make it permanent.
The Slayers waited — a minute, a breath, a moment, just praying one of these fools would choose life.
At least one of these animals would choose talk over death, right?
But steel met flesh. Blood perfumed the air. The dying gasped unable to speak and I, Victor Zefar, had no regrets.
I was the monster they'd made, the devil they'd paid — heaven's answer to the evil done to their queen: my first and only beloved.
A charred rose among the ashes made me pause. A sad smile tugged at my lips. I remembered the sound of her name as I recalled the first day I met her.
Sold to me by foreign traders, she gleamed like a black diamond — too proud to bow.
I offered her marriage. It was an honor in my world. She spat in my face.
"I am Rose Oma, princess of the proudest tropical tribe, and I will not be any tyrant's trophy."
At her words my son Hunter lunged for his blade, ready to kill.
I caught his arm.
Rose's glare burned hotter than any blade.
I should have felt anger. I'd had people killed for less.
Instead, I was intrigued. She was the first in years to speak to me so boldly against me.
I dismissed Hunter and stepped forward, eager for the company of this wild woman.
"Lady Rose," I teased, voice low. "Is that how your queens speak?"
She hesitated, then said, "Lord Zefar — will you slay me yourself? Is your pride too fragile for that boy to see?"
"That boy is my son," I said. "No, I won't kill you."
We walked Babel's gardens in silence until she asked, "Then what do you want? They say you never let things go."
I chuckled. "Rumor is a common plague, any royal would know that."
I expected offense; instead her gaze fell.
"You're right. I judged without knowing you. I was ripped from my home — a princess made a slave. I suppose I owe you thanks, even if all you saw was a pretty face."
I stopped. "I'm sorry you felt that way. You're more than beautiful, Lady Rose. You're the boldest woman I've met."
Her smile was shy, almost sad. "So what now? Do I marry you or become your slave?"
"No," I said softly. "You will do neither. I want you to know me — the real me. Tomorrow may hold hate, tears, or love; for now — do you want vengeance?"
She began to answer — something fierce rising , then she stopped, biting her tongue. Her eyes widened. "You'd do that for a stranger?"
I met her gaze. "The traders call me wicked. Let me prove them right."
She rushed into my arms. "Thank you."
"But, No. All I want is help. Find my people. Can the great Zefar do that?"
I drew back, removed my glass mask, and showed her my face.
For the first time in years, I vowed to a stranger.
"If that's all you want, then it's done."
And I did. I found her tribe and set her free. She almost fled without saying goodbye, afraid I might change my mind.
That day stayed with me above all others. I had found her people, and I planned to escort her to the border.
Her land lay on a distant continent, one I had never bothered to conquer.
That night, standing in my throne room, she confessed why she'd come to Babel . "Zefar, there is something I must tell you."
I tried to joke. "Don't worry — I'll let you have the first word tomorrow. The King of Slayers knows when to listen."
She cut in, desperate. "No, Zefar. This isn't a joke. I'm serious. I have to tell you what brought me to Babel. I must confess why I came for you."