As the ashes of the scorched city and its citizens crunched beneath the mercenary’s leaden boots, he could not help but mull over the circumstances that led him to his present state; victorious, yet broken.
The fall of an empire was his only command. Invade. Kill. Burn. Destroy.
Mindless but tactful decimation was his only priority—is his only priority—yet why does he feel so lost?
He has done this countless times. Brought about the end of many nations, many lives. He was taught and trained to abandon his humanity. It was inefficient. It was weakening. It was unnecessary.
Those who falter have no place here, no place being alive. So why is he still alive?
He breached the capital’s walls, slaughtered their people, burned every building, and destroyed the last embers of hope.
He has done his part, but he feels a lingering dread. Something must be amiss. He must have left a building unburned, left someone alive, allowed hope to creep through. That can be the only reason for his misery, his desolation.
He was raised as a machine, a tool for the king, so he will finish what must be done.
He is heartless. He is ruthless. He is no longer human.
Still, why does he feel so broken?
Corner of Words 