Every man, more or less, carries the dream of battle.To stride into the fray, carve down foes on every side, and rise crowned in glory, dispatching of dozens alone with his own arms as swords.
Even Cain had dreamt it.
But for him, it had always been the dream of a worm longing to sprout wings, of a rat envying the eagle, of something born to crawl imagining the sky and how it felt to fly . And like the worm struck by the bird, reality had come down fast and hard.
His back hit stone. His breath fled his lungs in a single wretched wheeze. The world spun. And in that dizzy instant, Cain understood the truth he had known all along but never dared name.
He was not built for that shit, any of it.
And the Azanian above him meant to prove it.
