For several nights, King Xerxez had been lost in a haze of drunken revelry. But the chilling words of Matar, "You drove the Ossibians from Wendlock, and blood spilled on the ground. Now, you will pay for what you did," pierced through his stupor. A cold dread settled upon him, and his brow furrowed; the ominous thought of the Ossibuz plotting something truly sinister began to take root.
His premonition was grimly confirmed. That very afternoon, as twilight embraced the land, a bloodied farmer stumbled into the Thallerion border. The guards watched, aghast, as the wounded woman wept, a deep gash on her arm relentlessly spilling her lifeblood.
"Help, please help me!" she cried, collapsing in her desperate haste. "I'm wounded!" Her voice, almost hoarse from the agonizing pain, hinted at the profound weakness in her trembling body, as if her arm were being sawed off.
