There is always something that strikes at the back of a man's mind when he brushes against the divine, like a coldness, an itch,or a whisper.As if the gods were dangling a thread just close enough to see its glimmer, but always too far to grasp. Matters away from the reach of both arms and mind.
Blake had been promised a crown in exchange for burning an empire to ash.
A simple bargain, in his mind. He had imagined he would receive it the moment the deed was done, perhaps the surviving troops, drunk on victory, would hoist him upon their shoulders and proclaim him king;or perhaps the Red God, in some blazing spectacle of fire and wrath, would descend and place the circlet upon his brow.
Reality, as always, had other ideas.
When Cain had explained his plan to him, Blake had been… stunned.This?This was how he was to grasp the prize?
