Field Marshal Sir Reginald Hawke stepped off the steamer in Mogadishu, the scent of British India still clinging to his uniform. His gaze swept over the desolation—smoldering villages, collapsed huts, and piles of bone-white corpses left to rot under the sun. Somalia had become a graveyard, and he knew who’d dug the graves. He made his way to the outpost, heart heavy with command and doubt, his cane tapping a steely rhythm on the stone.

  Inside, soldiers lounged around battered tables. At the head sat Colonel Reginald Tishworth, reviewing blood-stained reports. He looked up as Hawke entered, a cold flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Hawke,” he said softly, standing. “Back from India at last. Did you miss our garden of ash?”

  Hawke’s voice was steady, but fury simmered beneath. “You’ve turned this land into a slaughterhouse, Tishworth. I see smoke from villages you’ve burned—innocents, women, children, dying under your orders. This cannot continue.”

  Tishworth’s smile widened, glinting like a blade. “Ah, Sir Reginald, ever the moralist. You governed with laws; I govern with fear. You returned to find rebels exploiting the gaps in your rules. See where that got us?”

  “I governed to minimize bloodshed,” Hawke shot back, his cane tapping the floor. “Your reign is terror, not order. You were never fit to lead. My posts in India taught me discipline—true discipline.”

  Tishworth crossed the room, looming over the Field Marshal. “Discipline? You’re weak, Hawke. Your precious laws let traitors flourish. I finish what you started.”

  Hawke’s hand twitched toward his holster. “You think you’re untouchable? I’ll have you court-martialed, stripped, and rotting in chains!” He turned to the soldiers, voice rising. “Seize him! That’s an order! He’s a traitor to the Crown!”

  Silence. The soldiers stood frozen, eyes down or blank. Lieutenant Briggs gripped his rifle, knuckles white, but didn’t move. Corporal Dawes swallowed hard, face pale. Hawke’s chest heaved, betrayal sinking in.

  Tishworth leaned in, his whisper chilling, aura swelling like a dark tide. “You see, Reginald, I don’t need their loyalty—I own their fear.” His eyes flared, the room dimming under his menace. “A dead man’s loyalty is useless. Enjoy the patience of despair.”

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  Chaos erupted. Briggs drew his pistol and fired, grazing Tishworth’s shoulder. Four loyalists surged forward, knives and batons flashing. The cramped room exploded into violence—papers scattered, chairs toppled, blood soon to follow.

  Tishworth staggered from the gunshot, pain searing his arm, but roared and lunged. The first attacker swung a baton; Tishworth ducked, taking a glancing blow to his ribs that stole his breath. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted until it snapped, then slammed his head into the table—bone cracked, blood and teeth sprayed. His vision blurred, blood loss biting, but he pressed on.

  The second came with a knife, slashing wildly. Tishworth caught a cut across his forearm, blood dripping fast, and stumbled against a chair. He kicked it into the man’s shins, toppling him, then stomped his knee—cartilage popped, the scream cut short as Tishworth’s fist crushed his nose, blood gushing, cartilage driven into his skull.

  The third and fourth attacked together. Tishworth, panting, took a baton hit to his thigh, pain exploding. He snarled, grabbing a fallen knife, and slashed the baton-wielder’s throat—blood fountained, spraying his face. The fourth stabbed at his chest; Tishworth twisted, the blade grazing his ribs, and drove his knife into the man’s gut, twisting until entrails spilled.

  Briggs fired again, the shot clipping Tishworth’s ear, blood streaming down his neck. Tishworth charged, tackling him into the wall. The pistol skittered away as Tishworth’s fists pounded Briggs’ face—once, twice, until bone caved, teeth scattered, and blood painted the stone red.

  Hawke, old but fierce, seized his chance. He drew a ceremonial dagger and lunged, plunging it into Tishworth’s side. Blood poured, Tishworth’s knees buckling, agony ripping through him. But his eyes flared, aura surging—shadows twisted, a primal force roaring within. He gripped the hilt, tore the blade free with a guttural scream, blood pooling at his feet. “Not enough, old man,” he rasped, voice raw with death.

  Hawke stumbled back, horror dawning. “You’re… a monster.”

  Tishworth’s bloody grin was feral. He surged forward, driving the dagger into Hawke’s chest, twisting until ribs cracked. Hawke gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. Tishworth yanked the blade up, tearing through sternum, then slashed across his throat—blood sprayed, Hawke’s head lolling as he fell, eyes frozen in death.

  The room was a slaughterhouse—bodies mangled, blood slicking the floor, the air rancid with copper and sweat. Tishworth stood, swaying, wounds bleeding freely, his breath ragged but his presence unbroken, a nightmare carved in flesh. He turned to the soldiers, voice cold as iron. “Blame this on the rebels. Dump his body at their outpost—make it their crime. And get me clearance to invade them. Now.”

  A trembling sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Tishworth knelt, wincing, and retrieved Hawke’s dagger, wiping the blood on his torn sleeve. “A blade for a king,” he muttered, tucking it into his belt. His gaze swept the room, a vow of carnage burning in his eyes. “Move.”