The man sat, frozen on the floor, his blood staining the polished surface beneath him.
He couldn't tear his eyes from the two ravens, their dark eyes locked on him with unyielding focus.
Then the voice spoke again, deep, ancient, and heavy, like thunder rolling across a barren battlefield.
"Do you not want strength?" it asked, its tone dripping with disdain. "Strength to stand above, to clean your city of the filth that has plagued it? To rise above the weak, the useless, the worms that crawl beneath your feet?"
The voice boomed in his head, sending shivers through his spine. It was not a voice for mere mortals.
It was a voice that spoke of ancient wars, of gods who had witnessed the fall of empires and the rise of kingdoms.
It was the voice of someone who had no patience for weakness.
