The blood that stained, and now flowed through the streets of the capital, was evidence of the bloody struggle that was fought there not so many days ago: a battle between titans that was witnessed, not only by the greatest deity, but by the gods from all corners of the world: they were divided into two groups, each one supporting a different man, a different titan.
The tears of the people who lost their close ones because of the fight were reflected by the clouds that poured incessant waters. Heaven, earth and the underworld were in mourning. They did not celebrate the victory, they celebrated the end of the war; they did not care who had but the winner.
With his hair cut, humiliated, beaten, dirty and filthy, he was dragged through the streets that he was in charge of desecrating and destroying at the same time that the people who at some point were loyal to him and respected him a lot, and who suffered the consequences of his rash actions, booed him and threw stones. They wanted him to pay the price for his actions.
Where did he fail? To have listened to his wife? Did he entrust tasks to less trusted men? Or did he earn the contempt of his divinity for his weakness? He found no clear answer. He realized that all his efforts were in vain. While the guards were putting him on the scaffold to put him to death, thus ending a dark age in the imperial territory, he, Philipart Cynther, would remember that bitter night, which he had longed for, when his wife had received him with genuine love.