Was it worth it?

Yes.

Was it really worth it?

Yes.

Really?

Yes.

REALLY?

"Fuck off!"

Sweat streamed down the man's face, carving paths through the grime of days spent in torment. His fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, leaving deep marks of blood behind.

Then you have no regrets? No fear of the grudge your people might hold against you?

. . .

No answer to that? Are you afraid, General? Do you feel the weight of the decisions you're making, the orders you're giving? Do you even understand what you were about to do?

The words slithered closer, like whispers against his ear, though no form could be seen.

His lips parted as if to respond, but no sound escaped.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Each breath heaved from his chest, dragging in the foul stench of death and decay, choking him with every inhale.

Don't worry, my dear fool. You know exactly what you're doing, what you've done, and what you will do. There's no need to speak—I can see the truth etched across your face. It's carved into your entire being.

"Stop." His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

You still tremble.

The voice grew sharper, pressing against his temples.

"Please. Stop."

You still hate.

It resonated now, wrapping around him like a snake tightening with every word.

"I beg you!"

You still kill, and kill, and kill. And you never stop. You won't stop. You can't stop.

The words bore down on him, the air thickening, suffocating.

"Shut up!" He cries.

But it doesn't.

How amusing. Your emotions shift as easily as a breeze in the wind. But none of that matters now.

The presence shifted again. The ground beneath him seemed to tremble, and the air grew heavy, stifling, as though the voice itself had taken form and loomed over him.

Tell me, General. Why do you still feel regret?

"I don't!"

But you do. If you truly didn't, you wouldn't hear me—or, more accurately, perceive me.

"You're not real."

The General's chair scraped harshly against the ground as he shot to his feet, his movements clumsy, his stance unsteady.

Yet you still want me to be! The voice hissed, closer now, brushing against the nape of his neck like cold breath.

Both hands flew to his face, fingers clawing at his skin. He scratched desperately, as if he could tear the invisible invader from his mind. Blood welled beneath his nails, but the presence did not relent. It loomed closer, circling, suffocating.

You need me. Even if you despise me, even if you hate everything I represent, you crave me. You long to prove that I'm real. That I'm still there.

"No!" His scream tore through the stagnant air, trembling with fear and defiance.

Who am I, General? What am I to you?

. . .

Am I a friend?

. . .

Am I your passion?

. . .

Is it family you see in me?

. . .

Or perhaps an enemy?

. . .

The words clawed at him from every direction, as though the voice had surrounded him entirely, leaving no escape.

He trembled, words clinging to the back of his throat like poison. He knew this presence. It was no stranger. Once, long ago, he had embraced it—proudly, selflessly. Now it was nothing but a specter, a cruel shadow that refused to leave.

A low chuckle rippled through the air, vibrating through the depths of his soul. Darkness unfurled, wrapping itself around him. The only sound left was the pounding of his heart—a hollow drumbeat in a lifeless void.

You can pretend you've left me behind. You can act like you're nothing but an empty shell of a man. But you and I both know the truth, Khal.

The air grew still. Time seemed to halt. His body locked into place, trembling with the weight of the moment.

We both know exactly what I am, don't we?

Perhaps it was madness that drove him to respond. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was something else entirely. He would never know. But his voice broke free, hoarse and trembling.

"I don't know what you are. I'm nothing like you. I don't want you. I don't need you. All I have left is my duty, my honor, and my purpose. Whatever you are, you died long ago. You haunt me because I abandoned you. I owe you nothing. You don't control me anymore!"

The last of his strength left him in a shuddering exhale. Pride, desperation—it didn't matter. The words hung in the air, but their weight was meaningless. It was already too late.

Despairing now, at the end of your tragedy? How amusing. Even after all the lives you've taken, the homes you've burned, the futures you've stolen, you still continue to cling to this flimsy, crumbling notion of duty.

His hand rose shakily toward the tent's entrance, reaching, hoping for his guards aid. But his legs betrayed him, collapsing beneath the weight of his broken soul. He fell to his knees, the mud swallowing him whole.

From his chest, a hollowness spread. It consumed him in waves, reaching his limbs, his eyes, his mind. Crimson spilled from his lips, pooling in the dirt. His gaze emptied, his body slackened.

Still, the voice lingered.

You're not very good at hiding your anguish, General. Your defenses are gone. Your mind is bare.

A grim chuckle, soft but cutting.

Your pain is so raw, so disgustingly obvious—yet no one bears witness. No one but you. Alone, in this empty tent, beside a table overflowing with plans that would extinguish thousands of lives. Perhaps millions. And still, you persist. Still, you choose this path, clinging to the shreds of a duty that destroyed you with every step you took.

There was no protest anymore. Just silence.

Another chuckle, quieter this time. Almost sorrowful.

You've stopped denying the truth at last. Unfortunately your time's up.

The voice began to fade, lowering into a whisper, its closeness no longer felt but its weight still unmistakable.

Tell me, Khal. Do you remember me now? Do you remember the feeling of having me guide you? Do you remember your family? Your friends? Your love?

Silence.

Pure, deafening silence. It was heavy, endless, unrelenting. It swallowed him whole, drowning him in its void.

A single tear rolled down his cheek, a final, fragile echo of what he once was. It shimmered for a brief moment before disappearing into the mud.

The voice spoke one last time, its presence brushing against the edges of his broken mind.

What a shame. In your final moments, you show more humanity than in the past three decades. What a shame that you only acknowledge me now.

It stepped back into the void, retreating, leaving nothing behind.

Farewell, Khal.

The words were soft, almost mournful.

I, your conscience, have failed you.

And then, there was nothing.

No more voices. No more thoughts. No more life.

Only silence. Pure, eternal silence.

The General was no more. Only a corpse remained.

. . .