"Now, let's go and find you, dear Vladimir," he whispered, an evil, predatory laugh bubbling up from his chest.
William began to move, flanked by his terrifying menagerie of beasts. He walked with the measured, steady gait of an unstoppable force, heading in a straight line toward the outskirts of the city.
The scene that followed was nothing short of bizarre. As William advanced, the air seemed to ripple with the sheer weight of his reputation. No matter where he went, the enemy soldiers—men who were supposed to be hardened conquerors—scrambled to get out of his path.
Before he could even arrive at a defensive line, the soldiers would break formation, shoving one another aside in a desperate bid to retreat.
It was a sight of pure, magical terror; fear had proved itself a more effective weapon than any blade, winning the psychological war before a single drop of blood was shed in this new sector.
