Crude words and overripe fruit welcomed me to Sovekka. Restless masses surged through the streets, heads vied for glances through open windowpanes while others jeered from rooftops. The entire city had come out to see its scourge brought to justice at last.

Hatred bore down on me from every side, in the eyes of beggars on the street and of fat merchants in towers. When I was a child, and even when I first took up arms against Sovekka, I never saw that hatred. Revulsion, yes. Disdain, and contempt as well. Those were the feelings of a great power toward the conquered. It took many years, many deaths, and many victories to draw that hatred from them. Hatred was born of fear, and one did not fear their lessers.

They made me walk, barefoot and naked. To shame me, most likely. As if I were one of their own lords, dependent on a horse and fine clothes to maintain the illusion of power. Why should I be ashamed of the feet that carried me through the deepest desert, of the body that brought low so many Sovekk knights?

Our path, chosen by the victorious generals for maximum exposure, wound through alleys and parade grounds alike, past filthy taverns and grand cathedrals alike. I had viewed the city from afar, once, while my forces broke against its walls. That day was the reason that Sovekka's streets were unmarred by my raids, perhaps the only city in the entire Empire that could claim such. Perhaps that was why they brought me here now - to show me that in the end the heart of their Empire was still untouched.

This city was always my goal. Even as I threw the Sovekk yoke off my people, as I freed slaves from their grasp and danced free from the grasp of their armies, I dreamed of tearing down its towers. Whenever I entered one of their cities, I imagined it was Sovekka in miniature, and plotted what next move might lead me to the real thing.

Imagination bore little resemblance to reality. I had entered the city at last, but wearing chains instead of a sword. In my dreams, the mightiest lords fled before me, hiding and begging for mercy. Here the meanest beggar was free to throw a bucket of his own piss in my face. No, this was not what I had hoped for.

I was not the first to take up arms against Sovekka. Many years ago, before I could hold a sword, let alone wield one, there was a rebellion. For a week or two they hid in the hills, and then they were caught. Greencloaks executed their leader in the city square, a quiet affair. Few attended, fewer cared. The soldiers were annoyed with the resistance, nothing more.

But for me? Curses rained down on me, accompanied by excrement and trash. An entire city gathered to see me die, hatred glowing in its eyes. People whose fathers and brothers died at my command cried out for my death.

I had not been able to tear down the towers of Sovekka, nor sink my blade into its foul Emperor. But I had not fought in vain. Gone was the scorn and contempt of an unassailable force, replaced by the insecurity and fear of sudden vulnerability.

I had not defeated Sovekka, but I had made her notice me - hate me as I hated her, fear me as I had once feared her. I was not the first to take up arms against Sovekka, and I will not be the last.