"Peace? A surrender. Yielding? Weakness." The creature inhales with a rasp, almost out of habit — yet the tatt

"Peace? A surrender. Yielding? Weakness." The creature inhales with a rasp, almost out of habit — yet the tatters of its robes stir, as if touched by the wind. "The weak serve as feast or flagstones, their bodies ever prostrate in worship, their backs and blood, the roads and rivers of my domain, layer upon layer, an empire of your kind, entire races crushed beneath my reign, . That is the peace your master brings."