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Ramses : A Short Story : The Spirit Of The Sun

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The Ramses that the world hailed as "The Spirit of the Sun" would have escaped or died trying.
Would've taken a dozen arrows in his back as he ravage a bloody path through Aloysius's soldiers to rip the prince apart with his bare hands. Would've tore the collar from his neck, even if he needed to break his neck. Wouldn't have shied from escaping because Prince Cyrillus's quarters teemed with patrolling guards.
Ferocious wind and rain needled into Ramses's skin, clawing into the tight fabrics of his jacket and breeches. The monsoon begun during the ninth hour Ramses's meditation and Ramses's location at the apex of Prince Cyrillus's Observer's Tower offered him no respite. Watching the flashes of lighting in the funereal nebulas rolling above, Ramses heard Aloysius's mocking voice in the tempest's howl.
No sense of self.
When his second-in-command pissed his pants seeing the six thousand barbarians, Ramses had growled "If there's a will, then there's a way" before commanding the six hundred trainees into the victory that forged his legacy. Thirteen years frozen in an ice prison and ten years wandering through the human countries had robbed him of the intrepid drive and relentless passion that once made him him.
Gentle footsteps, the susurration of softened leather against stone stairs, sounded from behind Ramses.
"You stink," said Ramses, standing up.
Now that Prince Cyrillus stood beside him, with a contraption of palm leaves and oiled wood to keep the rain from

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