It has been almost a hundred days since the end of my war.
For one hundred days, I have heard all matters of arguments and complaints.
Some of my subjects foolishly voice their displeasures.
They feel dishonoured and disrespected at the defeat.
They all blame me, their Master.
One-by-one, I add their heads to my growing collection of skulls.
I do not this out of pettiness or to reassert my domination.
I do this merely for the silence.
I do not need my thoughts interrupted.
I delve into my memories of the war.
The final battle in Stagnum.
When the Dark Mother battled the All-Father.
But it isn’t the melee we engaged in that I recollect.
I do not wish to find a way to beat Atriarch in combat.
I have discovered something far greater than a flaw in a warrior’s armour.
I have been imprudent in my approach to seek vengeance against the Supreme Lord.
I am Elysia.
A mere mortal woman who became the feared Goddess and Master of Tenebris.
I should have remembered the pain Atriarch felt when I took his firstborn away from him.
Oh, the pleasure I felt when I tore the life from that bastard I birthed.
I should have known taking Sarcadia from him would mean nothing when he could just reclaim it back.
But you cannot reclaim a stolen son, can you Atriarch?
What if I were to take another?
I speak of your precious Octavian.
I have heard so much about him.
He is a handsome young thing.
Physically perfect, just like his daddy.
He is a skilled warrior; this I saw for myself.
I also witnessed the panic in your eyes when my children overwhelmed your son.
You retreated from our duel and rushed to his aid.
That day, you saved his life.
That day, you assured his demise.
Once, I thought you were the smartest being alive, Atriarch.
As a boy, you united Un’Kabaal.
As a man, you conquered Sarcadia.
As a mortal, you tricked a Supreme Lord to become one yourself.
Yet you exposed your greatest weakness to me.
Your dear, beloved son.
My mind was too focused on you during our battle.
Had I realised sooner, I would have killed Octavian immediately.
I would have taken great pleasure in watching you mourn yet another dead son.
But I am glad I did not.
For there is more than one way to take a child from his father.
And so, I surround myself with my thoughts and ponder: “How could I prolong the pain of a father losing another son?”
Death is far too simple, too easy.
The answer shall come to me, this I’m certain.
But you have exposed your weakness to me.
And I shall surely take advantage of it.
You might have won the war, Atriarch.
But I vow you will regret not killing me when you had the chance.
— “The Elysia Monologues: The Supreme Weakness”, Bruce Boward, 216 AO