638 Coronation (1)

"We finally meet, honoured Abbas Pasha," the Emperor murmured, his voice tinged with a weariness that transcended physical exhaustion, for he is no longer that youngster sailing across the seven seas without tiredness.

He settled onto a bench brought by his servant, feeling the weight of years and battles past. His sword, driven into the earth, provided support, a silent testament to the struggles he had endured. Above him, the sky wore a cloak of melancholy, with occasional snowflakes descending gently, as if the heavens themselves mourned the loss of so many lives in the span of a single, fateful day.

Around him, the battlefield was a macabre theatre. Large flocks of black crows, harbingers of death, descended in a grim ballet, their cacophonous caws echoing eerily, their dark wings momentarily eclipsing the sun and casting an ominous shadow over the land. It was as though nature itself was lamenting, shrouding the world in darkness in the wake of human folly.