Humiliation sets armies marching, empires falling, breaks hearts and minds and souls.

This fight coming is not a battle of weapons, but a battle of wills.

Now the Fates are here on the beach, three shadows blacker than black, walking through the dunes and looking for their own. Just shadows, lamb-white hands beneath black robes spun of tears, glide among the celebrants on this night wherein the spirits of Thebes have found a home, if serendipitously.

Proof of war, when it comes, always comes too late.

Wisdom, Niko thought as he leaned his cheek against his long-handled rake, cannot be had without price. And that price is blood. The sound of it in your veins. The pound of it in your head. The volume of it in a human body; the sickness when you've spilled it.

Choose life over death, Niko, when a choice can be made that puts no soul in jeopardy.

Death is a doorway, Niko, that leads to an adventure greater than any you have ever known.