“You speak of war as if it is ours to begin and end. As if we—fragile men with rusted crowns and hollow speeches—summon it by choice. No... it is not we who call war. It is Mars who stirs beneath the earth, ancient and starved. He does not shout; he murmurs. He winds his fingers through the minds of generals, slips into the ink of treaties, and nestles in the pause before a trigger is pulled. He is patient, for he knows men will always return to him.

I have seen his work—not in the clash of steel, but in the eyes of those who bury their sons. In the fields where silence grows thicker than smoke. He does not crave victory. He craves ruin. And we, blind to his grip, dress our slaughter in flags and hymns and dare to call it noble.”