"The battle will be upon us soon. Let Drema bless this conflict," Tasha murmured, her voice a low hymn as she smeared golden paint across Daenys's face. The metallic hue clung to her skin, tracing lines from her temples to the curve of her lips—a representation of Drema's divine blood.
Daenys responded on cue, her voice cold and measured. "I will tear out their hearts."
Tasha's lips quirked into a faint smile. "A bold undertaking. Are you ready to face the reinforcement cavalry?"
A soft sigh escaped Daenys as she rose from her kneeling position, brushing dirt from her palms. The Astad cavalry had been spotted less than an hour ago, thundering toward the city's outskirts. Their numbers, she knew, would overwhelm hers in open combat. Yet this was not open combat. This was Estil ground.
"Yes," Daenys said finally, her tone firm. "Now get to your station, Tasha."
Nearby, the ever-silent Enlightened finally spoke, his words calm and measured. "Let Totallis' silence enwrap you in the thick of conflict."
Daenys turned, her eyes narrowing on the distant belfry. "It is time for us to take our positions."
The Belfry stood tall on a hill overlooking the city. Its golden dome gleamed under the sun, its light scattering down in shimmering fragments. A bell hung at its heart, unmoving, though its toll would soon reverberate across the streets. It was a sacred structure, a symbol of Estil's endurance and pride, and now, it would serve as a tactical perch.
"The plan will crumble, like all battle plans tend to," Tengri said, falling into step beside her.
"I am aware," Daenys replied, keeping her eyes forward. Akash's voice, unbidden but familiar, pushed at the back of her mind, urging her to press on.
They walked in silence for a time, Tengri brooding as he always did. Daenys finally broke the quiet, certain he would not. "Totallis would frown on your hesitation. If you said as much to a Deadite, they'd likely fly into a rage."
"I never said I would not fight," Tengri replied evenly. "I only suggested that we must prepare for the shifting tides of war."
"No, you did not say it," Daenys agreed. "But is it not Udubar who claims that good will prevail?"
Tengri chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You misunderstand our faith. That is Drema's truth, not Udubar's."
Daenys frowned. "The God of War? He preaches the triumph of good over evil?"
"Drema is far more than war," Tengri said, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "He is the truth of mortality—that death makes us all equal. He is the embodiment of honor, of standing firm against impossible odds."
Daenys tilted her head. "And how am I to understand these people if I cannot even understand their faith?"
Tengri's expression softened. "Then let me tell you of Drema's birth."
"I would like that," Daenys said after a pause.
Tengri began, his voice carrying the cadence of an old storyteller. "Totallis, in his infinite wisdom, saw the suffering wrought upon his people. In his grief, the God of Estil—he who beats with the lands—tore out his own heart. This divine act gave birth to Drema. His heart fell to the outskirts of Astad, creating the Utukutavi—the Crater of the Fell God, as you would call it. From this crater burst Drema, a God born of rage and mortality.
"The keepers of Astad, confident in their impregnable walls, sought to stop him, but none could stand before Drema's wrath. His fury split mountains and carved canals, dividing the land of Estil from the kingdom of Astad. Totallis, seeing Drema's need for a mount, unleashed the divine horse and its offspring, that Drema might ride as he purged the world of the Duvaal—the Princes of Ruin. Their clash shaped the ravines where the only city of Estil now sits."
Tengri's hand rose as he gestured to the horizon. "That is Drema—our emotions, our mortality, the truth of what it means to live and die. Totallis provides, yes, but it is Drema who moves us."
Daenys mulled over his words, her fingers brushing the grip of her bow. She could see the dust cloud rising in the distance now. The Astad cavalry was close—close enough to make out faint shapes of armored riders. "So, the Deadites," she said finally. "They aren't raving lunatics in their Blood Rage. They're... what? Channeling their mortality?"
Tengri gave her a sideways glance. "No, they're definitely raving lunatics. But in their madness, they embrace Drema's decree. They seek heightened emotions, the kind only found in the heat of battle."
Daenys sighed, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "I would like to learn more of Estil's religion."
Tengri's face brightened, a rare moment of warmth crossing his features. "It would be my honor to teach the chosen of Gahkar Nirme Rev."
Daenys stifled a laugh. The rumors that she was Nirme's heir—a chosen successor—had spread like wildfire through Estil's warbands. And why wouldn't she encourage them? Estil's warriors flocked to her cause because of it. But she knew better. Nirme, for all his kindness, had no intention of relinquishing his title. His ambitions were his own, and she had little interest in being a pawn in his plans.
No, this was for Nalla. Everything was for Nalla.
"The signal will come soon," she said, her voice cutting through the haze of her thoughts.
Tengri gripped the hilt of his blade with one hand, a bag of dye in the other. "Then we should be ready."
The faint rumble of hooves grew louder, the Astad cavalry storming into the city's main streets. Daenys held up a hand, signaling for Tengri to wait. Her eyes flicked between the riders, their formation tight as they barreled forward. Any moment now, they would hit the first blockade.
"Now, Tengri!" she ordered.
The Enlightened moved swiftly, dumping the contents of the dye bag over the belfry's edge. A cascade of crimson rained down onto the street below. The reaction was immediate—a massive barricade of wood and debris crashed down, sending horses into a frenzy. Several reared up, throwing their riders, while others skidded to a halt.
The signal had been given. Chaos erupted in the streets as Singas—Estil's famed rooftop archers—emerged from their hiding spots. Their bows sang in unison, raining arrows down upon the unsuspecting cavalry. A wail of death filled the air, blending with the panicked cries of men and horses. The once-pristine streets of the city were painted red with blood.
Daenys held her position, her sharp eyes scanning the battlefield. The cavalry was breaking, their formation splintering under the relentless assault. Yet it wasn't enough. They rallied quickly, raising their shields and forcing their way forward. Several Singas were struck down as the Astad soldiers retaliated with brutal efficiency, splintering into smaller groups to take the side streets.
Daenys grabbed another bag of dye, this one a deep purple. She dumped it over the edge, signaling a shift in tactics. The Estil warriors who had unleashed their arrows fell back, retreating into the maze of the city to prepare for the next ambush. Fresh warriors took their places on the rooftops, bows drawn and ready.
This was a battle of attrition, a deadly dance of action and reaction. The Astad host was larger, stronger—but the city was Estil's, and every twisting street and narrow alley was a trap waiting to be sprung.
Daenys exhaled, her bow in hand. The game had begun, and she would not stop until the Astad banners were stained with the colors of her victory.