Daenys exhaled shakily, her voice soft as she said, "We did it, Tasha."
Tasha's grin spread wide, blood and dirt streaking her face like warpaint. "We did. And a good number of us are still standing. Your plan worked better than I expected."
"It did," Daenys replied, though her voice lacked the triumph Tasha's held. "Only because you killed the wyvern. The Gods must truly favor us."
"It would seem so," Tasha agreed, but there was a knowing sharpness to her tone, as if she wasn't entirely convinced the Gods' favor came without strings attached.
Reman interrupted, his voice calm but weighted, as though he were uttering some profound truth. "The Gods do not favor Tasha alone. A Heartrender has not been claimed since the founding of Estil."
"A Heartrender?" Tasha asked, her lone eye narrowing as she turned to study Daenys. "The girl?"
"What else could survive having their heart torn from their chest?" Reman said. His gaze fell to Daenys, steady and unwavering. "Even her blood has dried, though not an hour has passed. She is claimed."
There it was again—that word. Heartrender. It felt foreign and heavy, as if it carried the weight of a history she didn't know. They said it as though it should mean something to her, but it didn't.
Tasha clicked her tongue and tilted her head thoughtfully. "Then the Gods do not bless us. They—"
"Tasha," Daenys cut her off, a sharp edge to her voice. "You killed the wyvern. That was the difference between life and death for all of us. Focus on that."
Tasha rolled her eye, but there was a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "You over-exaggerate. Be thankful it was only a wyvern and not something worse. If a dragon had appeared today, even a resin-forged blade wouldn't have pierced its scales."
"Dragons?" Daenys echoed, exhaustion creeping into her voice. "What next?" She pressed her fingers to her temple, the headache she'd carried since the battle only intensifying.
Tasha shrugged, leaning casually against her spear. "Dragons are nothing but memories now. All died out during the Age of Dragons. Some left behind hybrids—beasts like the wyvern—but none of those reach the strength or intellect of a true dragon."
Something about the word dragon tugged at Daenys's thoughts, brushing against the edges of a memory she couldn't quite grasp. She thought of Mirak, of one of his ramblings about a book, but the memory was fractured, little more than a haze.
She shook her head. "I am not Mirak, and I don't want a history lesson."
Tasha laughed, low and sharp. "No history lesson, then. Just a hunter's wish—to face something worthy of legend."
Before Daenys could respond, Tengri emerged from the gathering crowd, his robes drenched in blood and torn at the edges. Mud clung to the fabric, dragging its once fine material into disrepair. His six eyes—all of them—were fixed firmly on her, unreadable but unrelenting.
"You died," he stated flatly, as though observing the weather.
"And now I live," Daenys replied, her tone clipped. She was already growing tired of the stares, the whispers, the weight of everyone's attention pressing down on her.
Tengri dropped to his knees in one smooth, deliberate motion. "Totallas' wisdom guides us in both life and death. I bow now as a loyal subject to the Heartrender. May she guide me in her undeath."
Before Daenys could even process his words, others began to follow. One by one, men and women sank to their knees, murmuring prayers or pledges of loyalty. The sound of their armor clinking against the stone ground was deafening in the silence.
Daenys turned to Tasha, her expression tight with discomfort, silently pleading for the other woman to say something, to break the tension. But Tasha only grinned.
With exaggerated flair, Tasha tipped her hat and placed a gloved hand over her heart. She lowered herself into a bow, her left leg sliding back and her head dipping low. It was a genuine gesture, the kind Daenys had never expected from the one-eyed warrior.
"My kills are your kills, Daenys Godren," Tasha said, her voice steady and clear. "The newest Gahkar of Estil."
Daenys froze. A hollow smile formed on her lips, though it never reached her eyes. She felt exposed, laid bare before the weight of their expectation.
"I…" she began, her voice faltering. Words caught in her throat like shards of glass.
She stood alone in a city soaked with blood, surrounded by kneeling warriors who now bent the knee to her. To her. She wanted no part of this. Yet here she stood, the figurehead they all expected her to become.
What could she say to them? Her mother had trained her for this moment, had drilled into her the importance of strength and poise, but the lessons felt distant now, washed away by the chaos of the day. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
It was all for them. For their safety. For her sister.
"I have been trained to lead all my life," she began, the words shaky but growing firmer with each syllable. "And yet, here I stand, unsure. Unsure if I am what you believe me to be. But my passion and ambition—those are certain. They will carry me beyond this doubt."
She paused, letting her gaze sweep over the kneeling crowd. These were Estil warriors, a people who valued strength above all else. They didn't need reassurance—they needed purpose.
Daenys squared her shoulders, her voice rising. "I do not seek to simply claim the Pickette. I want more. Everything. If you follow me, I will build you cities—grand cities, unassailable and eternal. I will craft a bastion against the tides of Astad and the monsters that lurk beyond the north. Together, we will create landmarks greater than the Neph or the dwarves, monuments that will endure for centuries, far beyond our lives."
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She didn't want cities or monuments. She wanted to go home. But they didn't need to know that.
The crowd murmured, their voices growing louder with each passing second.
"Gahkar," someone said, the word rising above the others.
It spread like wildfire, rippling through the kneeling warriors.
"Gahkar!"
The chant grew, bouncing off the blood-streaked walls of the city.
Tasha raised her arm high and shouted, "All hail Daenys the Heartrender! Daenys the Thinker! Let her warband bring her dreams to life!"
The roar of the crowd swelled, a deafening wave of voices that filled the city. Daenys stood in its center, the eye of the storm, her face betraying none of the turmoil that raged inside her.
The sun sank lower on the horizon, its light casting long shadows over the broken city. The Lunar Storms would arrive soon, and Daenys had no intention of losing more lives tonight.
She snapped, "Everyone, to shelter! The Lunar Storms will not claim a single Estil soul this night. Rest and recover—we move at dawn."
The warband obeyed without hesitation, dispersing like the tides retreating from the shore. Daenys turned to the bodies scattered across the battlefield, her fingers brushing the faint scar on her chest. She should have been one of them.
Tengri murmured, "The dead will rest in Udubar's garden, as they always do."
Daenys looked to the remaining warriors, to the flicker of hope in their eyes. A sigh escaped her lips, quiet and weary. "How many more will die?" she whispered to herself.
Tasha broke her silence, her voice teasing. "A nice title you've managed to snatch for yourself, Gahkar."
Daenys shot her a glare, though she said nothing.
Reman approached, his expression thoughtful. "If you'd like, I can find some paper for you to collect your thoughts. A sharp mind is as important as a sharp blade."
Daenys nodded. "Thank you, Reman. That would help."
Tengri remained silent, his six eyes scanning the shadows. His mere presence was unnerving to those nearby, but Daenys appreciated his vigilance.
"Let's see to the warband," Daenys said, her tone commanding despite the weariness in her bones. "And make sure you all get some rest."
"And what of our glorious new Gahkar?" Tasha teased, her smirk widening. "You should rest as well, Daenys. Even Deathless need sleep."
Daenys gave a faint smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "If only I had the luxury."
As they entered the mining hall, Daenys couldn't shake the feeling of the scar on her chest or the weight of the kneeling warriors burned into her memory.
For better or worse, she was their Gahkar now.
Got it! Let me rebuild the scene with all the characters and their perspectives intact while keeping the conversational flow alive. I'll focus on preserving the variety of voices among the warriors and Daenys's hesitant yet commanding presence. The aim will be to fully flesh out their discussions, ideas, and relationships without cutting down the richness of their dialogue.
Daenys hesitated as she approached the fire-lit circle of warriors in the mining hall. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and damp stone. She had planned to retreat to her secluded spot for reflection, but the quiet murmur of conversation drew her closer. She lowered herself to the ground, folding her legs beneath her, and kept her presence unnoticed for now. Nearby, Tengri settled on an overturned crate, methodically oiling his blade. His six baleful eyes glinted in the firelight, but none of the warriors noticed him yet either.
"I swear, my ribs are going to ache for a week," one man groaned, shifting uncomfortably on the ground.
"Stop whining, Griff," said another, sharper voice. "If I hear you complain again, I'll personally throw you into the Lunar Storm and make sure you don't find your way back."
Laughter rippled through the group, tinged with the edge of exhaustion.
"You're a real piece of work, Sen," Griff shot back, rubbing his ribs. "You try getting thrown off a horse and trampled, then we'll see who's whining."
"Maybe if you held your spear steady instead of flailing it around like a tavern drunk, you wouldn't have fallen in the first place," Sen retorted with a smirk, drawing another round of chuckles.
Their banter shifted, and Griff's tone turned more serious. "What do you make of the new Gahkar? The girl?"
Sen shrugged, leaning back on his elbows. "Haven't made it to the capital yet, so she's not technically Gahkar. But she's got the Estil here backing her. I'll follow her. She's sharp."
"Sharp?" Griff snorted. "She's young. Barely old enough to hold a blade, let alone lead a warband."
Sen narrowed his eyes. "And yet it was her plan that turned the tide today. Her idea to attack from above. If she hadn't, we'd all be corpses in the street. Even killed one of those wyvern riders, didn't she?"
"The Reaver killed the wyvern," Griff countered stubbornly.
"And the Reaver bowed to her," Sen shot back, his tone sharper now. "She thinks with her head. Something you seem to lack."
Griff sat up straighter, his expression darkening. "Careful, Sen. You've got a sharp tongue for a man who spent half the battle hiding behind a barrel."
Sen waved him off with a laugh. "Don't be so sensitive, Griff. All I'm saying is we could do worse. Much worse."
Griff muttered something under his breath, then said louder, "You really trust her? She's a Heartrender, Sen. You know the stories about them. They're cursed. Marked by the Gods for something dark."
Sen shrugged again, this time more deliberately. "Aye, I've heard the stories. But you'd be a fool not to follow her. Besides, she'll need a beast tamer, and I'm the best she'll find."
"You were a Chalicebreaker?" Griff asked, his tone skeptical.
"Tried to be," Sen admitted. "Before the boulders from the Pickette spooked the beast. It threw me clean off its back before I could finish the trial. Didn't help my head was already splitting from the boulders smashing into the city walls."
"What about you, Griff?" Sen asked, turning the tables. "You're still wearing those bone wristguards. Deadites don't usually stick around this long. What's your story?"
Griff's face darkened. He tapped the bone wristguards, his fingers brushing the etched marks on their surface. "Most of the Deadites were claimed by Drema's rage, but Drema turned away from me. When we charged the land bridge to the Pickette, my body... resisted. I couldn't bring myself to fall with the others. Cathad—my brother—turned on me, said I'd dishonored our kin. He came at me with his bone axe. I didn't have a choice." Griff's voice lowered to a near whisper. "I killed him. Cleaved his head clean off. When I came to, I was in the infirmary. They should've left me there."
Sen was silent for a moment, then said, "So you're a kinslayer."
Griff flinched at the word, but Sen pressed on. "Maybe you've got a chance to redeem yourself. Our Gahkar—Heartrender or not—seems different. Stick with her, Griff. You might even earn her favor."
Griff let out a bitter laugh. "We'll see how long this Gahkar lasts. What's her plan for the Pickette? Probably throw us at it like fodder and see who survives."
That was enough. Daenys cleared her throat and spoke, her voice calm but firm. "I'll need to see the Pickette up close before I make any plans. But if you have information, I'd gladly hear it. From any of you."
The group froze, their faces snapping toward her. Griff paled, while Sen immediately dropped his gaze in respect. Around them, the other warriors fell silent, their laughter and banter extinguished like a snuffed flame. Tengri's blade whispered softly as he oiled it, the sound a quiet reminder that Daenys was not alone.
"I didn't come to sit in silence," Daenys said, her tone even but carrying an edge. "Speak."
Griff opened his mouth, then closed it, stumbling over his words. "I—I didn't mean—"
She waved him off. "I'd doubt your sanity if you didn't question my right to lead. I've been asking myself the same question lately."
Her gaze shifted to Sen. "You mentioned the Pickette. I'd like to hear your thoughts. I've only seen it from a distance, and that limited knowledge frustrates me. A beast tamer could be invaluable as well."
Sen straightened, his confidence returning. "The Pickette can't be taken by force, Gahkar. If it could, the other Gahkar would've done it already."
"Of course," Daenys said, nodding. "But Astad won't send more reinforcements. Their cavalry is shattered, and the Impalers are preoccupied with ships. Our time constraints have lifted."
Sen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The best way to take the Pickette is to lure the defenders out. But the Black Baron isn't a fool. He won't fall for simple tricks. And most Gahkar wouldn't deem such a tactic worthy of conquest. This could drag on for years if we let it."
Other voices began chiming in.
"Fire Salamanders!" one man suggested. "The ones up north can climb rocky cliffs. Chalicebreakers could tame them, and we could scale the Pickette that way."
"What about tunneling?" another offered. "Dig under it and collapse the supports. Let the whole damn thing fall into the crater."
A woman scoffed. "The Pickette was built to withstand the end of an Age. The dwarves crafted it—hell, the stones survived dragon fire. It'd take more than digging to bring it down."
Daenys tilted her head, considering their words. "I wonder how many boulders they have left? They've already used a good portion during the last assault."
"They've got plenty," someone replied. "The Pickette's been stockpiling for decades."
"And what is the Pickette made of?" another voice asked. "That sound it makes when it's struck—it's no ordinary stone."
Daenys was about to respond when Tengri's hand lightly tapped her shoulder. She looked up to see his six watchful eyes glinting in the firelight.
"It seems I'm needed elsewhere," Daenys said, rising to her feet. "Rest well tonight. You've earned it."
The warriors responded in unison, "Aye, Gahkar. Rest well."
As Daenys turned to leave, a faint warmth stirred in her chest. Despite her doubts, despite the weight pressing down on her shoulders, they had spoken to her not with disdain, but with a growing respect. Perhaps it was enough. For now.