The armor he wore clashed with Veneres' natural grace. Bulky and imposing, the lapis embedded within its scale plates glowed faintly through the open seams. Silver-hardened scales gleamed like mirrors against the blood-red sands. On his arm rested an ingenious mechanism—a weapon extension designed to swing his axe with enough force to split a skull cleanly in two. At his hip hung a steel blade, sleek and razor-edged, ready to carve through flesh if called upon. In truth, Veneres seemed like a figure pulled straight from the Exalted ballads, the kind they sang in grand halls and campfires alike.
"We will win, Fallen," Akash said, though his gaze lingered on Veneres, scrutinizing him.
The light of the desert seemed to cling to Veneres' sharp, chiseled features, catching every hard angle of his jaw, every proud line of his cheekbones. How could Akash not believe in victory? The Dauntless Company boasted a formidable trinity: Dante, Jassin, and Veneres, each a legend in their own right. Only an unimaginable, unplanned catastrophe could stop their advance now.
Veneres spoke suddenly, his tone cutting through the dry wind. "Dorher."
"Veneres," Akash replied, nodding with subtle respect.
"I expect Mount Pyre to fly the flag of the Dauntless Company by dawn," Veneres commanded. "The Angel of the Red Sands will stand upon the keep's walls, staring down at the Spire." His words were not flowery like Jassin's or veiled in riddles like Fallen's. No, Veneres spoke with certainty, as though the victory were already a memory, not a goal. His tone left no room for argument; it was a command, absolute and immovable.
"We will succeed," Akash replied curtly. Then, as he brushed past Veneres, he added, "But not because you ordered it."
Veneres muttered under his breath, "A joke. Sometimes I forget that's all you are." The two men clashed in ideals, but shared a single goal. Soon, they would see whose methods bore better fruit.
Emotions churned within Akash. Standing near Veneres—the perfect commander, not a hair out of place, utterly composed even on the brink of battle—made him grind his teeth in frustration. That insufferable confidence, that unshakable belief that Veneres could never fail... How could Akash not despise it? Yet, at the same time, he couldn't help but admire it. Veneres inspired the men, made them believe. He carried himself like victory itself was strapped to his back. How could anyone look at him and think defeat was even a possibility?
Veneres was something Akash could never be.
The demon Nakba, the tormentor in his mind, reminded him of that truth constantly. He was gifted nothing but flaws, shackled to whispers of doubt and rage. And what was Veneres given? Everything. Grace. Strength. Beauty. A name spoken in reverence.
They called Akash "Angel," but he knew the truth. He was the Fallen. A mockery. A mistake that should have been killed in the trial.
"Are you ready for a bloody night?" Fallen's gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts.
"That's a grim outlook," Vyn chimed in, strolling toward them with a lopsided grin and a raised hand.
"The archers won't land their shots in the Lunar Storms," Fallen countered bluntly. "And our men are assaulting stone walls thicker than their bodies are tall."
Vyn shrugged, unbothered. "It's a colossal keep. Why aim? If one enemy dies, that's good enough for me."
"A waste of arrows," Akash said, narrowing his eyes.
Vyn tilted his head and smiled. "Better to waste arrows than men, don't you think?"
The camp stirred around them. Mercenaries saddled their lesh, horses, and woollark, while others polished and oiled their khopeshes. The air was thick with tension, the storm clouds above roiling as the men prepared for the bloodshed to come.
"We need to take Mount Pyre quickly," Akash said, his voice sharp with urgency.
"Patience, Akash," Vyn replied. "This will be a grueling fight. I don't need you rushing in and dying because you got ahead of yourself."
"I won't make mistakes," Akash shot back, scowling.
"You'll make at least a few," Vyn said lightly, brushing off the hostility. "No one's perfect. Not even you."
Akash glared. "I will not."
Vyn laughed, a soft chuckle. "You're better than me, I'll admit that. But I plan to make plenty of mistakes tonight—some might even help us, though most probably won't." He smirked, as if daring Akash to respond. "You should try it sometime."
Akash clenched his fists, muttering under his breath about wringing Vyn's neck.
Fallen sighed heavily, stepping between them like a weary parent. "Enough. You'll have all the bloodshed you could ever want soon. Enjoy the moments of peace while they last."
"There's a story there," Vyn observed with a grin.
Akash crouched, scratching behind Elys' ear. The massive sabertooth cat let out a deep rumble of approval before flopping onto its back with a loud thump. Akash smirked, running a hand through the beast's soft fur. "A story for a story, then?"
Fallen hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, he said, "Very well. The Ukari are forged from iron—of flesh and will. We live lives of repentance, bound by oaths that can never be undone."
Akash's eyes brightened. "So, you're finally going to tell me about the Ukari?"
Fallen bit the side of his tongue, his face unreadable. "The oaths we broke were more than words, Akash. Our creators forged us for one purpose, and we failed."
"The Angel of the Red Sands," Vyn interjected, his sharp gaze locking onto Fallen. "It's connected, isn't it?"
Fallen didn't answer directly. Instead, he began: "Do you know of the Desolation?"
Vyn replied, "Only that it brought Lorian to its knees."
Fallen's eyes drifted to Temperance's Rage, the moon hanging heavy and crimson in the stormy sky. "People forget the past when they can. But for those of us who remember, the Desolation is no mere story—it's a scar."
The camp around them faded into the background as Fallen wove his tale, his voice low and heavy.
And thus, the legend of the Ukari began.