It was not the time to lose focus.
Akash's gaze darted to an Ukari slicing a man clean in two, his broadsword cleaving through flesh and bone as though they were paper. Fallen moved like a shadow among the chaos, his scythe flashing in deadly arcs. He wove between defenders and struck with devastating precision, each sweep of his weapon reaping another life. Death followed him, an inevitability more than an event.
The battlefield blurred in the downpour, the pounding rain muting the screams and clash of steel. Akash found himself unable to discern whether they were winning or losing. Adrenaline, once sharp and guiding, had dulled to an ache that rattled through his arms and chest. His breath came heavy, his sword feeling heavier still. Around him, men fell—many by his own hand. These were not nameless enemies. They were fathers, brothers, sons. Their blood soaked into the muddy ground because of him.
The defenders of Mount Pyre began to falter. At the heart of the carnage lay their commander—Rhaine, the Lionhearted—motionless at Akash's feet. His blood mingled with the rain, the crimson streaks trailing toward the churned earth. The defenders broke as the realization set in: their leader was dead, slain by the blade of the Angel of the Red Sands.
Someone gripped Akash's shoulder, shaking him from the fog. "The War Dancers have routed the enemy! We need to move inside the keep!" The voice cut through the haze, sharp and insistent.
Fallen reached him at last, slamming the hilt of his scythe into the mud to command his attention. His voice was low but firm. "Oathsworn. We will have words after this." His tone carried no malice, but it was heavy with the weight of unspoken disapproval.
"I am fine, Fallen," Akash said, forcing himself upright. He wiped his blade on the edge of his soaked tunic, the blood smearing against the rain-slick steel. Fallen watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath his helm, before nodding slightly and turning back toward the others.
"Truly," Akash added, as if convincing himself. He turned to Fallen, shifting the subject. "The walls—have they been taken?"
Vyn approached, his strides confident despite the mud and carnage. He carried himself with the poise of someone untouchable, his leathers gleaming with water and blood. "Yes," he said, his voice smooth. "Lyra gave the signal. The walls are ours. I've sent a few War Dancers to inform the Reverent Saints. We'll move into the keep once the archers stop firing."
Akash nodded, his jaw tightening. "The Lunar Storms will keep most of their forces hidden inside the keep, but the real danger will be in the halls—close quarters. The last defense before the gate and barracks will be the worst of it."
"Dangerous, but not insurmountable," Fallen remarked, pulling his khopesh free from a fallen soldier's chest. "We will break through in small groups and purge the defenders room by room."
"It's the only way," Akash agreed, though his voice carried a note of exhaustion. He glanced at Rhaine's lifeless body one last time, the knight's blood pooling beneath him. "I expect you to come out alive, Fallen. I don't want your death on my conscience."
Fallen gave a low grunt, his body shifting as though he were brushing aside the notion of failure. Akash turned to Vyn. "And you—don't let Lyra scold me for letting you die. I'd rather avoid being slapped across the head while she complains about paperwork."
"The tune will guide the War Dancers as it always has," Vyn said with a slight smile. His words were soft, but his steps were deliberate, his confidence unshaken even in the storm.
Time slipped away faster than Akash could register. Titan dipped low on the horizon, its pale light filtering through the storm clouds. Rhea followed close behind, their combined light mingling with the ethereal purples and azures of the Lunar Storm. The apex of the storm had passed, and the sun would rise soon. But they had yet to claim the keep.
Akash stumbled, his vision clouding as blotches of crimson bled into his sight. The sound of the battlefield warped, screams twisting into howling winds that clawed at his ears. A storm raged inside his mind, fierce and suffocating. His breaths came shallow and ragged.
"Get out of my head, Nakba," Akash hissed through gritted teeth.
The demon's voice slithered through his thoughts, its tone laced with mockery. "I offer only truth, Angel of the Red Sands. You bring destruction, not salvation. Even your title is a monument to the blood you spill. The red sands are stained by your hand, not theirs."
Akash felt a hand on his shoulder, this time more forceful. He shoved it off, his voice low and dangerous. "I said, I'm fine."
The defenders had made their last stand in the keep's walled corridors, a desperate knot of men clinging to their shields and maces. Their formation was tight, their shields linked into a barrier of steel. Behind it, they waited—silent and resolute—for the inevitable storm of death that approached. This was their final defense. Beyond them, only the gate and barracks remained.
The Dauntless Company advanced. The Ukari led the charge, their towering frames unyielding as they marched forward. Godric, a behemoth of a warrior wielding a broadsword the size of a man, stood shoulder to shoulder with Akash. Fallen flanked his right, his scythe glinting in the faint light. Together, they formed an impenetrable wall of death, their movements deliberate and methodical.
The defenders struck first, their maces and flails crashing against the Ukari's steel-plated armor. The weapons glanced off harmlessly, the sound of metal on metal ringing out like distant thunder. The Ukari retaliated with brutal efficiency. Godric's broadsword cleaved through a man's shield, the sheer force of the strike snapping the defender's arm like a twig. The man crumpled to the ground, lifeless before he hit the mud.
War Dancers darted between the Ukari, their blades slipping through gaps in the defenders' shields. They worked like needles, weaving between the hulking warriors to land precise, surgical strikes. The Ukari, in contrast, were blunt force incarnate. They weathered blows that would shatter lesser men, their sheer strength and resilience crushing the defenders' spirits as much as their bodies.
Fallen lost his khopesh in the fray, but it didn't slow him. His gauntlet-clad fist shattered a defender's helm, the blow collapsing the man's skull with a sickening crunch. Another soldier lunged at him, and Fallen responded with an elbow strike that broke the man's jaw, sending him sprawling into the mud.
Vyn moved like a ghost through the chaos, his movements fluid and elegant. A faint hum resonated from him, the melody of the War Dancers guiding his strikes. His blade moved with surgical precision, cutting down enemies with effortless grace. He seemed untouchable, every attack slipping past him like water.
The defenders began to break. Their line faltered as the Ukari and War Dancers pressed forward, forcing them to retreat deeper into the keep. Desperation took hold, and a few men turned toward the Lunar Storms outside, their faces pale with fear.
"Rot like the rest of your city, you snakes!" one of the defenders shouted. His voice was raw with hatred, but his body trembled. "You took Rhaine from us! I'll kill you myself!"
The man charged recklessly, his mace raised high. Godric stepped forward, his broadsword swinging in a wide arc. The blow crushed the man's ribcage, the sound of shattering bones echoing through the corridor. The defender collapsed, his body convulsing once before going still.
The remaining defenders hesitated. One by one, they turned toward the Lunar Storms, their desperation outweighing their reason. "We'll follow our lieutenant to his death," one of them muttered. "Better the storm than the snakes."
What fools.
The Lunar Storm greeted them with silent cruelty. The first man stepped into the mist, his body shuddering as the unnatural energy consumed him. His skin began to crack and flake, turning to ash that was carried away on the wind. Blue veins spread across his body, his breath caught in his throat. He fell, a lifeless husk, before he could take a second step.
The others followed, their fates no different. One by one, they withered and died, the storm's unyielding embrace sparing none.
Akash wiped his blade clean as they regrouped in the open courtyard of the keep. Only the barracks remained.
"The last of the defenders are holed up inside," Vyn said, his tone matter-of-fact. "The ones without mooneye silk."
Fallen turned to Akash, his voice calm but firm. "What would you have us do, Oathsworn?"
Akash sheathed his sword, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. "Block the entrance. Wait for the morning."
Murmurs spread among the War Dancers. One of them, braver—or more foolish—than the rest, stepped forward. "Why waste time? Why leave our backs exposed?"
Before Akash could respond, a towering Ukari stepped forward. His armor was a masterpiece of ornate steel, its edges gilded with gold. A cleaver-like spear rested on his shoulder, its blade gleaming in the stormlight. The War Dancer froze as the Ukari fixed him with a piercing glare.
"And what right," the Ukari rumbled, his voice like rolling thunder, "do you have to question the Oathsworn's decision? If you crave death so desperately, I will grant it."
The War Dancer stepped back, his defiance crumbling under the Ukari's gaze.
Vyn's voice cut through the tension, calm but pointed. "Burn the barracks. If they wish to hide, we'll make them pay for it."
Akash's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
War Dancers began moving toward the barracks, torches in hand. Akash stomped toward Vyn, his voice rising above the rain. "Stop this madness now."
Elys growled at his side, the massive cat baring its bloodstained fangs. Fallen and the other Ukari bristled, their hands tightening around their weapons.
The courtyard grew tense as the factions stood at odds, the storm a fitting backdrop to the brewing conflict.