Akash stared into the flames licking at the night air, their heat brushing his skin. The inferno roared louder than his thoughts, but Nakba's voice slithered through, sharp and insidious.
"Look closely, fool," Nakba hissed, its voice coiling around Akash's mind like barbed wire. "All these animals do is fight over the scraps of a rotting carcass. It's amusing, really. No matter how much you deny it, humans crave death. It's time you accepted that simple truth."
Akash's lips remained sealed, his jaw tightening as he gritted his teeth.
"Watch now," Nakba pressed, its voice thick with mockery. "Look at what you've sown. All because you wanted to be someone important—an Angel of the Red Sands." Nakba spat the title back at him like venom.
The name stung. Akash's fingers dug into the dirt, his knuckles whitening as he ground his hands into the mud. Rhaine's blood, already darkened and cold, seeped into the soil beneath him. Fight with conviction, Rhaine had said. Yet this—this wasn't conviction. It wasn't honor. It was cowardice wrapped in fire and death. These men weren't threats; they were prisoners.
Fallen's voice broke through Nakba's taunting. "It's no use, Akash. Holes have already opened in the barracks. The Lunar Storms will claim them."
That was when the screaming began. From the flames or the mist, Akash could not tell. Nor did he care. The shrill cries pierced his chest like the tip of a blade, twisting deeper with every second. He clenched the dirt harder, letting the grit dig into his palms.
Fallen stood nearby, unmoving. He watched the War Dancers cautiously, daring any of them to take advantage of Akash's moment of weakness. Slowly, the other Ukari circled around their Oathsworn, forming an impenetrable wall of flesh and steel. Their silence was deafening, their watch unwavering. They would not break their oath, no matter how far their Oathsworn fell into despair.
Akash was slow to rise. His arms trembled as he pushed himself from the ground, battle fatigue weighing heavy on his muscles. The screams continued, threading through the crackling fire. Then, they faded—smothered by the Lunar mist or snuffed out by the flames, he could not say. Only silence remained.
Ash drifted through the air, some of it catching on his damp face. Hundreds had died tonight. Not in the chaos of battle but as victims of convenience, pawns in a game they couldn't escape.
The mist swirled around him, unnervingly gentle against his skin. Its cool caress felt wrong—almost mocking. Akash's eyes remained fixed on the burning barracks, his voice emerging as little more than a whisper. "Go get some rest, Ukari."
The command was soft, haunting, riding the still air like an unfinished hymn. His gaze never left the flames.
Fallen hesitated, his khopesh still drawn. "We will guard the Oathsworn," he responded, his tone resolute.
Akash didn't answer. His word was law, and Fallen obeyed it without question. The Ukari lingered for a time, ensuring no War Dancer dared disturb their charge, before retreating to their campfire. Even Fallen paused before leaving, casting one last glance at Akash.
"There is still war to be had, Akash," Fallen said. His voice carried a rare softness, like an old friend offering comfort. "Close yourself to death until the battle is won. Then we can mourn the unjust."
Fallen departed, leaving Akash alone with the burning remnants of the barracks. The flames danced, consuming everything in their path, their hunger insatiable.
For a fleeting moment, Fallen thought he saw something—or someone—behind Akash. Two shadowy figures stood in the inferno's glow. The first loomed tall, regal, with feathered wings unfurling wide, their edges rimmed in golden light. A crown rested upon its head, and its armor gleamed, though its expression was grim. Flames poured from its outstretched hands, merging with the fire devouring the barracks.
The other was a darker reflection. It stood in stark contrast, its presence heavy and oppressive, drinking in the light around it. The figure's hands were blackened, charred like smoldering coals. Its smile was sharp, predatory, its eyes brimming with a cold, calculating hunger. It looked almost amused, as though it had expected this outcome all along.
Fallen's breath caught, but he said nothing. His hand instinctively brushed the hilt of his weapon as he turned away. Perhaps it was time for change, he thought grimly. The Ukari had been stagnant for too long, and their survival depended on more than their Oathsworn. It would not be enough to fight for a god or a hero. No, they would have to follow something far more fragile.
A man.
The night crawled on, the flames reduced to little more than embers. Rhea and Titan sank below the horizon, their pale light fading as dawn crept closer. The barracks were nothing more than ash now, the ground scorched black where it once stood.
Akash finally stirred. He walked toward the Ukari, his steps slow and deliberate. They turned to him, their conversations dying as he approached. He stopped by the bonfire, its flickering light casting shadows on his hunched frame.
His voice, hollow yet firm, broke the silence. "This will not happen again. I will not let another choice be taken from anyone like this."
The Ukari exchanged glances, their murmured acknowledgments barely audible over the crackling fire.
"Were there any losses?" Akash asked, his tone cool, detached.
Fallen stepped forward. "Only Aarni sustained injuries. He will heal well enough for the coming battle."
Akash nodded. His eyes flicked to the four Ukari seated closest to him. "And the four here? I would know your names."
The first stood, his gauntleted claws scraping softly against each other. "I am Creed, the second oldest of the Ukari. You have my claws, Oathsworn."
The next pulled off his helmet, revealing deep scars running vertically across his face. Burns marred the edges of his jaw. His voice was steady as he said, "I stand as your shield. My name is Audacia."
The third possessed a slimmer frame and no weapon on him at the moment. His armor was lighter, his movements quick and precise. "Cadius," he said. "A horse rider from another life."
Lastly, the tallest of them rose. His bulky armor gleamed faintly in the firelight, and he carried himself with the poise of a knight. Bowing low, he introduced himself. "We have met before, Oathsworn, but an introduction is fitting. I am Godric. None shall touch you as long as I draw breath."
Akash looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering for a moment before nodding. It was a small gesture, but the meaning was clear. They were more than just warriors bound by an oath—they were trusted.
The Lunar Storms finally began to recede as the first rays of dawn stretched over the horizon. The ethereal mist dissipated, revealing their next objective. A black prism loomed in the distance, its sheer size dwarfing the landscape around it. It seemed to swallow the light, its walls glinting like obsidian. Even from Mount Pyre's vantage, the Spire was an oppressive sight, reaching skyward like a cursed monument.
"It looks like a fortress," Akash muttered, his eyes tracing the jagged edges of the Spire.
Creed scraped his claws together, a faint metallic rasp. "The last God King of Reem to attack a Spire barely reached the Atta fields. His army was crushed before it even touched the gates."
"Those are just stories," Audacia replied, though his tone held little conviction.
"There's truth in every story," Creed countered.
Akash's voice dropped to a whisper. "A full army broken before the gates… will we win? Was this worth it?"
Creed's response was dry. "Perhaps. If we fail, we'll make sure the Hopekiller won't recover."
Fallen sharpened his scythe methodically, its edge gleaming. "One Spire captured and then the greatest gate guarding western Lorian falls. It's a gamble."
Cadius handed Akash a piece of roasted meat. "Keep your strength up. Can't have the Angel freezing up like he did before."
Akash accepted it, his fingers tightening around the food. "It won't happen again," he said quietly, though his gaze drifted to the smoldering remains of the barracks. Rhaine's defiant figure burned in his memory—a man who had tempered the storm, even as he fell to it.