The morning sun crept higher, its light chasing away the last of the mist. Akash's conviction hardened as he stood, his shoulders squared. The battle ahead would be brutal, but he wouldn't falter. Not again.
The sound of boots crunching on gravel drew his attention. Vyn approached, his expression unreadable.
"I'm not your enemy, Akash," Vyn said, holding his hands up. "Best if the Ukari keep those weapons sheathed."
Godric snarled, his sword already half-drawn. "Spoken like a true Oathbreaker."
Akash raised a hand, silencing him. "Enough. There will be plenty to kill before the day is done."
"As you command, Oathsworn," Godric said, bowing deeply before stepping back.
Vyn gestured toward Akash. "Walk with me?"
Akash hesitated before nodding. Fallen stirred as if to follow, but Akash's pointed look stopped him. Together, Akash and Vyn ascended to the outlook, stopping before the massive artillery machines perched along the walls.
"The reason we came," Vyn said, motioning to the siege equipment.
Akash said nothing, his eyes fixed on the Spire in the distance. It loomed, black and monolithic, a monument to the war ahead.
Behind them, the flags of the Dauntless Company replaced the tattered standards on Mount Pyre and Dragon Fang Keep. Vyn grinned, tossing the flag of the Angel of the Red Sands over the edge, where it caught the wind.
"It's time," Vyn said, his voice brimming with quiet triumph. "Both keeps are ours. The Spire will fall."
Lyra joined them, her voice steady despite her weary appearance. "Shall we begin?"
Vyn nodded, his gaze never leaving the Spire. "Rain down judgment. Show them why Reem cannot be deterred."
Akash glanced at Lyra from the corner of his vision. Her hands twitched first, slight and controlled, like a musician preparing for the first note of a symphony. Then, her arms followed, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of someone gliding them through unseen waters. The air itself seemed to tighten, constricting as an eerie stillness enveloped the area.
It wasn't silence. It was something worse—a suffocating vacuum that robbed the wind of its voice and the ground of its echoes. Even the clinking of armor and the murmurs of soldiers vanished, leaving nothing but the rhythmic motion of Lyra's hands as she reached toward the Atta cannons.
Akash caught a glimpse of her face. Sweat beaded on her brow, a single drop running down her temple as her focus sharpened. Her breathing quickened. Then, with a motion as subtle as a whisper, she pressed her palm against the cold iron of the machine.
The world cracked.
The cannon shuddered violently, rocking back as if struck by an invisible hammer. In the distance, a devastating thud followed, then an explosion. The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet as the projectile slammed into the walls of the Spire. Shards of stone and steel scattered like autumn leaves, visible even from here.
Lyra swayed but caught herself, already moving to the next cannon. Her movements carried more weight now, her limbs slower, as if she were pushing against an unseen force. Another crack, another launch. The same result—a massive eruption tore through another section of the Spire's defenses.
Finally, Lyra straightened, her shoulders heaving as she tried to catch her breath. She wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve, exhaustion evident in the tremble of her fingers. "Three launches in a single motion," she panted. "It's been... a while."
Other cannons on the ridgeline fired in unison, their attacks peppering the Spire's outer defenses. Distant flames flickered as smoke billowed skyward.
"It's fine, Lyra," Vyn said calmly, his arms crossed as he surveyed the battlefield. "Break as many defensive walls as you can with the Atta cannons. The main assault force is about to begin their advance."
Lyra nodded, her breath steadier now, though her voice still carried the strain of effort. "Do we have any more Drifters? I'll need support if they mount a counterattack."
Vyn shook his head. "Most of the Drifters are engaged in the ground battle, and the rest are spread too thin across our forward positions. You're the strongest one left here."
Lyra's teeth clicked audibly, her frustration palpable, but she didn't argue. Instead, she gave Vyn a pointed look. "And what about you? Will you join the front?"
"I will," Vyn replied, almost cheerfully. "A few troops will stay here to guard the cannons, but I intend to lead the final assault. I can't have Veneres outshining me, can I?" He grinned, but his humor barely masked the tension beneath.
Turning to Akash, Vyn's tone shifted. "Of course, the Ukari will join us—if Akash agrees, that is." His words were casual, almost too casual, as though the decision were a foregone conclusion. But Akash caught the undercurrent, the challenge hiding beneath Vyn's veneer of civility.
The tension between them coiled like a serpent. Akash met Vyn's gaze, his burgundy eyes locking onto the Sovran's amber ones. The air seemed to ripple with the unspoken weight of their shared history and its fractures.
"I have come to win this war for Reem and Reem alone," Akash finally said, his voice low but resolute.
Vyn's grin widened, his tone playful. "Wonderful. I'm glad we could resolve this so—"
Akash stepped forward sharply, his finger jabbing into Vyn's chestplate. The force of the motion silenced the Sovran mid-sentence. "Do not mistake my willingness to support this battle for forgiveness," Akash growled, his voice carrying the weight of his anger and the restraint holding it back. "I am the Angel of the Red Sands, and the people of Reem will look to me on the battlefield. Not you."
For a moment, Vyn said nothing, though his smile didn't falter. He brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face, his golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "I would never ask for forgiveness, Akash. I'm no fool. But perhaps, in time, we can be friends again."
Akash's jaw tightened. "I don't care for your friendship, Sovran. Stay out of my way." He turned sharply, his eyes already scanning the horizon where the main force of the Dauntless Company began its march toward the Spire. Rows of soldiers moved with grim determination, their armor glinting faintly in the pale morning light.
Another bloody battle loomed, another mountain of corpses waiting to be built. Was it worth it? Was this war worth the pain it demanded?
Akash's hand brushed the hilt of his resin-infused blade as his thoughts churned. The weight of the Annealed blade at Jassin's side surfaced in his mind—unbidden, yet persistent. He thought of the promise Jassin had made, the subtle shift in his master's voice when he had offered the blade to Akash if he survived.
"Not yet," a voice whispered. It wasn't Nakba this time. It wasn't even his own voice. It was softer, quieter—a faint echo from somewhere deep within him. "Not yet."
Akash froze, his hand gripping his sword tighter as the phantom words faded. For a moment, the edges of his vision swam with dark red, the color of blood and sand. He blinked, shaking his head to clear it, and the moment passed. The battlefield came back into focus. The world pressed on.
Lyra stepped closer, her voice cutting through the haze of Akash's thoughts. "The rain has stopped," she murmured, glancing at the skies now fractured by streaks of pale dawn. The Lunar Storms had finally abated, their ghostly tendrils dissipating into nothingness, leaving the battlefield beneath an eerie, fragile calm. The rising sun cast weak rays over the Spire, gilding its jagged silhouette like a monument to something ancient and cruel.
Akash followed her gaze. The rain had stopped, yes—but the silence it left in its wake was worse. A brittle quiet settled over the land, so tenuous it felt like the world itself was holding its breath, as if unwilling to witness what would come next.
"Yes," Akash said, his voice low. He forced the whisper that lingered in his mind—alien and haunting—out of focus. "And the battle will begin soon."
Lyra nodded, her fingers brushing absently against the iron cannon beside her. "You'll lead the Ukari, won't you? They'll follow you to the end."
Akash's eyes remained fixed on the looming black prism of the Spire. In the distance, the defenders spilled out from the fortress, an unrelenting tide of bodies rallying near the walls, their movements methodical and precise. They knew the Dauntless Company was coming. They would be ready.
He answered simply, his words clipped, "They'll follow because they've sworn to."
Lyra frowned, her sharp instincts catching the cold edge in his tone. "And you'll follow through. I've seen it—you'll win." Even she wasn't untouched by the Angel of the Red Sands it seemed.
For a fleeting moment, Akash wanted to believe her. But the weight of what was coming crushed the thought before it could settle. He didn't reply. Instead, he turned away from her, away from Vyn, his gaze drawn unflinchingly to the horizon.
The horns sounded then, a deep, mournful cry that echoed across the field. The Dauntless Company surged forward like a black wave, their weapons gleaming as the first ranks charged into the fray. The defenders braced themselves, shields locking as they prepared for the clash. And yet, even as the battle erupted in fire and steel, Akash felt it—something deeper, something worse than swords and bloodshed.
It was not the rain that had stopped. It was everything else.
The world felt unmade, as though the land itself had been stripped bare, leaving nothing but raw, untamed edges. The feeling burrowed into his chest, heavy and relentless. It wasn't fear—it was certainty. Certainty that no matter the outcome, no matter the price, the man standing on this battlefield would not leave it the same as he had entered.
The storm inside him—wrought of choices he had made and those stolen from him—would not abate. It would not let him rest. The battle, the Spire, the war—none of it would cleanse the ache that had taken root deep in his soul. And yet, even with that knowledge, he reached for the hilt of his blade.
The Angel of the Red Sands would walk into the fire. And when it was over, no one—not the Spire defenders, not the Dauntless Company, not the Ukari—would emerge unchanged.
The rain had stopped, but something worse had begun.