The giant gripped his spear with both hands, veins bulging across his arms as he swung the weapon down with the force of a collapsing mountain. The air seemed to shatter under the blow, and the ground beneath them cratered with an audible crack. Any ordinary man would have been obliterated, reduced to pulp under such an assault.
But Veneres was no ordinary man.
He ducked low, his alabaster and lapis armor gleaming under the filtered light of the storm. The spear slammed into the earth where he had been a heartbeat before, but Veneres did not pause. He surged forward, closing the gap as his ax unlatched from its mechanism with a resounding click. The motion was precise, the timing perfect. The hatchet swung out, its blade gleaming, and drove into the hybrid's unarmored gut with a sickening crunch. Bone splintered, muscle tore, and blood spurted onto the broken ground as Giantspear staggered backward.
A dull, wet thud followed. Giantspear fell, his massive frame crumpling like a broken statue. The life in his wild eyes faded as the hybrid's blood seeped into the sand, mingling with the countless others who had died that day.
Veneres stood over the corpse, his boot planted firmly on the fallen lieutenant's chest. His blade and ax dripped crimson as he methodically wiped them clean against the hybrid's tattered tunic. The motions were clinical, detached. No thrill of victory flickered in his expression—only quiet, steely indifference.
"This is the best the West can offer?" he muttered, his voice barely carrying above the sound of distant skirmishes. "Pathetic. If the Bridge holds warriors like this, it will crumble before my shadow even falls upon it."
He glanced at the shattered spear beside the dead hybrid. "What a waste. If he had been properly trained, he could have been a tyrant. A true beast of the battlefield."
The words were not meant for anyone, yet the Reem Templars around him roared in approval. They soaked up his dismissal of the enemy like sponges, drawing strength from his cold confidence. Fueled by their leader's indomitable presence, they charged forward, their lances piercing the last semblance of resistance among the defenders.
Veneres took one final look at the lifeless body beneath his boot before mounting his warhorse in a single fluid motion. His mount snorted, eager to continue the advance, and he spurred it forward without hesitation. The defenders faltered, but a few rallied for a desperate counterattack.
Veneres sighed inwardly. Interesting tactics, but futile.
The counterattack ended as quickly as it began. Steel clashed, men screamed, and a hundred more fell. The Spire defenders crumbled, their final attempts at resistance snuffed out like a dying ember. Their blood painted the streets, mingling with the ash and rubble left by the Atta cannons.
Victory came not with a triumphant roar, but a lingering sizzle.
The Templars followed their leader, their armor and weapons gleaming with the blood of their foes. They paused only when Veneres raised his hand. His sword, still gleaming with the residue of battle, pointed at the retreating enemy soldiers.
"Hold," he said, his tone soft yet commanding. The word cut through the air like a blade, halting the Templars in their tracks. Even the horses, mid-gallop, obeyed his voice as though compelled by some unseen force.
The commander of the Reem Templars rode up beside him, his expression strained. "We should pursue this advantage while we have the chance, Veneres," he urged. "The enemy is in disarray. We can crush them completely."
Veneres's gaze didn't waver from the fleeing men. "Their leader is dead?" he asked calmly.
The commander blinked. "Yes, Veneres, but—"
"Then we have achieved what we came for," Veneres interrupted, his voice as steady as stone. "Let them run. Let them carry this defeat back to their Hopekiller. They will spread the tale of this day. Of how their lieutenant was felled. When the time comes for the battle at the Bridge, they will remember this—and they will break. Fear will do more than any sword."
The commander hesitated, weighing the words. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, Veneres."
"Good," Veneres said, his tone making it clear the conversation was over. "Clean out the rest of the Spire. I will find Dante and inform him of the success."
"Veneres, that's highly illogical—" the commander began, but he was silenced by a single glance.
"Perhaps I was unclear," Veneres said, his tone deceptively light. "Or perhaps you simply failed to listen."
The commander pursed his lips but relented. "Yes, Veneres."
"Good." Veneres turned his horse and spurred it forward. "I expect the Spire to be fully secured upon my return."
The streets of the settlement blurred as Veneres galloped through them. The reins were firm in his grip, his body perfectly balanced atop his mount. He spoke to the empty air, his voice as steady as ever.
"Many of the archers on the Spire's walls fell too easily. I wonder if that was your doing, Masika."
The shadows shifted, their edges twisting unnaturally. From the rafters above, banshee-like figures emerged, their forms barely visible through the lingering mist. A faint ticking sound echoed, the rhythmic drumbeat of unseen machinery. At their center hung the Queen of Banshees herself, her haunting presence radiating an aura of predatory calm.
"We have the same goal, Veneres," she said, her voice smooth and melodic, like honey laced with venom. "It would not do for such a valuable ally to fall so early."
"Spare me your pretty words," Veneres replied flatly. "I have no patience for games, Masika."
She laughed lightly, her banshees shifting behind her like restless shadows. "All men say that. But there is always a price, Veneres. Even for you."
He didn't flinch. "I let your Court live because you are useful. Don't make me regret that decision."
Masika's tone turned colder, her smile sharpening. "You are called the Souleater for a reason, are you not? The stories of Reem's underbelly are far more interesting than you let on."
Veneres's voice was razor-edged. "Speak that name again, and I will wipe your Court from existence."
The banshees hissed, their voices a chorus of discontent, but Masika raised a hand to silence them. "And what would you use to accomplish such a thing, Veneres? The King may favor you, but even you are a pawn in his game."
"Perhaps," Veneres said, his smirk returning. "But at least I am a pawn worth keeping alive. Can you say the same?"
Masika's lips twitched, her control slipping for a fraction of a second. Then, she inclined her head. "What do you wish of me?"
After issuing his warnings to Masika, Veneres rode on, leaving the banshee queen to her machinations. His horse's hooves pounded against the ground as the settlement blurred past. Each second brought him closer to his true purpose.
Then, he found him.
Dante.
The Paramount leaned against a bloodied wall, corpses littered around him. His once-immaculate armor was drenched in blood and grime. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his head rested against the cold stone.
"Dante!" Veneres called, dismounting and striding toward him.
Dante's weary eyes opened, focusing on the approaching figure. A weak smile tugged at his lips. "Veneres... I thought you were dead," he rasped. "Where were you?"
"I was taking the Spire," Veneres said, his tone even. "What happened here?"
Dante chuckled, the sound hollow and pained. "The defenders… they pounced as we entered the city. My guards… they're all dead." His voice grew softer. "Jassin will be furious, won't he? He always did care more about details than I did…"
Veneres placed a hand on Dante's shoulder. "You need to rest."