Another pause. The silence between blows spoke for Akash. It was a silence filled with tension, fear, and the whispered song of the battlefield thrumming in his ears. He gripped his blade tighter, his bloodied hands trembling ever so slightly.
The Cursed Child's voice, laced with malice, slithered into his mind again, words that felt heavier than the blade in Akash's hands. "Not at all. In your ripples, my Master sees your vibrations shift the threads of fate. You are the last warden of a stagnant Lorian. A Nomarch lost to this time. A waste to protect something so foul."
A noise that should not have been possible—a discordant sound like the tearing of reality—echoed in Akash's head. The creature's voice became a low vibration that resonated in his chest, weaving threads into his thoughts, "I am the courier of the Prince of Fate, Lassnal! A Cursed Child of Fate seeking freedom from its strings. The General that causes your layer to tremble."
Akash's blood ran cold as the air around the Cursed Child shimmered and cracked. The moment the name Lassnal entered his mind, he felt it like an iron claw gripping his chest. The name alone warped the space between them. Threads—glowing, spiraling, impossibly intricate—appeared and dissolved in an endless cycle, weaving and fraying themselves faster than the eye could follow.
The Cursed Child's ethereal voice deepened. "You, Akash Dorher, I open my arms to you, if you are truly what my Master speaks of. My Master grows weary of the self-styled heroes who anchor themselves to the weave of fate, unable to rip apart the threads of my patron. But you are different—you are a Nomarch. The last of them. The final echo of a dead Age."
Akash swung his blade, the sound of steel cutting through the air sharp and focused. But the Cursed Child danced out of his reach effortlessly, its body almost weightless as it glided back.
"This moment was preordained," the creature hissed, its jagged teeth clattering in mocking delight. "Long have I served my patron, weaving fates that would bring me here—to this crag, to you. You are the last beat of the heart of a dying Age. The resolution has finally come."
Akash snarled, his blade flashing again, cutting through the chitin of a nearby Karnen instead. Its carcass collapsed, clearing the way for a scrambling War Dancer to retreat. Akash stepped forward, his focus narrowing once again on the Cursed Child.
The creature baited him with its words, its voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. "That heartbeat, so entrenched in Lorian's poisoned tune, flushes rot through a broken carcass. And you? You are its poisoned center—ready to be torn out, rewoven, and made into a new weave, a better world."
Akash's lips curled into a sneer as he advanced, his blade held firm. "Fallen, I need your help!" His voice was ragged, his strength waning from the relentless battle. His words barely made it through the cacophony of war.
Fallen appeared beside him in an instant, his scythe cleaving through the torso of a flying Karnen that had been descending upon them. Its shattered body crumpled into the blood-soaked dirt. Fallen's eyes glowed faintly beneath his helmet, his expression unreadable but resolute.
"I did not lie when I said I would watch out for you, Oathsworn," Fallen said, his voice calm despite the chaos.
But the Cursed Child laughed, the sound grating and otherworldly. "How little you mortals understand! Lassnal's weave cannot be undone by your feeble blades. Soon, my Master will thread this layer into his own, and all will see the truth of fate: the inevitability decreed to every soul. Your resistance only delays the inevitable."
It opened its arms wide, and for a brief moment, all the Karnen froze in place. Their heads twitched unnaturally toward the Cursed Child as its voice boomed across the battlefield.
"Rejoice! The Weaver gifts this upon you—a shard of the new world to come. Lorian will be remade, and your meaningless struggles will be woven into perfection. Fall to your knees and accept your place in the threads of fate. I will guide you."
Tendrils of shimmering threads erupted from the Cursed Child's arms, writhing and snapping through the air like living things. Akash reacted instinctively, his blade flashing as he severed one of the tendrils. He darted forward and sliced into the creature's arm, severing the limb.
For a moment, he felt a surge of triumph.
But then, before his eyes, the threads around the Cursed Child began to pull the severed limb back into place. The glowing strands knitted flesh and chitin together, reforming the limb as though nothing had happened.
It raised a single clawed digit, the air around it shimmering with unnatural energy. The strike came faster than Akash could react, but a blur of steel intercepted it.
An Ukari had stepped in, sacrificing himself to block the blow. The warrior's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his blood pooling around Akash's feet.
The Cursed Child tilted its head, its voice as calm as ever. "Threads combine with the new and the old, as they are reborn in the Weaver's vision. Choice will be purged. Immortality will reign. There will be no war, no suffering—only peace under the Architect of Fate."
Akash felt the fury rise in his chest, burning hotter than the pain from his wounds. "Peace? You slaughtered my village for your peace. You don't speak of fate—you speak of domination."
The Cursed Child's voice sharpened, dripping with venom. "The last defender stands before me, his faith dwindling as his men run. Where is your faith now, Angel? Gone. Your followers are broken. All that remains are twisted anathemas to your dying name."
Its laughter echoed again, and Akash clenched his teeth. "Talk all you wish, creature," he spat. "I care not for pitiful words."
With a sharp, precise swing, his blade cut clean through the creature's clawed hand. But even as the severed limb fell, threads wove through the air, pulling it back together as though it had never been injured.
The Cursed Child's jagged maw curled into a grotesque smile. "As the Weaver foresaw. Your defiance will feed the threads. Your hope will shatter on these stones with your last breath."
It struck again, threads weaving across its skin as it moved with inhuman speed. Akash barely managed to dodge, the edges of the threads slicing deep into his arm. Another tendril shot toward his chest, but Fallen's scythe intercepted it, the blackened blade cutting through the shimmering strand.
"Focus, Akash!" Fallen barked, his voice like an anchor pulling Akash back into the rhythm of the fight.
Akash's movements became sharper, more deliberate. He twisted his feet, his blade slicing through threads and flesh alike as the Cursed Child lunged toward him with its elongated claws.
Elys roared and sprang at the creature, his massive fangs seeking to tear out its throat. But the air around the Cursed Child shimmered, and a burst of threads flung the sabertooth back into the horde of Karnen.
"Elys!" Akash shouted, panic flashing across his face.
"Focus, Akash. We deal with the injured later," Fallen snapped, barely saving him from another thread that sought to take his head.
The battle raged on, blood and ichor painting the sands as Akash and Fallen advanced on the Cursed Child. Their blades and scythe carved through Karnen and threads alike, their movements part of the melody that thrummed through the chaos.
But the Cursed Child remained unyielding, its voice ringing in their minds like a death knell. "You cannot kill me, Nomarch. You cannot sever what the Weaver has bound. Your fate is tied to mine, and only together shall we fall."