Akash stood, his legs trembling beneath him, his body screaming in protest. Pain flared in every muscle, every joint, but he forced himself forward. His bloodied blade rose again, trembling in the air, a reflection of his unsteady resolve. This was what he wanted—to be a blademaster. Not just one in name, but one whose skill was tested in the fires of battle. One who stood against the odds, against impossible foes like the Cursed Child.
Jassin's voice whispered in his mind, a memory carried through the haze of exhaustion. "The perfection of the blade is only found in dying."
The words dug into him. Perhaps this was his chance. If he died here, it would not be as a failure or a man unworthy of the title he bore. No, he would die as Akash Dorher, the Blademaster, the Angel of the Red Sands.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. His mind settled on a single thought—a gamble. One perfect, heavy, overhead strike. That would end it. That had to end it. But the strike would need to be flawless. If he was too fast, the blow would miss. If he was too slow, the creature's tail would rip through his stomach before his blade could find its mark.
The Cursed Child's eyeless gaze flicked toward him as it traded blows with Fallen, who moved like a man possessed. The Ukari's ruined armor hung from his shoulders in tatters, pieces of it falling to the blood-soaked rocks with every swing of his scythe. The Cursed Child's claws raked over him, tearing into the exposed flesh beneath.
Fallen refused to fall. Each blow of his scythe came closer to its target, the deadly arc slicing through threads that recoiled and wove themselves anew. But the Cursed Child blocked every strike, its claws twisting unnaturally, its threads tightening the weave around them both.
Akash stepped forward, the weight of his blade growing heavier as the moment approached. This was it. He raised his sword, his muscles screaming in protest, and prepared to bring it down with all the strength he had left.
Fallen swept his scythe again, its edge cutting through the air. The Cursed Child lunged, one claw plunging deep into Fallen's side. A sharp wheeze escaped the Ukari's lips, his breath hitching as blood poured from the wound. Yet Fallen did not retreat. His free hand clamped down on the Cursed Child's arm, locking it in place.
The creature hissed, threads writhing around it as it tried to wrench its hand free.
"Akash!" Fallen roared, his voice raw and guttural. "Do it now!"
Godric's voice thundered in the distance as the remaining Ukari carved a path through the Karnen swarm. "Hold the line, Oathbreakers! Raise your weapons and fight! Prove your strength to the Angel and the First King!"
The surviving War Dancers hesitated at the gates, their awe palpable as they watched the Ukari stand against the endless tide.
Audacia's voice rang out above the chaos. "Heft your weapons high and spurn the monsters, Oathbreakers! Stand tall against the Chained Gods and fight! The Oathsworn and Fallen strike at the enemy's leader—by their will, we endure!"
Godric joined the chorus, his bastard sword drenched in ichor. "Come home with your enemies on your shields or with yourself upon it! Join the Ukari in our rage for our fallen brothers!"
The battlefield surged as Atta fire streaked into the Karnen ranks, buying precious moments for Akash.
Fallen clutched the Cursed Child in a vice grip, his scythe arcing toward its neck. The creature twisted, blocking the scythe with its free claw as threads coiled tighter around it. Its body pulsed with energy, trying to escape Fallen's grasp, but the Ukari held firm, his blood pooling at his feet.
This was Akash's moment.
His blade descended, a heavy, deliberate strike aimed to end the nightmare once and for all. Time seemed to slow as his vision blurred, blood from his head dripping into his eyes. His body, wracked with pain, faltered just as the blade fell.
He missed.
The Cursed Child stepped to the side, its twisted grin widening as it avoided the blow entirely. Akash's heart sank, his momentum leaving him exposed as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself. The creature's tail lashed out, barbed and deadly, and Akash knew he would not be able to move in time.
Fallen's scythe swung one last time, slicing through the air. The Cursed Child's attention snapped to the greater threat as it wrenched its claw free from Fallen's grip. Its tail shifted mid-strike, redirecting toward Fallen's chest.
The barbed tail pierced through Fallen's armor, embedding deep in his torso. Blood erupted from the wound, spraying across the rocks. But even as the life drained from him, Fallen did not falter. With a final surge of strength, his scythe struck true, sinking deep into the Cursed Child's chest and through the threads that held it together.
The creature screeched, its threads fraying as the scythe tore through its body. Blackened ichor poured from the wound, staining the rocks as the threads began to unravel.
Akash forced himself to move, his blade plunging into the creature's chest alongside Fallen's scythe. The resin-infused steel cut through its twine-like skin, pinning it to the ground.
The Cursed Child lashed out in desperation, its tail slicing into Akash's upper hip. He grunted, pain searing through his abdomen, but he refused to relent. With a gauntleted fist, he grabbed the tail and tore it from the creature's body. He held it aloft, bloodied and defiant, as he stared down at the monster pinned beneath him.
Fate would not save the Cursed Child.
An ethereal voice echoed in his head, trembling with disbelief. "Impossible. I threaded these strings myself. They could not be broken. Even in this weakened state, the Weave guided this. Yet it has frayed. Impossible!"
For the first time, fear marred the creature's features. "What are you?" it rasped aloud, its voice shaking.
It was not Akash who answered.
The battlefield shimmered, fading into a plane of ash and darkness. Nakba's voice, low and mocking, rang out. "Pathetic. You couldn't even kill my container."
The Cursed Child shuddered as a misaligned jewel glimmered in its forehead. Nakba appeared, holding a shard of the jewel in his palm. "You've killed many. I suppose I owe you my thanks. It's always difficult to collect these shards."
The ash dissolved, and Akash growled, "Nakba!" But the only response was the creature's laughter, viscous and cruel, reverberating across the battlefield.
The Cursed Child, broken and bloodied, whispered, "So I was not the one to set this world ablaze..."
Akash's blade descended, cutting clean through the Cursed Child's neck. The creature's head rolled across the blood-soaked stones, its sharp-toothed maw frozen in a faint, eerie smile. The last of its threads unraveled into the air, dissolving into faint wisps of light before disappearing entirely. The frenzied Karnen faltered, their bodies seizing up as if the threads animating them had been cut. One by one, they crumpled to the ground, lifeless, their screeches fading into silence.
For a moment, the battlefield stilled. The rhythmic thrumming of war, the chaotic melody that had carried Akash through the fight, finally quieted. The echoes of the battle faded into the winds, leaving only the rasp of Akash's heavy breathing.
His body trembled, his bloodied blade dragging in the dirt as he turned. Pain pulsed through his side where the Cursed Child's tail had struck him, and his vision swam from exhaustion and blood loss. But it was not over.
Fallen still stood.
The Ukari warrior remained rooted in place, his body battered and broken. Blood seeped from the deep wound where the Cursed Child's tail had pierced him, pooling at his feet and painting the stones beneath him a deep crimson. His scythe was embedded in the ground for support, its blackened blade still slick with ichor.
Akash staggered toward him, the resin-infused blade clutched tightly in his hand. "Fallen," he rasped, his voice raw, barely above a whisper.
Fallen didn't turn to look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the Spire loomed in the distance, silhouetted against the dying sun. The golden light bathed the battlefield in a soft glow, a stark contrast to the carnage that littered the ground.
"I promised to keep you alive, Oathsworn," Fallen said, his voice calm despite the tremor in his chest. "I will not break that oath. Not because I am an Ukari, but because it was my destiny."
Akash's chest tightened. He reached out, taking a step closer, his voice cracking. "Fallen… you need to sit down. You're—"
Fallen's lips curved into a faint, weary smile, the kind of smile that carried the weight of a thousand battles. "No," he said, cutting Akash off. His voice was quiet now, softer, but no less resolute. "I will not die kneeling. An Ukari dies on his feet."
His scythe groaned slightly as he leaned against it, his glowing eyes flickering as his strength began to wane. "You owe me a drink, Oathsworn," Fallen added, his tone laced with faint humor. "A fine one. None of that cheap swill Vyn drinks."
Akash took another step forward, his hands shaking as he gripped the hilt of his blade. "You can have as many drinks as you want. Just hold on. We can get Lyra. She'll—"
Fallen exhaled, the sound almost like a sigh, as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted from his shoulders. His gaze never left the horizon, where the sun dipped lower behind the Spire.
"I kept my oath," he murmured, more to himself than to Akash. His voice was distant, his words trailing off into the wind.
Then, silence.
Fallen remained standing, his body held upright by the strength of his will alone. His arms were crossed over his chest, his scythe still embedded in the ground beside him. To anyone who looked upon him, he appeared not as a dying man, but as a sentinel—a warrior who had defied death itself to keep his word.
Akash stood there, his legs threatening to give out beneath him, as he stared at the fallen warrior. His breathing was shallow, his chest heaving, but no words came to him.
He had failed.
Becoming the Angel of the Red Sands had not been enough. All the power, the conviction, the endless hours of training—it wasn't enough to save Fallen. His gamble had cost him everything. And now, the weight of that mistake pressed down on him like an iron chain.
The Ukari around him began to gather, their battered forms assembling in solemn silence. Godric stepped forward, his bastard sword dripping with black ichor, his face grim. "He kept his oath," he said quietly, his voice heavy with reverence.
Akash clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until blood seeped from the fresh wounds. He wanted to scream, to curse himself, to beg for a second chance. But instead, he stood in silence, staring at Fallen's still form.
The sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting the battlefield in shadow. The Angel of the Red Sands had won.
But the cost was one he would carry forever.