The flame of a candle flickered softly, its light casting shadows that swayed on the canvas walls. Akash Dorher sat hunched on his cot, knees drawn up, head resting low. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, every inhale a struggle as though the very air resisted him. Slowly, he raised his head, the blankets pooling around his waist. The resin-infused blade lay beside him, its hilt catching the dim light. Without thought, his hand reached for it, fingers wrapping around the cool, familiar grip.
The blade didn't answer his turmoil, but it dulled the ache—just slightly. It steadied the chains he felt tightening around his mind, the suffocating pull of Nakba's whispers clawing at the edges of his consciousness.
"Dammit." The word slipped through his teeth, quiet and sharp. He bit out the word again. "Dammit. Dammit." His grip on the blade tightened until his knuckles paled, but it didn't stop the tremors in his hands.
Ripped flags. Fallen bodies. The unblinking stares of the dead scattered across the battlefield. The images came unbidden, flashing across his vision. They called it the Decimation of Pyre. That was the name the survivors had given it, though no name seemed worthy of the chaos they'd endured. A skirmish turned into a massacre, a mountain swallowed by blood and fire.
The army had retreated to the Spire, the settlement offering a fleeting reprieve. Wounded soldiers groaned under canvas roofs, surgeons worked until their hands bled, and the rest scoured the ruins for bodies—alive or dead. There was little to salvage, even less to celebrate. Was it worth it?
Akash stared at his hands, calloused and scarred. Hands that once wielded a hunter's bow, that once skinned game by the fires of Morgoi. Back then, death had been necessary, purposeful. Here, it clung to him like a second skin, suffocating and relentless. These men, these women—they hadn't died fighting an honorable battle. Most hadn't even seen the blades that cut them down.
The Angel of the Red Sands, they called him. Yet here he sat, hiding in his tent while the world burned. What kind of angel let his wings falter in the face of tragedy? Jassin would have called him weak for it.
And Nakba... Nakba would laugh.
The tent shifted slightly in the wind, the flaps brushing against one another. Then came a knock at the wooden post. "Oathsworn?" Godric's voice was steady, familiar. "Is everything all right? You were shuffling in your tent."
Akash took a breath, forcing his hands to stop trembling. He strapped the blade to his side, the hilt heavy against his palm. He pushed his exhaustion down, swallowed it whole. There would be time to think—to grieve—later. For now, he needed to move. Men still needed him, even if he wasn't sure how much he had left to give.
The Angel of the Red Sands couldn't rest.
He shoved the flaps of the tent aside, and the harsh light of day met him. The sun hung low in the sky, its pale glow muted by the swirling ash and rubble. Lorian's ring glimmered faintly above, its usual brilliance dimmed. At his side, Elys padded silently, the red-furred creature nuzzling against his palm. Akash ran his hand through the fur absentmindedly, grounding himself in the simple, comforting action.
Godric stood at attention, his broadsword in hand, sharp and ready. "How long have I been asleep?" Akash asked.
"Only a few hours, Oathsworn," Godric said. "But it would do you well to rest longer."
Akash's gaze didn't meet Godric's. "And would Fallen have agreed to that? He would say there's more to be done."
"He would." Godric's tone softened, weighted with loss. "But you're not Fallen."
Akash's jaw tightened. "I would see his body again."
Godric hesitated, then nodded, his voice quiet but firm. "He'd tell you not to waste time on the dead, Oathsworn. Our war is far from done."
Akash brushed past him, his voice steely. "I'll see the injured first. And the fallen. I would see them off to their next life."
Godric fell into step beside him, his expression unreadable. "As you command, Oathsworn. Fallen will go to the depths with his head high and scythe in hand."
The walk to the medical tent was slow. The Spire was a shadow of what it had been, rubble choking its streets. Bodies, both human and karnen, littered the ground. The chitinous corpses of the karnen horde lay scattered among broken steel. Akash's gaze swept over them, his jaw set tightly. Each step felt heavier than the last.
The Dauntless Company scoured the ruins for survivors, their movements mechanical and joyless. Nearby, Reem Templars walked in formation, their gleaming armor pristine, untouched by the grit of battle. They strode with pride, heads high, as though the victory was theirs. Akash's lip curled in quiet disgust. The Templars might have walked unscathed, but the Dauntless carried the weight of the dead on their backs.
Inside the medical tent, the air was thick with the mingling smells of blood, herbs, and sweat. Akash stepped in, his boots squelching faintly on the dirt floor as rows of injured soldiers turned their heads toward him. Some whispered his name—"The Angel of the Red Sands." Others simply stared, their expressions a mix of awe and exhaustion.
A woman with rust-red curls and emerald-green eyes spun to face him, a blade in her hand. Her expression hardened instantly. "If you're not injured, leave," she snapped. "We've enough bodies to tend without adding a loitering officer to the mess."
Akash hesitated. The sharp tone didn't bother him, but the sight of her face gave him pause. There was something familiar about her… though he couldn't place it. It didn't matter now. "I'm here to see the wounded," he said, steadying his voice.
The surgeon—her name, he'd overheard, was Imi—folded her arms across her chest, a scalpel still gripped in her hand. "Then make it quick. Some of these men won't rest with you walking about."
Elys padded beside him, her ears twitching as the whispers grew louder. Akash scratched her behind the ears absently, his mind already racing. He nodded to Imi. "I won't take long."
She narrowed her eyes but relented with a sigh, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Follow me," she muttered, leading him to the first cot.
The man lying there was missing an arm, the stump roughly bandaged. His remaining eye was covered with a patch, but he turned toward Akash with a wry smile as soon as he approached. "Ah, the famous Angel himself," the man rasped. "Come to lift our spirits?"
Akash forced a smile, though the words felt hollow in his throat. "I came to see the heroes of Reem," he said softly.
The man chuckled weakly. "Heroes? Hardly. Just men who couldn't duck fast enough."
Akash knelt by his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You fought. You bled. That makes you a hero in my eyes."
The man's smile faltered, but there was a warmth in his expression that hadn't been there before. "Thank you," he whispered.
Imi touched Akash's arm lightly, breaking the moment. "There are others," she said, softer now.
Akash rose and followed her as she led him from cot to cot. Some men tried to laugh, others wept, and a few could barely whisper. He listened to each, offering what words he could, though they felt inadequate compared to the weight of the suffering around him.
At last, Imi stopped at a closed-off section of the tent, her expression wary. "This is… the Ukari," she said quietly, glancing at him. "We weren't sure what to do with the body. It's…" She shook her head, as though unwilling to finish the thought. "I'll give you a moment. Call if you need me."
Akash nodded, stepping through the partition without hesitation.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of a single candle. Fallen lay on a wooden slab, draped in a simple black shroud that covered most of his massive frame. His skin—what little was visible—had turned unnaturally pale, spiderwebbed with cracks like dry earth. Even in death, his features held the stoic pride that had marked him in life.
Akash approached slowly, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the silence. He stood over the slab, staring down at the man who had been his shield, his confidant, and his friend.
For a long moment, he didn't speak. His throat burned with unspoken words, his chest tight with emotions he didn't know how to name.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. His fingers brushed the edge of the shroud, trembling slightly. "I should've been faster. Smarter. I should've…" He trailed off, the words catching in his throat.
Fallen, of course, gave no reply. There was only the silence, oppressive and unyielding.
Behind him, the heavy sound of boots on dirt broke the quiet. Akash didn't turn, but he recognized the footsteps instantly.
"You'll gain nothing from lingering here, Oathsworn," Godric said, his voice calm but firm. The big Ukari loomed in the doorway, his presence as unshakable as ever. "Fallen wouldn't want this."
Akash's jaw tightened. "I know," he said. "But I needed to see him one last time."
"You've seen him," Godric replied. "Now honor him by leading us forward. The war isn't over."
"I know that too," Akash said, his voice softer this time. "I'll be out soon."
Godric nodded and stepped back, leaving him alone again.
Moments later, Vyn entered, his presence like a crack of sunlight breaking through a storm. He held two mugs, a sly grin playing on his lips. "You're brooding too much again, Angel," he said, setting one mug down beside Akash. "Drink. For Fallen."
Akash glanced at the mug, then at Vyn. "He would've told me to stop wasting time."
"Exactly why we toast him," Vyn said, raising his own mug. "For Fallen. May his scythe swing forever."
Akash hesitated, then picked up the mug. He raised it high. "For Fallen."
The two drank in silence, the shared grief between them needing no further words. When the mugs were empty, Vyn clapped him on the shoulder and left, his grin fading as he stepped into the cold air beyond the tent.
Akash placed the mug beside Fallen's body and stood there for a long moment, his hand resting on the edge of the slab. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.
But there was no answer. Only silence, and the weight of what still lay ahead.
The room was silent except for the faint crackle of the candle burning in the corner. Akash stood motionless over Fallen's body, his hand resting on the edge of the wooden slab that held his friend. The flickering light caught on the cracks in Fallen's pale, weathered skin, casting shadows across his features. Even in death, the warrior looked resolute, his expression fixed in a peace Akash couldn't seem to find.
Akash exhaled slowly, his breath trembling as it escaped him. His shoulders sagged under the weight he had carried since the battle. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the rough edge of Fallen's shroud. For a moment, he pulled back, unsure if he had the right to even touch the man he had failed. But then, as if compelled, he placed his palm against the cool fabric, his fingers curling into it.
"I failed you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. He stared at the face beneath the shroud, willing it to move, to open its eyes, to tell him he was wrong. But the room remained still. Fallen remained still.
Akash swallowed hard. His throat was tight, his chest a hollow ache. "I thought... I thought I could save you," he said, his voice cracking. He didn't know if he was talking to Fallen, to himself, or to the empty room. "I thought I could save all of you. That if I was strong enough, if I made the right choices, no one would have to die."
His grip on the shroud tightened. He lowered his head, his burgundy hair falling forward to hide his face. "You followed me," he said, the words slipping through gritted teeth. "You believed in me. And I... I led you here. To this."
The candlelight flickered as if in answer, but the silence only pressed harder against him. Akash's hand slid from the shroud to the edge of the slab. He leaned against it, his body sagging under the weight of guilt. He was trembling now, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
His knees buckled, and he dropped into the chair beside the slab, burying his face in his hands. The tears came before he could stop them, hot and unrelenting. He hated it—hated the weakness, hated that he could cry when Fallen couldn't, when so many others never would again. He was supposed to be their leader. Their Angel. Angels didn't cry. Angels didn't fail.
But he had failed.
"I'm sorry," he choked out, the words muffled against his hands. "I'm so sorry, Fallen."
For a moment, the room was filled only with the sound of his quiet sobs. Then, there was a soft rustling behind him. Akash stiffened, hastily swiping at his face with his sleeve. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. He didn't deserve their pity.
"Akash?" The voice was hesitant, gentle.
He turned his head slightly to see Imi standing in the doorway. She was clutching a roll of bandages in her hands, her expression hesitant and careful, as though she wasn't sure whether to step closer or leave him to his grief.
"You shouldn't be in here," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
She ignored him, stepping inside anyway. "I came to check on you," she said softly. "I... heard voices earlier, but it's quiet now. I thought..." She trailed off, her green eyes darting between him and Fallen's still form.
"I'm fine," Akash said quickly, pushing himself upright. He couldn't look at her. Couldn't let her see whatever was written across his face.
"You're not," she said simply, setting the bandages down on a nearby table. She walked over to him, her footsteps soft against the dirt floor. When she stopped beside him, she crouched slightly, meeting his downcast gaze. "No one would be."
Akash shook his head, his jaw tight. "It doesn't matter. I don't have the luxury of breaking down. Not now. Not with so many still counting on me."
Imi didn't argue. Instead, she reached out, resting her hand lightly on his arm. It was a simple gesture, but it made him pause. Her touch was steady, grounding. For the first time, he realized how cold his own skin felt.
"You think this was your fault," she said softly, not as a question but a statement.
"It is my fault," Akash muttered, his voice sharp. He finally looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed and raw. "They followed me. They believed in me. And now they're dead."
Imi's expression didn't change, but there was something in her eyes—something firm yet understanding. "You think that makes their deaths meaningless?" she asked. "Do you think they'd want you to carry that weight alone?"
Akash flinched but said nothing.
She stood, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before stepping back. "You can't save everyone, Akash. No one can. But you can honor them by fighting for the ones who are still here. By making sure their sacrifices mean something."
He didn't respond. Instead, he stared down at the slab again, his fingers brushing the edge of the shroud one last time.
Imi watched him for a moment longer before stepping toward the door. "Take your time," she said softly. "But don't lose yourself in this. They need you out there."
When she was gone, Akash remained seated, his hands resting on his knees. He took a deep breath, his chest still tight, but the trembling had stopped.
At last, he rose. He placed a hand on Fallen's shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time. "I'll make it mean something. I promise."
The flickering candlelight caught his blade as he turned and walked out of the room. Fallen's stillness lingered behind him, but the war beyond the tent waited. Akash would face it. He had no other choice.