Akash always said she was vindictive, and Daenys was inclined to agree.
Even now, as her mind drifted between awareness and oblivion, that stubbornness was all she had to hold on to. She opened her eyes—or at least she thought she did. The world around her was black, a viscous void that lapped at her like tar. It clung to her arms and legs, trying to root her in place, suffocating yet alive. Her movements were slow and heavy, more like trudging through knotted vines than swimming. The inky liquid clung tighter with every step, pulling her downward.
She stumbled as the darkness rose to her hips, her breaths ragged and shallow. There was no sound except the faint, rhythmic drumbeat of her heart echoing through the void. Ahead of her, a single sliver of light pierced the black—a thin, distant thread that barely seemed real. Yet it was there, unwavering. Her only guide.
"You are mine," a voice hissed, sharp and cold, slithering into her thoughts like a needle.
The words struck her like a hammer, and she faltered, her knees sinking into the liquid. Shadows swirled before her, forming shapes she could barely perceive.
Webbed tendrils glided across Daenys' vision, flowing like strands of silk caught in an unfelt breeze. They shimmered faintly, threads of shadow interlaced with veins of muted, ghostly light. The air—or what passed for it—grew dense and oppressive, carrying a metallic tang that clung to her throat. Shapes flickered within the darkness, shifting and reforming, refusing to fully solidify.
And then, she saw her.
The woman emerged like a specter from the deep. Her form was impossibly elegant yet grotesque, her silhouette long and serpentine, limbs stretching unnaturally like the roots of a poisoned tree. Each movement she made was slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey. Her spindle-like arms radiated an eerie, fragile beauty, her fingers tipped with delicate claws that gleamed faintly in the dark. With a grace that felt practiced beyond comprehension, she began to weave.
Light spilled from Daenys' chest in slow, agonizing threads. The pale glow trembled as it was drawn forth, unwilling yet powerless to resist the pull. Every strand seemed to hum with some deeper resonance, a fragment of her essence being plucked away.
The spindle-armed woman tilted her head, the motion impossibly smooth, as though her neck lacked bone. Her face remained obscured, wrapped in a veil of shifting shadows that refused to let Daenys see her clearly. But Daenys could feel her gaze—an unrelenting, intimate scrutiny that seemed to burrow into her very soul.
As the woman wove, the strands of light began to take form. A serpent emerged, its body an intricate tapestry of alabaster scales that shimmered with threads of silver and gold. The serpent's movements were liquid, impossibly fluid, each ripple of its body betraying an elegance far removed from the natural world. Its eyes were twin orbs of swirling energy, their light mesmerizing and infinite, as though entire constellations had been trapped within them.
The serpent coiled at the woman's feet, and the tendrils of darkness surrounding Daenys reacted instantly. They recoiled from the creature, hissing and writhing like dying embers. But the tendrils were not done. They lashed out again, desperate and frantic, clawing toward Daenys with renewed fury.
She staggered as the pain in her chest flared, sharp and consuming. The wound where her heart should have been radiated a burning, searing light, pushing back the tendrils each time they neared. The light pulsed like a heartbeat, defiant and unyielding, eating away at the darkness that dared come too close.
The spindle-armed woman's movements quickened, her hands blurring as she spun more threads into her creation. She was beautiful and terrifying, her every action an artful display of control. The serpent hissed softly, its eyes locking onto Daenys as it began to slither toward her. Its body gleamed in the half-light, its scales shifting like woven silk, as though its very being was not entirely solid.
"You are mine."
Daenys winced as the pain lanced through her skull, sharp and burning. The tendrils of the dark twisted and writhed around her, tightening their grip. Then, from the shadows, she saw it—a spindle of light, unraveling from her chest.
"No…" she breathed, but the light continued to flow out of her, drawn toward the figure. The silhouette leaned closer, and she saw it clearly for the first time: a woman with grotesquely long, spindle-like arms, each finger spinning threads of light. Her touch was delicate but cold, as if every motion stripped something vital from Daenys.
The light the woman took from Daenys coalesced into a serpent, an alabaster creature with scales threaded like fabric and eyes of swirling luminescence. The serpent's body rippled as it slithered toward her, its gaze fixed and unblinking.
The tendrils of darkness hissed and recoiled from the serpent's presence, but they remained latched onto Daenys, as if unwilling to relinquish her. She gasped as a sharp, burning pain erupted in her chest—the place where her heart should have been. The light that still pulsed there burned brighter, forcing the tendrils to retreat further.
"I am no one's pawn," Daenys snapped, her voice shaking but firm.
Her heart thudded harder, its rhythm steady and defiant, driving back the darkness. Slowly, she forced herself to her feet, her steps growing steadier. Each movement sent ripples through the ink, but the sliver of light ahead never wavered.
"Your mother always accepts your gift," the spindle-armed woman said, her voice soft but cutting.
Daenys gritted her teeth as the pain in her chest flared again. The serpent coiled at her feet, its body brushing against her legs like cold silk. Another figure emerged from the shadows—a hulking, misshapen beast with too many limbs and hollow eyes that seemed to pierce through her.
Her steps faltered as she felt something slip away, like sand falling through her fingers. A name surfaced in her mind—Akash. A promise. A place. She tried to hold onto it, but the memory flitted away like smoke, leaving only the echo of a feeling.
The light ahead grew brighter, pulling her forward. Daenys marched on, her will rallying behind the steady drumbeat of her heart. She didn't look at the serpent or the beast; they weren't real. They couldn't be. The light was her only salvation.
At last, she reached it. The darkness peeled away, and Daenys stumbled into a blinding radiance.
Her vision cleared, and she found herself standing before a throne carved of jagged stone. The figure seated upon it lounged with an air of disinterest, its massive form radiating an aura of control.
"The battle continues as Estil ravages their oppressors," it rumbled, its voice low and resonant, like the distant roll of thunder.
"Then send me back," Daenys demanded, though her voice wavered. Her body was trembling, her chest aching where the hammer had struck her.
The god leaned forward, its red eyes glinting with amusement. "Your little warband will win without you, Gahkar."
It rose from the throne, and the ground beneath her feet shook. The god's six arms hung at its sides, each one holding a weapon—a sword, a halberd, a spear, a staff, a bow, and a jagged blade. Its skin pulsed with veins of golden light, and its mane of fiery orange-red hair billowed behind it like flames.
Daenys felt the weight of its presence pressing down on her, suffocating and inescapable. She struggled to remain standing as the god's gaze bore into her.
Below them, the Pickette stretched out like a tapestry. Her warband crushed the last of the defenders, their cries of fury driving the Astadians back toward their final hold. Tengri knelt in the center of the chaos, cradling her lifeless body, while Tasha barked commands at the remaining troops.
"Why are you showing me this?" Daenys asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The god tilted its head, a smirk playing on its lips. "I thought this was what you wanted—to see the fruit of your tactics."
It stepped closer, and the air around her grew heavy. "Or perhaps you would rather see another war?"
Before Daenys could protest, the scene shifted.
She saw Akash. He stood alone in a field of corpses, his crimson blade raised high as blood dripped from his blackened hands. His burgundy hair was matted with sweat, and his muscular frame trembled with exhaustion, but his stance remained unyielding. Behind him loomed a massive structure that bridged the mountains, its shadow swallowing the battlefield.
"Akash!" Daenys gasped, reaching out instinctively.
The god's laughter rumbled like an earthquake. "Is this what you wish for, Gahkar? To leave your war behind and chase a boy whose destiny is already written?"
"Akash cannot die," Daenys snapped, her voice breaking.
The god's form shimmered, and the oppressive bloodlust in the air grew sharper. The light dimmed, and another presence emerged—a spindle-armed woman, stepping from the shadows with her serpent coiling at her feet. Her threads of light twisted and tangled around the god's weapons, as if trying to pull them away.
"She is mine," the woman hissed, her voice laced with venom.
The god sneered. "Not anymore, Mother. She fights on my soil now."
With a swing of its halberd, the god severed the threads connecting Daenys to the spindle-armed woman. The serpent hissed and recoiled, fading into the dark.
Pain erupted in Daenys' chest, sharp and all-consuming. The god stepped closer, holding a glowing heart in its massive hand. Without hesitation, it thrust the heart into her chest.
Daenys screamed as the heat seared through her, burning away the shadows and filling her with a terrible, raw energy.
The god's voice echoed in her mind as the light consumed her. "Rise again, Heartrender. The war is far from over."
As the radiance faded, Daenys caught a glimpse of another figure. Clad in flowing crimson silks, it stood silently at the edge of the light. Its face was hidden behind a golden mask, and a spear rested on its back. Unlike the War God, this figure exuded a quiet, solemn authority.
Before Daenys could speak, the light was gone, and the battlefield returned. The weight of her body slammed into her, and she awoke to the chaos of the Pickette.