Gahkar Rev

Daenys pursed her lips, biting back the irritation that rose like bile in her throat. So this was how it would be, then? She forced herself to stand tall, her hands clasped firmly behind her back as she addressed the guards. "Is this how Rev treats another Gahkar?" Her tone was sharp, cutting through the silence that hung around the Deathless like a shroud. "Or do you always raise your weapons against the sons and daughters of Estil?"

Her words landed like stones dropped into still water, rippling unease through the guards. Their blackened tassels swayed in the faint breeze as they shifted uncomfortably in their polished armor.

A murmur passed through their ranks, just low enough to be audible. "Heartrender." The word hissed and whispered between them like the flicker of a flame. They thought she wouldn't hear it, but she did. The title—unshakable now—was an invisible brand seared into her flesh. A mantle she neither sought nor understood, but one she would bear nonetheless.

The head of the Deathless stepped forward, his spear planted firmly in the dirt. "Go to Gahkar Rev," he commanded, voice edged with restraint. "Tell him another Gahkar has come to speak." He turned sharply and departed, leaving the others to watch her with their cold, calculating eyes.

Behind her, Tengri tensed like a drawn bow. His hands hovered near the bandages that hid his otherworldly eyes, his entire form brimming with restrained violence. "To threaten a Gahkar…" he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.

Daenys cut him off, her voice even but firm. "Let it go, Tengri. They're just testing us."

His hands didn't move from the edges of his bandages, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It is a grave insult to raise arms against a Gahkar, especially under the protection of parley."

Tasha, standing just to Daenys' left, showed no outward reaction, but Daenys knew her well enough to see the signs. The faint twitch at the corner of her lips, the tightening of her grip on her sickle—small, subtle tells that revealed the hunter's readiness to kill at a moment's notice. Her one good eye darted across the camp, scanning for escape routes or any potential advantage should a fight break out.

Daenys placed a calming hand on Tasha's shoulder. "Easy, Tasha," she murmured. "Hunters know when to choose their battles."

Tasha snorted softly, her lips curling into the ghost of a smirk. "I don't need a lecture."

"Then act like it," Daenys shot back, her tone clipped. She couldn't afford any bloodshed here—not yet. Rev's Deathless were too valuable to Estil's cause, even if she had no intention of bending the knee to their Gahkar.

A faint rumble of hoofbeats pulled their attention, and Daenys' breath caught as Rev rode into view atop his warhorse. The sight of him stirred something uncomfortable in her chest—nostalgia, pride, bitterness, and a faint sting of betrayal, all tangled together in a knot she couldn't quite unravel.

The man was as she remembered: grizzled, his gray hair flowing beneath his familiar red cape. His armor bore the scars of a thousand battles, its once-polished steel tarnished and dented by time and violence. His pauldrons were adorned with the snarling heads of wolves, each one seeming to howl silently as the wind caught his cape. He moved with the fluidity of a man who had long since mastered the weight of his station.

Rev dismounted with practiced ease, his boots landing heavily in the dirt as he strode toward her. The Deathless flanked him, their presence a wall of black and gold steel.

"I hear they call you Heartrender now," he said, his voice steady and unreadable.

Daenys inclined her head, meeting his gaze evenly. "Warmaster Rev," she replied, her tone betraying nothing.

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the Deathless. They didn't miss the subtle slight—her refusal to address him as simply "Warmaster." Among the Gahkar, the title was sacred, a mark of utmost respect. But she was a Gahkar now, and she would not bow to him.

Rev's expression didn't change. His face remained as still and impassive as stone. "So," he said at last, "you've risen to Gahkar." There was no warmth in his tone, no acknowledgment of pride or approval. It wasn't a question, nor was it a compliment.

"Yes," Daenys replied curtly. "I have much to discuss with you."

Rev's eyes narrowed, just slightly, before he turned and began walking toward his tent. He didn't offer her a word of praise, nor did he ask how she fared. He didn't even glance over his shoulder to see if she followed.

It stung more than she wanted to admit.

For all he had done for her—for all the lessons, the guidance, the battles they had fought together—Rev's indifference cut deeper than any blade. The man who had once saved her life, who had taught her the art of war, couldn't even muster a shred of concern for her well-being.

Daenys swallowed the lump in her throat and followed him, Tasha and Tengri at her side. "Wait outside the tent," she instructed them.

Tengri stiffened, his brows furrowing beneath his bandages. "I do not like this, Gahkar," he said. "The Deathless are dangerous, and Rev—"

"Rev saved my life once," Daenys interrupted. "If he wanted me dead, he would have left me to die on the battlefield long ago. Besides, you've seen the Deathless fight. We wouldn't stand a chance if we attacked now. Just wait here."

Tasha shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "Your funeral," she muttered, though Daenys caught the flicker of unease in her expression.

Daenys pressed her hand against the crimson flaps of the tent and stepped inside.

The interior of Rev's tent was sparse, practical. A single table dominated the space, its surface littered with maps and markers. Nine small flags protruded from the table, each one representing a Gahkar's position. At the center of the map stood a crude model of the Pickette, its spiraling structure marked with lines of ink where past assaults had failed.

Rev stood at the table, his hands braced against the edges as he muttered to himself. "The Impalers hold the docks," he said, his voice low. "The Sengus have footholds in the larger buildings. Reinforcements have been routed, and a wyvern was slain..." He sighed, his tone heavy with frustration. "And still, the Pickette stands."

Daenys stepped closer, folding her arms across her chest. "Then we need another tactic," she said, breaking the silence.

Rev turned to face her, his brow furrowed. "I respect your title of Gahkar—"

"Then you know the approach must change," Daenys interrupted.

Rev's jaw tightened, his voice hardening as he cut her off. "I wasn't finished, Daenys."

Her name fell from his lips like a reprimand, a reminder of who he was and what he had taught her.

"You are a Heartrender," he said simply, as though the title explained everything.

Daenys' eyes narrowed. "Saying my name as if it's a counterargument won't work, Rev. If there's a point to your statement, I'd prefer you get to it."

Rev's gaze darkened. "It is a curse."

"A curse," Daenys repeated flatly, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "A fine word, Rev, but a vague one. If you're going to insult me, at least have the decency to explain yourself."

Rev's hand shot out, his finger pressing against the scar over her heart. "Every Heartrender Estil has ever known brought tragedy in their wake."

Daenys slapped his hand away. "Then it's fortunate I don't believe in fairy tales. Or curses."

Rev's voice rose, his frustration boiling to the surface. "You don't understand, Daenys. You died. You fell, and in doing so, you cursed your warband. This is not a matter of belief—it is a fact. Heartrenders bring ruin. They always have."

"And yet, Astad's cavalry is dead, its reinforcements shattered, and the Pickette closer to falling than it has ever been," Daenys countered, her voice sharp as a blade. "You call it a curse, but I see only victory."

Rev leaned forward, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Your warband calls you blessed because they are fools. The wise see the truth. Each time you die, you will lose a part of yourself. That is the price of being Drema's Heartrender. And one day, there will be nothing left of you."

Daenys stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. "And what am I supposed to do with this... knowledge?" she asked quietly.

"Survive," Rev said. His voice was softer now, almost regretful. "But do not expect me to entrust the lives of my men to you."

The words cut deeper than she expected, but Daenys lifted her chin, refusing to let him see the hurt. "I didn't come here for your trust, Rev. I came as a Gahkar. Nothing more."

Rev studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Then we stand as equals."

But they both knew that wasn't true.

As Daenys turned to leave, Rev's voice stopped her. It was softer now, almost a whisper. "Do not let Drema's curse consume you, Daenys. I would hate to outlive you."

She paused, her hand resting on the tent flap. For a moment, she considered looking back. But she didn't.

Outside, Tasha and Tengri waited. Tasha tilted her head, her expression curious. "Well?"

Daenys forced a smile. "We have much to discuss at camp," she said. "But first, let's leave this place. The night is growing old, and we have work to do."