What War Costs

All twenty of the Ukari towered over the War Dancers, their presence suffocating beneath the ethereal glow of the Lunar Storms. At that moment, they seemed less like men and more like statues carved from stone—impassive and immovable, their features cold and unyielding against the storm's shifting hues. The mist coiled around them like ghostly tendrils, hissing faintly against their armor.

Akash's voice cut through the heavy air, sharp and biting. "And what good would this do, Vyn?"

The Sovran's gaze shifted to him, his expression unperturbed. "We cannot waste manpower guarding enemies, Akash. Not when the Spire awaits us at sunrise."

Akash stepped forward, his hand shooting out to grip the hem of Vyn's undershirt. The rain streaked down his face, but the fire in his eyes burned brighter than the storm around them. "And so your solution is to burn them alive?" His voice wavered between fury and disbelief. "Who made you the executioner? Who gave you the right to decide when a man no longer gets to see his wife and children? They didn't choose to fight this war, just like we didn't."

The War Dancers shifted uneasily, their weapons at the ready, while the Ukari remained still, their weapons raised like silent sentinels. Even in the tense stalemate, the faint howling of the Lunar Storms was unrelenting, a mournful dirge that twisted through the air.

Vyn chuckled, the sound low and bitter. "Those men you pity so much are the same ones who lock us behind a wasteland of sand and salt. While we scrape together what we can in Reem, they feast on verdant fields that yield more in one season than we see in years." His voice carried a venom that was almost casual, as though he were recounting an undeniable truth.

"They're soldiers," Akash snapped. "They follow orders—just like you, just like me! They deserve a choice, Vyn."

Vyn's tone turned condescending, his smile curving upward in mock sympathy. "And did they give us a choice, Akash? When we begged for food, when we broke ourselves against their walls, did they offer us mercy?" His gaze hardened, the smile fading. "No. They raised those walls higher."

"That doesn't make this right!" Akash roared, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "There are lines I won't cross."

Vyn's reply was cold and cutting. "Then perhaps you should have stayed in your fairy tales, Ward. The real world doesn't care about your lines." He gestured toward the War Dancers, who began to move toward the barracks, torches flaring to life in their hands. "Apathy is what wins wars. And I'll do what needs to be done."

Akash's fury reached a breaking point. His hand flew to the hilt of his blade, wrenching it free with a metallic ring. Elys, sensing the tension, crouched low beside him, baring his bloodied fangs. The great cat's growl rumbled like distant thunder, cutting through the murmurs of the War Dancers. The Ukari responded instantly, their weapons gleaming in the dim light as they raised them in readiness. Twenty towering warriors, their blades poised, faced the War Dancers who hesitated under the weight of their presence.

Vyn sighed, almost amused by the reaction. "You may be Jassin's ward, Akash, but I am the Sovran. This is my decision." He swept a hand toward the barracks. "Throw the torches."

The War Dancers hesitated, unsure whether to move under the combined glare of the Ukari and the snarling Elys. Tension coiled tighter, pressing against the air like a bowstring about to snap.

"Do not do this, Vyn." Akash's voice trembled with desperation, the blade in his hand trembling with it.

Vyn met his gaze evenly, unflinching. "I will. Because I must."

The moment dragged, each second feeling stretched by the weight of the storm around them. Then, the smell of smoke hit Akash's nose. His head snapped toward the barracks. A War Dancer, emboldened by Vyn's command, had already thrown his torch. Flames licked hungrily at the wood, spreading rapidly as if eager to devour everything in their path.

"No!" Akash's voice cracked as he sprinted toward the blaze, his sword falling from his hands. Dirt sprayed up around him as he slid to his knees beside the growing fire, frantically scooping handfuls of mud and tossing them onto the flames. The wet soil hissed and blackened but did little to stop the inferno. He clawed at the earth, his hands raw and trembling as he fought against the inevitable.

No one moved to help him. The Ukari stood silent, their faces grim. The War Dancers remained where they were, their expressions ranging from indifference to quiet satisfaction. Even Elys stilled, his amber eyes fixed on his master with a mournful glint.

Akash's breaths came in ragged gasps as he threw another handful of dirt onto the fire. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. His mind screamed at him to keep going, to do something—anything—but the truth clawed at him with every rising flame.

A hand fell on his shoulder, heavy and unyielding. The weight of it sent a shiver through him, colder than the rain. Nakba's laughter echoed in his skull, sharp and cruel.

"I warned you," the demon whispered, its voice coiling like a snake around his thoughts. "All those deaths lie on your hands. No matter how hard you try to save them, all you do is destroy. That's what you are, Angel of the Red Sands—a harbinger of death wrapped in borrowed ideals."

Akash swatted at the hand instinctively, but there was no one behind him. Only the storm, the flames, and the corpses that littered the battlefield. He sank lower, his knees pressing into the mud as his fists tightened.

The Lunar Storms seemed to mock him, their ghostly hues twisting through the courtyard like specters dancing in the night. The mist coiled around the burning barracks, illuminating the faces of those trapped inside. Their screams mixed with the howling winds, faint but unmistakable. He could see their silhouettes behind the warped wood, clawing at the walls, desperate to escape the fire.

Akash trembled, his fists sinking into the mud. He gritted his teeth, his breath ragged as the flames reflected in his burgundy eyes. He couldn't save them. Not this time.

Nakba's voice returned, smooth and insidious. "You've crossed no lines tonight, Akash. Yet still, they burn. Convince yourself that your humanity matters, if you wish. The truth is written in the flames."

Akash's head fell forward, the rain mingling with the sweat and dirt on his face. For a moment, he closed his eyes, shutting out the fire, the storm, the carnage. But the screams wouldn't leave him. The faces wouldn't fade.

When he opened his eyes, his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"I will never become you," Akash whispered, his voice steady despite the storm that raged within him. His hands shook, but his resolve burned brighter than the inferno before him. "Never."

He rose, turning back toward Vyn and the War Dancers. His voice cut through the night like steel. "Enough. I'll finish this war my way."

Vyn tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. But Akash didn't care. He stepped forward, the flames at his back casting a long shadow that stretched across the courtyard.

No more lines would be crossed. Not by him.