Rising Tension

The rhythmic thudding of drums echoed through the valley, a heartbeat of doom reverberating across the rocky plains. The armies clashed between the swaying reeds where a narrow scar of sand cut through the ground. The defenders of the Bridge stood firm, an unyielding wall of soldiers wielding cutlasses and spiked flails. Their left arms bore pointed shields, red and silver-lined, with a tilted cross engraved boldly at their center. These weren't ordinary soldiers—they were an elite, armored force, clad in thick leather reinforced with steel. Though not as cumbersome as knightly armor, their protection carried a weight of bulk and menace that outmatched the lightly armored men of Reem.

Atop their helmets perched black feathered plumes that trailed behind like banners of death. The helmets, full-faced and expressionless, gave no hint of the men beneath, their anonymity adding an eerie uniformity to their ranks. These were not desert warriors; their presence here was an insult, a deliberate show of dominance by an enemy far removed from the sands of Reem.

At the front of this fearsome force rode three figures, each more imposing than the last. The first was Karl the Mourning Sword, a Cordian general summoned from the icy north to wage war in the blistering heat. His nickname, Widowmaker, was well-earned. His broadsword, the Sword of Grief, hung menacingly at his side, its hilt as black as midnight. His armor shimmered with a frosty sheen, as if the chill of his homeland clung stubbornly to him even here. His horse, a towering black destrier, stamped the ground, its muscles rippling beneath its barding. The tears etched into his plate armor reflected the morning light, a silent testament to the lives he had destroyed.

Beside him rode Tannhauser, the Knight of Rusting, a Spatan warrior who bore the mark of the rune-god of his homeland. His copper-gray armor was chipped and scarred, each dent a reminder of battles survived and victories won. In his left hand, he carried a colossal ax, its edge gleaming cruelly in the sunlight. Though his armor seemed worn and battle-weary, his presence radiated raw, unshakable power, the kind that could cleave through men and morale alike.

And finally, in the center of the formation, commanding the full weight of the defenders, rode the Hopekiller.

The Bloodless elf, infamous for extinguishing the light of Reem's greatest hero, was a vision of despair incarnate. His skin was an unsettling shade—muted and ashen, like scorched earth with cool undertones of shadow. It evoked the bleakness of an autumn sky choked with storm clouds, an unnatural pallor that spoke of death and ruin. But his face—his face was a thing that haunted dreams. Along his left eye spiraled azure tattoos, the patterns intricate and alien, coiling outward in unnatural symmetry. His mismatched eyes were a thing of nightmares: one a solid white, void of life, while the other glinted with an iridescent blue that seemed to peer into a man's very soul.

The Hopekiller's armor was a marvel of craftsmanship and terror. Sleek and seamless, it clung to him like a second skin, its surface polished to an eerie metallic sheen. The material, gravitite, was a rarity beyond imagining, a substance whispered about in legends as unbreakable and impenetrable. Its joints were reinforced with thin, black filaments that flexed and moved with an almost organic grace, allowing him to strike and bend with inhuman agility. The heaviest plating protected his torso, arms, and legs, while the thinner sections gave him unparalleled mobility. The armor seemed alive, a nightmare blend of elegance and lethality.

Even his horse seemed otherworldly—a pale beast with eyes like dying embers. As the Hopekiller sat atop it, silent and composed, he radiated the calm of a predator confident in its dominance.

"Damn gravitite armor," Creed muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with unease. "I haven't seen that in ages. How did an elf come to wear it?"

Akash's jaw tightened, his hand absently brushing through Elys's fur as the sabertooth growled low in its throat. "If we face him, can we win?"

Creed glanced at him, his expression grim. "Armor alone doesn't make a warrior. But… it's gravitite. Breaking it would take everything we've got—and even then, your resin-infused blade might only chip it if you don't hit him just right."

Godric chimed in, his voice steady and resolute. "On our word, none will touch you, Oathsworn. Not even the Hopekiller."

Akash shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "If the Ruin breaks out, I want you all to run. That's an order."

"I will not!" Godric barked, his defiance as sharp as his blade.

Creed inhaled deeply. "You're not getting rid of us so easily, kid. Besides, I can't let Cadius have the last word."

Vyn, ever the pragmatist, let out a soft chuckle. "Fine. I'll be the only one with sense and run. Someone needs to live to tell the tale."

"Thanks, Vyn," Akash muttered, though his tone lacked humor. His gaze flicked toward his Ukari companions. "This isn't a suggestion—it's an order. The first and only one I'll ever give."

The Ukari exchanged glances but said nothing. Their silence was answer enough.

The armies clashed as the forces of Reem surged forward. Drums thundered and horns blared, signaling the beginning of the assault. The Dauntless Company held firm, waiting for their moment as Reem's khopesh infantry collided with the defenders beneath the Gate of Honors.

The sounds of war filled the air—steel on steel, the cries of the wounded, the hiss of arrows cutting through the sky. Blood soaked the ground, pooling between the reeds as the bodies of men fell. Time seemed to stretch and compress, the chaos of battle warping reality. Akash forced himself to stay calm, his hand tracing the Impresa mark on his chest as he waited for the call to act.

Veneres sat tall on his mount, his voice steady as he gave orders. "We wait until their flank buckles. Then we strike."

Akash nodded, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for the command. His fingers gripped the hilt of his resin-infused blade, the Tridact glowing faintly in his hand. This was the moment. The Angel of the Red Sands would fight beneath the shadow of the Bridge, and all of Reem would see it.

The thundering of hooves signaled the Dauntless Company's charge. Veneres led the assault, his warhorse galloping forward with unrelenting speed. Akash followed close behind, Elys roaring as it bounded through the reeds with predatory grace.

The defenders' line fractured under the onslaught, but still, the Bridge loomed above them, its walls unbroken, its watchtowers filled with archers raining death. Volley after volley of arrows hissed through the air, but shields rose to meet them, men pushing forward as blood drenched the scar of sand beneath their feet.

Akash's blade struck like lightning, cutting down the enemies before him. His movements were fluid, precise—a dance of death as he carved a path through the chaos. Beside him, the Ukari tore through the ranks, their claws and khopesh blades drenched in red.

And still, the Hopekiller watched from above, silent and unmoving, a grim reminder of the impossible odds they faced.

The battle for the Bridge had begun, and with it, the fate of Reem hung in the balance.