The Angel of Ruin

"I can't have you ruining all my fun now, can I?" Akash—no, Nakba—spoke in a voice that was not his own, a smooth, baritone rumble laced with malice. He rose to his full height, gripping the shattered mace in his ink-blackened hands, his lips curling into a predatory grin. The weapon, once a symbol of the Hopekiller's power, crumbled under the pressure of his fingers, reduced to nothing more than useless fragments.

The Hopekiller staggered back, his normally unshakable confidence faltering as he stared at the man—or monster—before him. "How?" the Bloodless elf stammered, his voice tinged with disbelief. "I am of the Bloodless elves. This… this is impossible. Crotas, answer me—what is this creature?"

Nakba tilted his head, the movement almost curious, almost mocking. His amber-glowing eyes bored into the elf's face as if peering into the very marrow of his soul. "Crotas?" Nakba repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "Don't insult me by calling me that pretender's name. I am no false god. I am something far older."

Before the Hopekiller could respond, Nakba struck. His hand shot forward, tapping the elf's pauldron as if swatting a fly. But the lightest touch was all it took. Flesh and bone twisted and burst outward with a sickening crack, and impossibly, blood—real blood—gushed from the elf's arm as it was torn from his body. For the first time in centuries, the Hopekiller bled. His armor, no longer invincible, began its frantic attempt to knit itself around the ruined stump.

"H-How…?" the Hopekiller gasped, his voice trembling. For a moment, his composure shattered, replaced by genuine fear.

Nakba leaned in, his grin widening into something feral. "Oh, how the mighty fall," he whispered, his breath hot against the elf's face. "You think yourself above weakness because of your bloodless curse? Let me show you just how fragile you truly are."

He turned his attention to the battlefield. Men and women still clashed below, blades flashing and arrows soaring through the air. The screams of the dying filled the air—a symphony Nakba relished. He extended a hand, his ink-black fingers spreading wide as the ground beneath him began to tremble.

"It's a shame you've already killed so many of my toys," Nakba mused, his tone light, almost playful. "But I suppose I'll just have to make do. Let's end this little farce."

The Hopekiller, clutching his mutilated shoulder, tried to advance. "Answer me, Ruin! Have you come to break your curse at last?" His voice, though strained, carried a shred of defiance.

Nakba turned to him, his expression shifting into something colder, darker. He grabbed the elf by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Curse?" Nakba spat the word as if it were poison. "Do not mistake me for one of your self-righteous gods, elf. I am not bound by your petty mortal myths."

The air shifted, heavy with malice, as ash began to fall like snow. The sky darkened, and the ground beneath Nakba's feet cracked and splintered, the very earth recoiling from his presence. The once-thriving field of reeds was scorched black, flames erupting in jagged lines across the battlefield. Men screamed as the ground opened beneath them, swallowing them whole or incinerating them in an instant. Entire sections of the battlefield became craters of death, corpses vanishing in plumes of smoke.

Nakba clicked his tongue, turning his gaze to the unconscious form of Godric, who lay crumpled in the ash nearby. "He is your friend, isn't he, Akash?" Nakba murmured, though it was clear he was speaking more to himself than to his vessel. "Watch helplessly as I take him from you, just like all the others."

Nakba raised his hand, the blackened veins pulsing with eldritch energy, preparing to obliterate the fallen Ukari knight with a flick of his fingers. But before he could strike, a blade—ragged and bloodied—sliced through the air, embedding itself in Nakba's shoulder. The force was enough to stagger him, though it failed to draw blood.

Nakba turned his head slowly, his glowing eyes locking onto the Hopekiller, who now stood with one arm, his armor still reforming around his ruined body. "You still stand?" Nakba asked, his voice carrying more irritation than surprise.

The Hopekiller sneered, his voice a rasp. "Ruin or god, it doesn't matter. I killed Hope itself. You will die just as he did."

Nakba chuckled, the sound low and menacing. "Always the same arrogance, the same hubris. You mortals never learn."

In a blur of motion, Nakba closed the distance, his hand slamming into the Hopekiller's chest and driving him into the cracked stone below. The impact shattered the ground, sending fissures spiderwebbing outward. Nakba crouched over the elf, his hand pressing down on the Hopekiller's head, forcing his face into the dirt.

"You were never worth my time," Nakba hissed. "You are nothing but a whisper in the wind, a fleeting shadow." He pressed harder, the stone beneath the Hopekiller's head crumbling further.

The Bridgemen, seeing their leader brought low, let out a collective roar and charged. Arrows rained down, striking Nakba's chest and shoulders, though they might as well have been raindrops for all the damage they caused. Nakba sighed, glancing at the arrows lodged in his flesh as if they were an annoyance.

"Foolish humans," Nakba muttered, his voice tinged with disappointment. He placed his hand on the ground, his fingers digging into the cracked earth. "You just couldn't let me enjoy myself, could you?"

The ground groaned as a wave of corruption radiated outward from Nakba's touch. The Bridge, which had stood for thousands of years, began to collapse. The mighty pillars that supported it crumbled like sandcastles beneath the tide, and the mountains on either side fractured, their jagged peaks falling away in great chunks. The men charging toward Nakba never reached him—they were obliterated in an instant, their bodies consumed by the cataclysmic energy.

When the dust settled, the battlefield was unrecognizable. The Bridge, once an indomitable monument to power, was gone. Only fragments of its uppermost sections, still clinging to the mountainsides, remained. The ground was scarred and blackened, the reeds burned away, leaving only ash and rubble. The very air seemed to hold its breath, as if in mourning for what had been lost.

Nakba stood amidst the devastation, his blackened form illuminated by the flickering remnants of flame. He turned his gaze upward, his glowing eyes narrowing as he stared at the sun. Its warmth touched his face, a sensation he hadn't felt in ages.

"Perhaps I should destroy it too," Nakba mused, his voice thoughtful. "Leave them in darkness. Let their crops wither, their rivers freeze. Let them starve."

He smirked, shaking his head. "No. That would be too slow. Too tedious. I prefer a faster end."

Nakba looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if savoring the sensation of flesh once more. Then, with a sigh, he spoke aloud: "Time to come back, fool."

Control shifted as abruptly as it had been taken. Akash collapsed to his knees, his body wracked with pain. Cuts and bruises covered him, blood dripping from his cracked skin. His muscles screamed in protest as he tried to lift his head, his gaze sweeping over the carnage around him.

The battlefield was silent. No insects buzzed, no voices shouted. Only the sound of the wind moving through the ashes remained. Akash's breath caught in his throat as he looked out across the field.

The land was unrecognizable. Craters stretched as far as the eye could see, their edges charred and jagged. Corpses lay scattered, indistinguishable from the rubble. The vibrant reeds that once swayed in the wind were gone, replaced by a barren expanse of gray. The Bridge, the symbol of eastern Lorian's power, was nothing more than a ruin.

"What have I done?" Akash whispered, his voice breaking.

Nakba's voice coiled in his mind, smooth and mocking. "What you always do, Nomarch. You bring death. You bring ruin. But look on the bright side—you've finally lived up to your title: Angel of the Ruin."

"I am no angel," Akash spat, his voice trembling.

Nakba chuckled. "Oh, but you are. You cannot escape what you are, Akash. Death follows you. Blood feeds you. And every drop… brings me closer."

Akash's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. He forced himself to stand, though his body protested with every movement. "I will defy you."

Nakba's laughter echoed in his mind as Akash turned away from the wreckage. "We both know that isn't true."

And as Akash stumbled forward, the ash continued to fall, a silent reminder of the ruin left in his wake.