The Start of the End

The silence before battle was a peculiar thing. It settled heavily, pressing down on the senses, amplifying every stray sound—the scuff of boots on packed earth, the creak of leather armor, the faint rustle of banners in the faint breeze. Tengri stood motionless, gripping the bandages that concealed his eyes. His fingers moved with deliberate care, tracing the fabric's edges as though weighing the consequences of what lay beneath.

Those eyes. A curse, a gift, a burden he would bear until death. Their power was as unnatural as the reason they had awakened, and their consequences had marked him in ways both visible and unseen. They were an inconvenience when concealed, yes, but their very presence unnerved the men around him, and he could not afford to shake their fragile confidence—not now.

The horizon bled red as the sun hung low, stained with the blood of Drema. The ominous hue painted the clouds and cast long, crimson shadows across the earth. Tengri's head tilted upward, his lips parting in a quiet invocation to the gods, his voice barely audible above the faint murmur of the waiting warband.

"I understand the depths of sentience's depravity," he murmured, his words as steady as the grip on his blade. "My eyes awakened to the horrors of that empty abyss. Vel, shield me with your flaming gaze. Totallis, grant me the strength to conquer as you once did."

"Praying again, Tengri?" Daenys's voice broke through the silence, calm yet tinged with the unshakable resolve that defined her. She approached with purposeful steps, her short hair brushing against her cheeks. Despite the armor she wore, her presence carried an elegance that commanded attention, her words laced with quiet authority.

"The Relight are ready," she continued, nodding toward the men gathered below. "Drema's blood stains the sky—a sign, if there ever was one. We should act while the advantage is ours."

Tengri turned his head slightly toward her but said nothing for a moment. His gaze was locked on the distant tower of the Pickette, its jagged silhouette looming over the city like an ancient sentinel. The tower had stood for centuries, a relic of an era long past, yet its oppressive presence was as sharp as the blade he held. Today, it would either fall or stand as a testament to their failure.

"Perhaps waiting would be the wiser course," he finally said, his voice a measured contrast to Daenys's urgency.

Daenys pushed her hair from her face, her expression softening into an almost playful smile. "My friend used to say that you can only wait so long before you miss your chance. He was brash, but he wasn't wrong."

"This friend of yours sounds reckless," Tengri replied, his tone dry. "I doubt we'd get along."

"Oh, you'd hate him," Daenys said with a laugh. "He's everything you're not. Loud, impulsive, and endlessly infuriating."

"And yet you're here quoting him," Tengri muttered, returning his gaze to the Pickette. The blood-red sun painted the stone walls, and in that light, the tower seemed to pulse, alive with the weight of the moment. Drema demanded blood, and it seemed the god would have it one way or another.

Daenys's voice grew serious once more. "It's time, Tengri. We need to strike now. Drema will not wait, and neither will Astad."

Tengri sighed, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. "You are the Gahkar. The decision is yours."

He ran a cloth along the length of his weapon, its surface gleaming even in the dim light. The steel was flawless, unmarred by the countless battles it had seen. It would not fail him today. Rising from his crouch, he turned to Daenys, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her.

"The Pickette will fall," he said with quiet conviction, "upon these cursed eyes."

For the first time that morning, Daenys hesitated. "Do you think it will work, Tengri?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable. The confidence she wore so easily faltered, revealing the burden she bore.

The plan to take the Pickette was ambitious, to say the least. It was a bold gamble, one that had already turned many of the other Gahkar against her. Yet, if it succeeded, it would be a turning point for Estil—a foothold in Astad's lands, a chance to challenge the empire that cast such a long shadow.

Tengri regarded her carefully. "You will have many enemies, both within Estil and beyond it. They will call you a warmonger."

"You don't live a good life without making a few enemies," Daenys replied with a wry smile. Her expression softened, her gaze growing distant as if lost in a memory. "I've already made my peace with that."

"Just don't let them kill you," Tengri said, his tone grim. "You're the reason the Accepted march. They'll follow you, but not to their graves."

"And if I die?" Daenys asked, her smile fading into something quieter, more introspective. "I would simply return. A Heartrender does not truly die."

"That is a dangerous thought," Tengri warned, his voice low. "Do not let the idea of immortality cloud your judgment. An everlasting silence is a gift, not a curse. You'll never know it."

Daenys looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Just don't go dying on me, Tengri. The Enlightened Gahkar only joined my cause because of you. You gave them faith in me when I had none to give."

Tengri inclined his head slightly. "I am your sword, Gahkar. I will not break so easily."

Her lips curled into a faint smile. "And for that, I will always be grateful."

The descent to the warbands waiting below was made in silence, neither Tengri nor Daenys speaking as they walked. The camp stretched across the landscape, a sea of armored men and women, their weapons glinting in the red light of Drema's sun. Banners bearing the sigil of Estil fluttered in the faint breeze, their edges frayed but proud.

The weight of the moment pressed down on Tengri. This battle, this single act of defiance, would decide the fate of Estil and Astad. If they succeeded, it would mark the first time Estil had claimed Astad's vassal lands—a staging ground for future raids. But if they failed, it would serve as a grim warning to all who dared challenge the empire.

As they approached the front, Tengri's grip on his blade tightened. His eyes—hidden behind the bandages—ached with the strain of their confinement. He would need them today. The Black Baron of the Pickette would not fall easily, and Daenys, for all her cunning, was not a warrior.

They reached the front lines, where Tasha waited with her sword drawn, her sharp features calm and composed. Tengri scanned the horizon, his senses sharpening. The Pickette loomed above them, its shadow stretching across the battlefield. The air was thick with tension, a taut string ready to snap.

Daenys stepped forward, raising her bow high. Her voice rang out, clear and strong, cutting through the murmurs of the warband.

"Men and women of Estil! Today, we stand on the edge of history. Drema's blood stains the sky, demanding sacrifice, and we will answer. Together, we will shatter the chains of our oppressors. Fight with me, and you will hear Drema roar his approval in the high heavens! Show Totallis why he cast off his heart, and let us take the Pickette so none can deny the turning of an Age!"

A roar erupted from the warband, a sound that seemed to shake the very earth. The soldiers surged forward, a tide of steel and fury crashing against the landbridge that led to the Pickette. The Astad forces met them head-on, spears gleaming like a deadly forest.

Tengri moved with purpose, his blade flashing as it cut through the first wave of soldiers. His cursed eyes, now unveiled, scanned the battlefield, each pair attuned to a different detail: the flapping of bird wings above, the subtle movements of hidden Astad archers, and, always, Daenys's position.

An Astad soldier lunged at her with a spear, but Tengri intercepted him, his blade piercing through flesh and bone with effortless precision. He pivoted, slicing through another soldier who had crept too close. The bodies fell in a heap, their blood soaking into the earth.

"Damn," Daenys muttered, loosing an arrow that found its mark in an enemy's neck.

"You'd be safer on horseback," Tengri said, his voice steady even as he parried another strike.

"I told you—I'm not riding that creature," Daenys snapped, loosing another arrow.

Tengri only grunted, cutting down another foe as the battle raged around them.

Today, the fate of Estil would be decided.