Tengri's skill

The silence before battle had its own weight, a palpable tension that settled like mist over the warband. Tengri felt it in his chest, a slow, measured rhythm as his breathing remained steady. Around him, the air vibrated with anticipation—the quiet clinks of weapons being checked, the low murmurs of final prayers to gods who may or may not be listening. But within Tengri, all was still. He had long since learned to find calm in the moments before chaos, to embrace the silence as a friend rather than an enemy.

His hands gripped the hilt of his blade, his fingers running over the letters engraved into the weapon's metal. The words hummed faintly under his touch, an almost imperceptible vibration that resonated with his very core. Each word was etched into his mind as deeply as it was into the steel, a creed that guided him as one of the Enlightened. He did not speak the words aloud, but they were always there, a mantra to steady his hand and sharpen his resolve.

The crimson light of Drema's bleeding sun bathed the battlefield in shades of blood and shadow. It was a sign—a divine demand for sacrifice. And Tengri knew, as all Estil's warriors knew, that this battle at the Pickette would be decisive. Either Estil would rise from the ashes of its chains, or it would be ground into dust beneath the heel of Astad's empire. There was no middle ground.

"Tengri," Daenys called softly from behind him. Her voice carried an unshakable confidence that belied her youth, though Tengri could hear the faint thread of tension beneath it. "The Deadites are moving. Drema's blood won't last forever. We need to act."

Tengri turned to her, his expression unreadable behind the bandages that covered his eyes. "Perhaps waiting would be the wiser choice," he suggested, though he knew his words would not sway her. They never did.

Daenys pushed her short hair from her face and raised an eyebrow. "Waiting? Is that what Vel taught you? To wait?" She smirked, though it was more playful than mocking. "My friend used to say you can only wait so long before you miss your chance."

"This friend of yours sounds reckless," Tengri replied, his tone dry.

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

Tengri allowed himself a faint smile. "And yet you're here quoting him."

Her expression sobered, her gaze shifting to the Pickette in the distance. The jagged structure loomed over the battlefield like a monolith, its dark stone walls defiant against the tide of Estil's forces. "It's time," she said. "We have to move now."

Tengri nodded, his grip tightening on his blade. "Then let us begin."

The first clash came like a storm breaking against the shore. The warriors of Estil surged forward, a tide of steel and fury crashing against Astad's disciplined ranks. The narrow landbridge that led to the Pickette became a killing ground, the earth quickly soaked in blood as the two armies met.

Tengri moved with purpose, his blade flashing as it cut through the first wave of Astad's soldiers. His six eyes, now uncovered, scanned the battlefield with inhuman precision. Two tracked the movements of the enemies before him, calculating their strikes before they even moved. Another pair monitored Daenys, ensuring she remained unharmed amidst the chaos. The final two swept the broader battlefield, searching for threats that might escape the notice of lesser men.

A spearman lunged toward Daenys, his weapon poised to pierce her heart. Tengri was there before the attack could land, his blade arcing in a deadly sweep that severed the man's arm at the elbow. The soldier screamed, dropping his weapon as Tengri's blade pierced his chest, silencing him.

"Stay close," Tengri said, his voice calm even as the battle raged around them.

Daenys loosed an arrow, her bowstring snapping with lethal precision. The arrow found its mark in the neck of an Astad swordsman who had strayed too close to Tasha. The one-eyed warrior grinned as she hooked her sickle into another enemy, pulling him to the ground with ruthless efficiency.

"She's reckless," Tengri muttered, watching Tasha wade into the thick of the fighting. Her sickle danced in her hands, a blur of deadly arcs that left a trail of bodies in her wake. Yet, despite her ferocity, Tengri knew it was only a matter of time before her recklessness caught up with her.

"Reckless or not, she's effective," Daenys said, shooting another enemy who had dared to approach Tasha. The one-eyed warrior flashed them a grin before plunging her sickle into the next foe.

The cries of the Deadites rang out across the battlefield, their warband cutting through Astad's forces like a scythe through wheat. Their Gahkar rode at their head, a ghastly figure atop a monstrous horse that trampled men beneath its hooves. His war axe cleaved through flesh and armor with savage glee, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake.

"We need to keep the Accepted away from the Deadites," Daenys said, her tone laced with concern. "They'll lose discipline and get themselves slaughtered."

Tengri grunted in agreement, his blade flashing as he deflected a sword strike aimed at his side. "The Deadites bring only chaos. But the Accepted are scattered. It will not be easy to guide them."

The battle pressed onward, the Pickette drawing ever closer. Tengri adjusted his grip on his blade, his muscles tensing as two Astad soldiers stepped into his path. One carried a mace, the other a spear, and their stances spoke of experience. These were not fresh recruits—they were veterans, hardened by years of war.

"I can shoot them," Daenys offered, drawing another arrow from her quiver.

"No," Tengri said firmly. "They come as warriors. I will handle this. Save your arrows for their leaders."

The soldiers charged, their weapons raised. Tengri met them head-on, his blade intercepting the spear with a sharp clang of steel. The mace swung toward him in a heavy arc, but Tengri sidestepped the blow with practiced ease. His blade moved like a predator, darting past defenses to find vulnerable flesh.

The spearman thrust again, but Tengri caught the attack and twisted, slicing through the man's arm. The soldier barely had time to scream before Tengri's blade pierced his heart. He fell, lifeless, to the blood-soaked ground.

The mace-wielder roared, his weapon crashing against Tengri's blade with enough force to rattle his arm. Tengri pivoted, using the momentum to drive the man off balance. His hand shot out, gripping the hilt of the mace and locking it in place. The soldier struggled, but Tengri's grip was unyielding. A quick thrust of his blade ended the struggle, and the soldier crumpled to the ground.

"They're dead," Tengri said, his voice devoid of emotion. He turned to Daenys, who had stopped to watch him. Her gaze lingered on the bodies at his feet, her expression unreadable.

"You fight like a storm," she said quietly, her voice tinged with something he couldn't place. Was it awe? Or perhaps sorrow?

Tengri paused, his eyes studying her. She looked unharmed, but there was a weight in her posture, a heaviness that did not belong on someone so young. Daenys was leading them, guiding Estil's forces with strength far beyond her years. Yet Tengri knew—knew with a certainty that cut deeper than any blade—that the young did not belong on battlefields. They should not have to bear this weight.

And yet, Daenys carried it with a silence that few could comprehend. It was a silence that spoke louder than words, a silence that only a Gahkar of the Enlightened could possess. Tengri saw it in her eyes, in the way she held herself amidst the chaos. It was that silence that had earned his loyalty, and it was that silence that would keep him by her side until his last breath.

"We move forward," he said, pushing away his thoughts. "The Pickette awaits."

Daenys nodded, her resolve firm. "Then let's finish this."

And together, they pressed on through the battlefield, their blades and arrows carving a path toward the towering monolith that loomed over them all.