Chapter 10 - "Her"

- Theresis' POV

She crumpled like a doll with the strings cut.

I stood over her, sword still in hand, the weight of it suddenly too heavy.

That last blow… I feinted the overhead, and she took it—arms crossed high, textbook defense.

Leaving her center wide open.

I drove my fist in, right into the solar plexus. Felt the impact in the bones of my arm. There was a crack—not from the armor.

Beneath it.

She dropped like a marionette, no scream, no resistance. Just breath torn from her lungs as the world vanished from her eyes.

But what made me pause wasn't the silence.

It was the shape of her, lying there.

The voice that had cried out—Theresa's. "Don't kill her!"—rang again in my head.

Her?

I looked again. The lines of the body beneath that armor. The softness in the posture, even limp.

That was when it hit me.

They're a woman?

I ran a hand over my face, wiping the blood under my nose. Still bleeding.

She hit me hard. Damn, she might've broken it.

I growled under my breath, braced it, and with a quick crack snapped it back into place.

"Ghh—"

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. I hissed and let the pain steady me.

She had no formal technique. Wild swings, full-body weight behind them. But she had the right ideas. Hit me in the leg to stagger me, then go for the head. Knock me out fast.

If she were just a little taller, maybe she would've landed that strike clean.

I knelt beside her.

She wasn't moving.

I reached for her neck—instinctively—to check for a pulse.

But the full body suit she wore was sealed tight. Neck fully covered in that same layered material. No seam, no gap, no softness.

Thick.

Too thick.

Couldn't feel a damn thing through it.

"Tch."

I hovered a moment, then moved my hand down—pressed it flat against her chestplate.

Nothing.

Only some hums from the blue field that reacts to my touch.

No pulse either. But… wait—

There.

A rise. A shudder.

And again—slight, ragged, shallow.

Still breathing.

Not good.

My punch must've landed right under the ribs. Her diaphragm's probably spasming. Struggling.

She needs air.

I turned my focus to her helmet.

Smooth, seamless. No visible latch. No obvious release.

I ran my fingers along the base of it, pressing, dragging, pulling it up.

Nothing.

Sealed. Locked.

Some kind of magnetic seal?

I pressed harder—useless. The damn thing wouldn't budge.

Who the hell built this?

Columbian? Maybe.

But if she is Columbian, then why is she here? Far from home?

Was she hired by the Leithanien as a Mercenary?

Did someone from our side hired her, and did not inform me?

Did Theresa—

No, I doubt it.

The Columbian would not let any expensive pieces of gears be tested without supervision.

Theresa's naive ideals would not leave any room for violence.

But still...

That field… that blue shimmer—it devoured every strike until I slowed it down enough. Only then did my blade slip through, and even then, the barrier blurred red instead of blue. The white fabric-like material beneath it tore, and managed to make her bled.

I stared down at her again.

Who are you?

And what are you doing on my battlefield?

What are you doing in Kazdel?

I braced my knees, sliding one arm under her back and the other beneath her legs.

Light.

Lighter than she looked. That suit wasn't just armor—it was compact, and yet it felt dense, layers of unknown tech and plating. I grunted quietly as I hoisted her up, adjusting her weight into my arms.

I thought you would be heavier.

Those punches were heavy —

Click.

A crisp sound. Mechanical. Familiar.

I stilled.

Turned my head.

There she was. The prophecised girl.

She stood unsteadily on two trembling legs, wrapped in bandages or strips of cloths, angled awkwardly here and there. Her posture sagged, like the wind might soon push her over any moment. Her cloth-wrapped hands clutched the long gun I'd kicked away minutes ago, the barrel aimed—barely—at me.

She's wounded.

Those damned fools.

"Shhh… shhhtay… 'way…" she slurred, voice muffled by the hail of wind. "Y-yu… don't… tou-cha… her…"

Her head lolled slightly to the side.

The long gun swayed with it.

"I'm not your enemy," I said low, calm. One step too fast and she'd squeeze that trigger without knowing. "She needs medical attention."

And that straight line of blue would pierce my armour.

"Put… put h'r down…" she whispered, then blinked, long and slow. "Put… do'n… put… put—om… let'er go… or I'll…"

She blinked again.

Suddenly—

Her knees gave in.

But she didn't fall.

Theresa swept in from the side, fast and silent, arms wrapping around the girl before she hit the dirt. She crumpled into Theresa's hold like a child, the lasgun slipping from her hands with a dull clatter.

"Mm… goin' hom… gonna faind… hom'… s'posed to…" she murmured into the woman's robes, then went limp.

Her eyes are now blinking weakly. Breathing deepened. She was slowly out.

I turned my gaze to where she was.

And I saw the culprit.

The Banshee Queen.

One hand raised in the fading glow of her spell. The air around her bone pen's tip still shimmered with thin wisps of blue energy. Her expression was unchanged. Unreadable.

I narrowed my eyes. "You waited this long to step in?" I muttered under my breath.

She lowly responds, "Theresa told me to."

*Sigh... Of course.

I adjusted the woman in my arms again—still breathing. Faint. Ragged. Yet somewhat stable. Her body was still warm.

I didn't know her name. Still didn't know who or what she was.

But that field. That suit. That weapon.

Not Columbian standard.

It looked and felt foreign.

Especially that language .

Definitely not Columbian, nor an accent of Victorian language.

It doesn't even sound like Ursine nor Gaulish.

I turned away, boots crunching over the dirt.

"We need to get her stabilized," I said aloud, not looking back. "Kazdel is that way."

"Indeed," came a low grizzeled voice beside me.

I turned my head to see the Nachzerer King approaching, floating over the dry sand with his Levitation Arts. He held that strange long rifle in one hand—the one she had been carrying. Scorched along its side, the casing dented from where I'd kicked it earlier, but somehow still intact. Its make was unfamiliar to me. Definitely not Kazdel nor Lateran made.

Definitely not something you find in the Wastes.

With his other hand, he gestured behind us.

The rest had arrived.

Sarkaz warriors in dust-laced armor, cloaks flapping in the wind. Mercenaries with their mismatched blades and hand-bound grimoires. Their eyes were shocked, awed, curious.

They were the surviving ones who charged at her and the child.

But among them…

The Warriors of fhe Desert...

Draped in sand-colored cloaks that blended into the dunes. Their faces were hidden behind linen wraps and hoods, except for the horns that curved out from the sides of their heads—some spiraled like ancient roots, others chipped and cracked by wind and time. Their cloaks were faded, sun-bleached, stiff with dust. What little skin was visible around their eyes was burned dark by years beneath the desert sun.

The Free Men of the Wasteland Tribes.

They were watching me.

Watching her.

The woman in my arms.

I could feel their blue eyes, full of quiet awe, suspicion, and... madness, as if uncertain whether they were looking at a prisoner… or a prophet.

I clicked my tongue in irritation.

Them and their fantasies.

Kazdel has risen and fell by the hands of many false prophets already.

Kazdel can only be freed by the hands of Sarkaz themselves.

Nezzsalem came to a stop beside me. He said nothing at first. Just stood there, his mask half-lidded in thought.

Then he extended his hand—and slowly began to unwrap the bandages around his long, gnarled arm. Pale, rotting flesh revealed beneath blackened veins and faint Sarkaz glyphs that shimmered faintly, as if reacting to the air.

He peeled the last length of cloth free and held it out to me.

"We need to immobilize her," he said. "Before we move for Kazdel."

I frowned. "She's unconscious."

"For now," he replied. "But we both saw it. The way she fought. The way that field around her adapted. You only broke through when you slowed your strikes. Whatever protected her… it's still humming. Still active."

I looked down at her. Breathing, shallow. Her face, half-shielded by that strange helmet, showed nothing. No emotion. No hint of who she was. Still just a name I didn't know.

I shifted my grip, holding her weight more securely. "She's strong, yes," I muttered. "Stronger than she looks. I think she broke my nose."

I awkwardly reached up and pressed my thumb against the bridge of it, wincing, twisting it back into place again with a sharp crunch.

"But she lacks technique. Strength without direction—"

"And still she nearly dropped you, your grace." Nezzsalem said.

I scowled. "…She did aim for the head. I'll give her that. Smart move. Too bad I'm taller than her."

Nezzsalem said nothing.

The wind blew.

"She's unconscious," I repeated. "I don't need your wrappings. I can restrain her myself if she acts up again."

But the Nachzerer King didn't lower his hand.

"She is still dangerous," he said. "And we cannot afford risk. Not now. Not in front of them." He tilted his chin toward the Free Men, who still stood like statues, yet I can feel their growing curiosities.

"They saw what she did. If she wakes up and lashes out again, we'll lose any leverage we have. Not to mention, The King is exposed. We all are. And Leithanien is still on our tail. We cannot rely too much on this Catastrophe and the path it created."

I ground my teeth. He was right, even if I didn't like hearing it.

I looked down again at the woman.

The strange white armor. The bleeding cuts I left across the shoulder and ribs. The red glimmer against the faint blue distortion that still shimmered now and then.

Who was she? I thought again.

And how much more secrets was she hiding?

"…Fine," I muttered, snatching the bandage from his hand. "But I will do it. Not you."

Nezzsalem gave a nod.

"Good. Do it fast."

The wind shifted.

And that was when I felt it.

The gazes again.

And the murmurs.

+++++++

- ???'s POV

The dust had not yet settled.

It clung to the air like ash after fire. Heat shimmered over the broken stones of the Wastes, and I stood at their edge with my kin—brothers and sisters wrapped in the silence of waiting.

Beyond the loose semicircle of Sarkaz soldiers, I saw them.

No.

Her.

The woman in white.

The mirage that had burned in my dreams since youth now took shape before my aging eyes. Cloaked in coarse robes the color of scorched sand, we watched her from a distance. The desert wind tugged at our scarves and veils. Horns—our memory of lineage—rose proud and twisted through cloth, some gnarled like driftwood that had tasted the wrath of sun and time. Many of us bore dust-dyed horn tips, blood-red with old pigment, beads clicking faintly as we breathed.

And yet none of us moved.

We stared.

Eyes wide. Shining.

Fixed on her .

She was bound. Yet the wind bowed before her. The earth listened to her stillness.

Then I heard the first whisper—not from my lips, but from one of the elder ones, his voice cracked with awe.

"Ez zarkhai… va thurnaii ka'eth."

(As written… as was foretold.)

Another followed, breath hot against the veil:

"Sheth'nar valkira... threi n'zhel rakhal zeik."

(The one borne in white fire… who fell from the deathless sky.)

Then another, low and reverent:

"Kara'marh… thez valan-ka."

(The light-bringer… the veiled star.)

"Vhaziel-na…"

(The second flame…)

My people. My blood. Their hearts stirred.

But I heard it too—that sharp, bitter note threading through their awe.

"Na'turith… varak hethaz."

(But the prophecy... spoke of a man.)

"Krynn-da varnak, asht khezar?"

(Then is this a lie, a mistake?)

"Zan'nazhel… threi thaz kharam."

(She fell… just as the omen said.)

The old voices argued beneath their breath like desert wind brushing over a graveyard. My thoughts churned with them. I had carried this weight since the stars first began to whisper. I had seen the blood-moon break over the horizon. I read and memorised every written books pertaining her arrival in ancient inks and heat upon the Skarn-Scrolls.

And yet…

I stepped forward. They parted for me.

I, their Skarn-T'zarl.

Keeper of the Buried Flame.

Watcher of the Lost Path.

The rings on my horns rattled softly—each one hammered in during a year of drought, a year of sacrifice. The glyphs inked on my cloak burned against my back. I looked upon her—not the prince who bound her, not the blade at her side, but her.

The white flame.

The fallen sky-star.

The riddle in flesh.

My voice left me slowly. The air cracked as I spoke.

"Xarn... fel zakhar. Ur draem'arh ven'zhae."

(The signs… are aligning. The dust settles with purpose.)

A younger voice, brave enough to ask me what others would not:

"Zel'keth tharn, T'zarl?"

(Do you believe, T'zarl?)

Do I?

The question pierced deeper than any blade. Faith, I had lived by. But certainty?

I answered, quietly, the fire in my throat dimmed by years:

"Zhae'kez… ur thari. Zhae'kez… nar certai."

(I believe… the wheel turns. I believe… but belief is not certainty.)

I looked again to the woman. Her posture. Her silence. The heaviness of presence that clung to her like the shroud of the old gods.

"Zhae visht'arh... n'reth ta'veraz. Zhae'sul… draem thas kaen."

(She is marked… by the sky beyond. Her sword… drank light's breath.)

"Thazek… vorrharn. Khel'az thrum."

(Storms recoiled. Truths awakened.)

But I knew better than most—truth is a cruel, half-born thing.

I folded my arms.

"Zae'charr... nar chaz'harn."

(But truth… is not fulfillment.)

The whispers pressed on, clinging to old dogma.

"Thur'marh Kel-Taraz… khel threi'nar."

(The Lost Cradle said he would come.)

"Zar'veth… na varnak."

(And yet this is no man.)

I furrowed my brow. The old fire flared faintly in my chest.

"…Ór dael'nazhel charrak."

(…Or perhaps we were wrong.)

I exhaled.

The signs. The third moon's bloodlight. The silence that followed. All of it. I had followed.

"Zae-davon… fel na Kharaz. Zae'sul vrekh na Thurd Mohr."

(I followed… the words of the Lost. I saw the blood sign on the third moon.)

"Zae-belarn."

(I followed.)

And still…

"...Varn'dokh nar'zel."

(…And still I doubt.)

The wind howled. It always howled before revelation.

Cloaks fluttered like forgotten banners of dead empires.

Still staring at her—the contradiction, the maybe, the possibly-right—I let the last of the fire in my chest speak:

"Zae'kez vorrkarn. Zae'kez tharn…"

(I believe the wheel turns. I believe the signs…)

"…ur zhan'zel ve'lorn."

(…and the pieces are forming.)

But I did not step forward yet.

Not yet.

I looked up to the sky.

Beyond the dark clouds.

Beyond the thunders.

Beyond the veil.

Let the stars... blink first.