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[Azad Shahyar]

Everything moved at its own pace.

Lighting flashed from the fingers of mages, and fire leapt into the air. The stench of burning flesh and pooling blood invaded the senses. It was stifling. The screams of the dying echoed like memories of thunder. Around them, their world was crumbling. Around them, Myridia was crumbling.

“Now!”

His voice cut through the thick evening air. It boomed like a drum, and it carried to every man around him. It was time. The earth under his feet shook as he tore forward, his sword cutting a bloody path through the oncoming Asharians. Using the geography presented to him, he shot platforms of earth dozens of feet into the air, launching his foes into the blue-black darkness of twilight. He didn’t see them fall, but he heard them. He heard the sound of armour crashing into men. He heard the terrified screams.

His sword flashed like lightning, arcing, stabbing, cutting. He was a madman, unable to control the bloodlust. His right arm, still in a sling, weaved magic. He used it to call the earth even as his left sliced through the Asharian charge. Arrows flew around his ears, sinking into the coming enemies. Dozens dropped, but hundreds surged forward. Dozens died, but thousands continued to live. They continued to fight, gaining inch by inch.

Azad realized he was fighting against the inevitable. He realized he was trying to push a rock uphill. Dark eyes moved to the walls, the towers behind him. They went to the gates that still held. It was only a matter of time before the wood and steel was breached. It was only a matter of time before the dreams of thousand shattered and scattered like glass. Who would gather the shards? Who would keep the dream alive?

Azad spat blood. He realized it wasn’t his. He wasn’t bleeding; not yet anyway. An Asharian broke from his rank and charged at the Earth Mage. Azad didn’t hesitate. The ground trembled and a chasm opened, swallowing the man whole. Pushing his magic further, Azad covered the soldier, burying him alive in his new grave. There was no remorse.

There would never be…

[Edge Harvey]

Edge stepped over the cadaver without batting an eyelash. The soldier had been speared through by a lightning spell – seared like steak, the outside crusted and burnt whereas the gaping hole in the man’s chest was oozing with juices. Not only had Edge’s nose already numbed itself to the offensive smells that now pervaded this part of the city, but so had his mind. Seeing so much death these last days did that to you.

He felt like a ghost wading through the thick waters of life – somehow there and not there, intangible but all-seeing. He had been ordered to stay away from all the trouble. Azad had wanted him to rest and recuperate. Funny. Edge wasn’t the one with the maimed arm. Edge wasn’t the one with the… with nothing left. He didn’t even know how the earth mage was still going on, but as long as Edge still breathed, he would look after Azad.

The man had protected him for too long. Edge wasn’t going to let his master die here, amongst the putrid, because of a crippled arm – that was one injustice that Edge could prevent. Still, in the back of his mind, in the dark area that remained of what Ávatos had expunged, doubt rustled, restless. How would he, an apprentice magician armed with a knife, do against soldiers? The trees that lined the area rustled, too – some cried, some cowered, and others sat quietly. They had waited years for fate to deal a hand to them; what was an hour or two more? What did they care, that a few foolish mortal lives extinguished each other before them?

Having grown up in the slums, Edge’s eyes were sharper than most in the darkness, and he slowly made his way so that he was barely beyond the main battle going on. Nervously, he flipped the knife across his knuckles – a trick he’d learn from a shady man whom had turned out to be an assassin. A dirty street kid hadn’t been enough to warrantee death, luckily.

A wind whipped through the city, and the sound it made as it swept through the bodies and the boughs of the trees was the most mournful melody Edge had ever heard. He breathed in through his mouth. That was the way to cut through offensive odours. Not that it mattered, with his nose already desensitized. It was a habit. Ahead, he could see a dimly flashing blade catching the starlight – or was it torchlight? – and the ground roaring with rage. Azad.

Edge pressed a hand into the bark of the tree, and it opened to him. A lone figure – someone had opened the gates… that was how the Asharians had entered Myridia City. He released his grip, and walked around, narrowly avoiding a body that had been sent flying by a strike. Azad was being pushed back – he was a good fighter when he had control of both of his arms, but now, he was merely mediocre (at least from what Edge could see).

Someone had slipped behind Azad, was raising a spear… without thinking, without even having willed it, a branch from the tree nearest the Asharian soldier bowed down. Not in the sense of a kind, polite bow – it was more a downwards chopping motion. The wood, thickened by age, clunked dully against the man’s helmet, and he dropped like a millstone. A sudden spear of exhilarating exhaustion hit Edge, and he swooned, sagging against the tree, watching as Azad finished off the soldier he had been fighting. He didn’t know what had almost got him…

[Azad Shahyar]

He was tired.

Standing like a rock in the field of battle, all Azad knew was that he was tired, that he wanted to sink, to sleep. His armour felt heavy, as if it were weighing him down. The chain mail pressed down on him, the thousands of metal links anchoring him to his spot. Funny, he never wore armour. It felt strange to be shielded by metal. It felt like cowardice. He had convinced himself that he didn’t need armour, that he was his own shield; that he was a shield. Armour for himself, for everything he loved. He was armour made of flesh and bone.

And now that armour was breaking. The rings were weakening, snapping. They were rusting, unravelling. He couldn’t protect his city. He couldn’t protect his world. He was just a man. Somewhere along the line he’d forgotten that. He’d forgotten that he was all to human, and all too limited by his human limits. But he could fight it. He could pretend he was the right kind of hero. Or he could embrace it. He could embrace the realization that he couldn’t do everything, save everyone.

A young soldier barrelled towards him. Azad waited as the Asharian dropped a shoulder and struck forward with his sword. It was a novice move, and one that Azad parried easily. The soldier was just a boy, hardly older than Edge. His eyes, however, were cold, lifeless. It was as if he were absolutely certain of his mission, his desire for victory. It was as if he thought himself blessed by divinity. There was no pleasure in Azad as his sword dug into the boy’s exposed torso. There was no elation as the blood pooled. There was no joy as the soldier grunted and fell to the dusty earth.

But there was satisfaction. There was hope. Another Asharian was dead. Another invader was rendered incapable.

What had become of him? Azad didn’t know. Had he become heartless? Had he lost all sense of self? It was hard to say. It wasn’t easy standing battle. It wasn’t easy staying honourable in an increasingly brutal world. He didn’t think it was a line he could follow.

It was a river of fire. He’d have to sink to cross.

He took a shaky breath. It caught in his throat as he heard the screech of metal, and the sound of wood splintering. He felt his blood run cold. He turned to the gates, watching as the hope of two hundred thousands Myridians turned to dust.

It was as if the world stood still for an excruciating moment. In that one moment, everything was absolutely immobile. When the world moved again, it moved with a new urgency. A cry rose from the Asharian horde. It thundered even as hundreds of thousands of men began to push towards the open wound in Myridia’s side. The gates were breached. It was the end…

Myridia had lost.

Behind him, he felt the telltale movement of air, and the sound of wood hitting metal. He turned in time to see an Asharian soldier fall. He turned in time to see that Edge had saved him. The boy stood between the trees, oddly innocent in a merciless world. Azad simply looked at the boy, the emotion in his eyes unreadable. What now? The Asharians were moving into the city. They’d lost. They needed to run, to fight, to-

An arrow hissed through the twilight. It found Azad’s back, slamming into the muscle above his shoulder blade. The Earth Mage grunted and stumbled, trying to reach Edge. Another arrow joined the first, striking inches from its fellow projectile. Azad breathed out a shaky cry of pain. He then crashed into the earth, the pain in his back excruciating. He felt his vision swim. He felt the blood run slick down his back.

He smelt the earth around him, even as his weariness coaxed him to embrace the blessed darkness…

[Jonas Acalon]

Jonas wasn't there. At least, it didn't feel like he was.

It was as if he was floating behind in the thickening night air, watching himself walk to the highest point he knew, up the winding staircase to familiar towers which he had ascended many, many times before. Snap out of it, he told himself. Too much had to be done tonight to risk losing his grip because of a scattered mind.

Arriving at a circular spartan room that was partially exposed to the open air, Jonas squeezed his eyes tightly shut and winced. The sounds of battle drifted in on the wind as it rushed through the fighting men, women and children. Children. His heart gave a twinge as he thought of all the people he knew, desperately trying to push the Asharians back. He had delayed joining the battle, procrastinating until there had been no more time. Procrastinating like he had with his work. With his career. With Aine.

Coward, a small voice piped up in his head.

He pushed the guilt aside, not wanting to dwell on the discomforting emotion for a second longer. Jonas made a quick chalk circle, then placed himself in the centre, trying to tuck his feelings away. He needed strength and raw power, and he needed it in hefty multitudes for the working he was going to do.

Azad had asked for fog. He only hoped it wasn't too late.

His breathing slowed and he fell into his core, reaching for the fiery ball which was his magic, enabling him to rise out of mortal flesh to get an eagle eye's view of the city. Darkness was quickly sweeping over the plateau, but below him sparkled air currents, winds and atmospheric changes that were all visible to his magic.

Jonas reached for the clouds above, drawing moisture from the upper skies to create ground fog. The air below was warm with the clamour of bodies, much too warm for any haze to exist. The weather mage frowned, then turned toward the heavens - Please? - he asked. The vast atmosphere above Myridia actually wavered, as though considering what he was asking of them. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing - until he felt the air suddenly drop down and through him, taking his breath away at the sheer magnitude of it. The temperatures plunged at ground level; not spectacularly so, but effective and noticeable nonetheless.

Swiftly he took the edge of a nearby cloud, spinning it and directing the vapour into the heart of Myridia City, feeling satisfaction as it hit the ground and bloomed into a miasma of white smoke. People were getting ready to evacuate, but there were also the ones who had chosen to stay and fight till death. Heavy fog bloomed, hiding those who had taken cover. Briefly he saw surprised or scared expressions when the fog touched them, but otherwise it was proceeding at a suitable rate. Opaque mist pulsated and expanded, obscuring the view of his home that he had been so accustomed to. Making it almost sinister in the dimming light. He kept a firm hand on its growth, making sure it spread evenly. Now visibility was heavily hindered, all through the city and parts of the areas that surrounded it.

Distantly he felt the ground shudder under his physical body as he saw a sudden rush of air, when the Asharian army thundered into the city. It was so hard to feel pity, regret, fear when he was up here. Up here he was a god.

Up here he was untouchable.

[Edge Harvey]

The fatigue that had torn through him lifted as quickly as it come, though just the memory of the sensation deterred Edge from trying to maneuver any plants for the time being. How powerful were the war mages who could last entire battles without being drained? Edge shivered, and moved to duck behind the tree again – Azad had seen him. As master and apprentice locked eyes, something flashed in the former’s eyes.

A cold fear flooded Edge’s veins as Azad tumbled forward, and in a flash, the former thief found himself hopping over the dead bodies at his feet as he ran over to where Azad had fallen. Perhaps it wasn’t just the feelings of panic needling his heart that contributed to the sudden slickness to Edge’s skin; like some emissary from a sympathetic – but still unhelpful – god, it rolled in, thick rolls of moist white vapours. It was as much a benefit as it was a detriment. Edge couldn’t see where the fuck he was going. Hopefully it was the same for those archers. Without thinking or planning – then again, when did Edge ever plan very far into the future? – he grasped Azad’s clothes and yanked him backwards.

The man was heavy, and Edge was now doing the one thing he had hoped he didn’t need to do. “Gods,” he grunted softly as he dragged the man backwards, toward the relative safety of the tree. It would be easier to protect Azad there. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with an arrow wound – scuffles in the slums had never really included the bow and arrow. Luckily for Edge, one of the arrows had come loose during the short distance. Or was it really luck? The wounds wept scarlet, and very carefully, Edge cut the shaft on the remaining arrow, and deftly ripped off shreds of cloth. He stuffed them around the arrowhead, hoping that they would staunch the blood flow…

He wasn’t thinking as he had gone through these motions, but now that he had nothing to busy his hands with, fear had a free shot at Edge. “Hey, Az,” he muttered, a fierce note of desperation in his voice. “Y’can’t die here.”

[Azad Shahyar]

In the moments between the time he fell and the time Edge came to drag him, Azad wondered what would happen if he simply gave up. He wondered if he could give up. He’d tried hard. He’d fought hard. Two days, three days, four. A week. A month. A year. How many more? He wondered if there was a number that high. He wondered if there was a way he could quantify the weight of responsibility. He wanted to know, and he wanted to show it to the world, hold out on a platter. It was the weight of the universe. It was gravity. It was duty.

It was the life of Azad Shahyar.

He felt hands grab his armour and tug. He felt the drag of rock and dirt as he was pulled into the relative safety of the nearby foliage. Something snapped along the way, and Azad was barely conscious as the shaft of an arrow fell out. Under the tree’s leaves, he finally opened his eyes, somehow unable to let go just yet. There would be time for that in the far future. But not now. Tonight would decide the fate of hundreds of thousands of people. Men and women would live and die by the choices made tonight.

Slick, hot blood trickled from the exposed wound, and he felt the boy tug at the cloth, ripping off the cotton to reveal the extent of Azad’s injuries. The Earth Mage grunted as the blood seeped out. This was quelled by the sensation of cloth pressing into skin. Edge was leaving the arrowhead in for now. It was a smart move, but it would only be temporary. The metal would have to be extracted eventually. It would hurt, but that was tomorrow’s pain. Azad would deal with it then.

The boy spoke to him, and Azad felt himself press his fingers into the dirt. He pushed himself up, using strength reserves he did not know he possessed. Turning, twisting, he leaned into the tree, half-seated, half lying down. The boy ordered him to not die, not here. Azad simply looked at Edge. Then he smiled a broken little smile. “I’m not dying,” he breathed out, words more a harsh whisper. There was a lot left to do. There was a girl he had to save. She would be waiting for him to come for her.

“I need to get Kalila. I need to- I need to stop this,” he said, trying to rise. He grabbed the tree's trunk and tried to pulled himself up. It was no use. His fingers slipped, splintering the bark, and he tumbled back. He was too tired, too battered. He then looked at Edge, wondering if he could make such a request from the boy...

[Edge Harvey]

Panic rose in Edge’s mind, spilling out in his eyes, glittering there until his eyes were like those of a flighty animal. He was aware that he was breathing more quickly now, his body trying to calm him by taking in as much oxygen as possible. What was there to do? What could be done? They were doomed, of course, the moment that gate opened; they were doomed from the beginning, but the moment that gate opened – that’s when the whole bone-chilling revelation sunk into Edge’s heart.

Myridia would fall.

“Kalila?” he echoed, staring at Azad. So much at stake, so much to lose, and all his master could think of was Kalila. It was imprudent to do so, but Edge thought back to a time just a few months ago – when there was no one whom he’d have waited for under these circumstances. He would have just run and fled from death, from that everlasting cold nothingness… but now, there was so much more. He’d found a home, found people who mattered – and at that moment they all were so close to his heart that Edge couldn’t breathe.

Myridia would fall. His home… his life… would fall.

He couldn’t let this all fall apart… not until he’d found someone he could care enough to risk everything for. Someone else, not Azad or Kalila or Abram or even that ice mage he’d taken a fancy to, Ailis; someone else who would one day matter enough that Edge would be happy just living life with her. The Kalila to his Azad. It was inappropriate, but a faintly impish grin appeared on Edge’s face. It was the kind of smile of someone who couldn’t afford to do otherwise – if he didn’t try to smile, he’d go insane. It was grim, and it was beyond Edge’s years.

“No… y’need to leave, Az… we can’t win this,” he said, the words coming from a place he’d never known to exist. Some fatalism he’d never shown were in them. “In the slums, we have a saying. ‘Th’kid who runs away is free t’steal another day.’ And I know how much y’hate stealin’ and everythin’ but listen. Y’gotta get away, to safety…” Was he babbling now?

“I can get Kalila, Az. Jus’ give me th’word.”

[Azad Shahyar]

From a distance, the roar of the Asharian horde came like a single cry. It swelled and it rose. Then it crashed around him. It was the sound of victory. It was the sound of a hundred thousand men crying out to Tor. Azad felt sick. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, squeezing out the pain he felt. He tried to squeeze out the noise, the debilitating realization of loss. He tried to squeeze out the world.

But the world squeezed back.

He let out a sigh and opened his eyes. Edge was still there. He hadn't left. He hadn't run away. Azad realized that the boy had grown beyond any of his expectations. He realized that Edge was a better person than he would ever be. And for some reason, that was a good thought. The boy was going to change the world. He had the potential to. Even with Myridia gone, Edge could be someone...

Someone great.

He grunted as another spasm of pain hit. He closed his eyes again. This wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to end like this. But it was. And he was powerless to stop it.

Edge spoke, and Azad opened his eyes. They came to focus on the boy, and for a few seconds he realized he couldn't hide the hurt inside. The words were true, but they were hard. They dug deep into his chest and wrenched his heart. He didn't want to believe them.

He didn't want to run away.

His jaw tensed. The muscle there tightened. “I can't ask you to do that,” he said. His voice was robbed of its authority. It was, perhaps, how a defeated man sounded. He twisted slightly to gaze back the city. He could already see smoke billowing over the walls. He turned back to Edge.

And then he looked down at his bloodied hands.

He couldn't move forward, and he couldn't go back. He was stuck between two places he didn't want to be.

Some saviour, his thoughts whispered...

[Edge Harvey]

“What, are you going to go get her then? You can barely stand up, Az. Yer not doin’ anythin’ by sittin’ around all mopey.” Edge’s voice took on an earnest but abrasive tone. He was starting to feel irritated; where was the Azad who took command? Where was the man whom Edge looked up to? This wasn’t him. This was someone who was giving up, who was defeated. “Jus’ tell me where she is, Az, or I’ll just hafta… have t’leave her behind. ‘cause I’m sure as hell not goin’ t’leave you here; I’m takin’ you somewhere beyond the city.”

Already, Edge was standing up, suddenly taking on an authoritative air. But it was brittle, put up just so he could deal with the trauma of the end of Myridia for later, alone. The last defense before insanity could hit. He looked past the tree; most of the Asharian army had already poured on through into the bowels of Myridia City, and there weren’t many soldiers around at all. In fact, those who had been left behind looked rather ill or dead… so the Asharians had been confident in their invasion and had gone all out.

Well, it had worked.

Edge was thinking quickly: if he couldn’t find a medic mage, then he’d have to do something about Azad’s wound himself. The wound had probably stopped bleeding by now, but he’d have to remove the arrow as well as applying some sort of poultice to stop the bleeding. There were some curative herbs that grew around the area, but Edge didn’t know if he’d be able to find and combine them all within the allotted time. He chewed at his lower lip, frustrated, and tapping his hand on the tree.

“I wish I’d more experience with arrow wounds… too bad th’Lower City didn’t have too many archers hangin’ around,” he remarked, more to himself than anything. He glanced down at Azad again. “Are y’goin’ t’tell me where Kalila is now? Or are we gonna roll out now?”

[Azad Shahyar]

He licked his lips and tasted blood. It wasn't his. It could have been anyone's: Myridian, Asharian...Kalenian? It could have been male or female, young or old. It could have been a friend's blood. It could have been an enemy's. It felt like acid on his tongue. It tasted bitter.

It tasted...dead.

Edge was giving him options. Two options. They could run together, or the boy could go find Kalila. Either way, Azad wasn't going into the city. He was staying out here. He was being exiled. Already, he couldn't go home. The thought was a dagger through his chest. His home wasn't his any more. It belonged to the God-Emperor. It belonged to Ashar's endless horde. He took a deep breath. Azad Shahyar could not allow that. He would make it stop. He would fight back. He would break himself if it ever came right down to it...

And he wouldn't stop fighting. Days would turn into weeks, and weeks would become months. Those would become years. Thirty of them would pass and he would still be fighting. Old and bitter, he would give up his entire life for the city that now burned behind him. All for a dream. All for a land that was dearer to him than his own mortality.

He felt the onset of tears. Tears, at a time like this. They slid from his eyes and dripped like unanswered prayers into his lap. He looked down. “She's home,” he said. “She's waiting for me.” He'd made a promise her; that he would come back for her. He'd promised her that no matter what happened, he would come. He would save her. Because he was her shield.

Because he was Azad Shahyar.

He was the only armour she had. Though broken and bent, he was all she had.

He was all Myridia had...