The Shattered Crowns

Akash frowned as Veneres walked briskly ahead of him, his strides steady and purposeful. Frustrated, Akash quickened his own pace to match. "Which battalion are we headed to first?" he asked, his tone curt.

Veneres cast a single glance over his shoulder. "If I told you, would you even know which battalion it is?"

"There are five," Akash replied confidently.

"And their names?" Veneres asked, his voice dry.

Akash hesitated before saying, "One of them is... the Wardens?"

Veneres didn't respond, though the silence was answer enough. Akash grinned, undeterred. "See? I know what I'm—"

"And what of the other four?" Veneres interrupted.

"One is enough," Akash countered with a shrug, his grin faltering.

Veneres folded his arms as they reached the first camp, his gaze sweeping over the lines of tents and soldiers. This was where he needed to inspire action—and perhaps quell dissent. A symphony of activity rang out across the camp. Wooden horns and deep drums beat in rhythm, blending with the hum of soldiers sharpening weapons and conversing in low, measured tones.

"This is the camp of the War Dancers," Veneres said. "Their Sovran is Vyn Azure. He's a schemer—and he acts just like you." He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head as though already regretting this interaction.

"Do not run your mouth," Veneres warned, his voice sharp. "The War Dancers' Sovran is already difficult enough to deal with."

Akash sneered, folding his arms to mirror Veneres' stance. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

Veneres scowled, his patience visibly thinning. "Vyn Azure is as dangerous with words as he is with a blade. His silver tongue has talked its way out of death more than once. I will not let him gain an edge just because you can't hold yours."

Akash's glare matched Veneres' intensity, and Elys prowled close at Akash's side, her growl rumbling low in her throat. The two men came to a halt, locked in a silent standoff. Veneres refused to yield, his jaw tightening. He wouldn't allow Akash's brashness to jeopardize the meeting. Neither moved, tension crackling in the air like a drawn bowstring.

Then a smooth, baritone voice broke the deadlock. "What do we have here? It looks like you've finally met someone stubborn enough to deal with you, Veneres."

Akash turned to see the man who had spoken at the meeting earlier—Vyn Azure. His posture was casual, almost lazy, yet his sky-blue eyes danced with mischief. A small, knowing grin spread across his face as he approached.

"Speak the schemer's name, and he shall appear," Veneres muttered darkly.

Vyn's grin widened. "Ah, you know me so well, Veneres. And yet you still refuse my invitations to dine together. It's enough to make one wonder..." He feigned a dramatic sigh. "Are you afraid I'll uncover your secrets? Perhaps learn your oh-so-mysterious plans?"

Veneres grunted, his expression flat. "I prefer not to have my food poisoned."

Vyn placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Poison? Me? You wound me, truly. We're comrades in arms, are we not? Working toward the same goal?"

Akash's gaze flicked between the two men, noting the sharp edges beneath their playful words.

Vyn's attention shifted to Akash, his smile softening into something almost friendly. "And you must be Akash. How do you feel about visiting the capital? Perhaps catching a play? Maybe I'll even convince you to join the War Dancers."

Akash blinked, confused. "What's a play?"

Vyn tilted his head, studying him with genuine curiosity. "Where are you from, exactly?"

"Morgoi," Akash answered.

Vyn let out an impressed whistle. "Morgoi, you say? Then it's settled. Jassin's ward must experience the capital. A trip to the theater is non-negotiable."

Veneres cut in, his tone cold. "This isn't why we're here, Vyn, and you know it."

Vyn shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Sure, sure. But you won't like my answer, and I'd prefer to keep things cordial until absolutely necessary."

"So you've decided not to support the taking of the Spire," Veneres deduced, his voice taut with irritation.

Vyn offered a lazy smile. "Lyra and I agree—we need to hear more opinions before committing to anything. Right now, the men aren't dancing to the song of war."

Akash frowned. "But during the meeting, it sounded like you were trying to help Dante."

Vyn's smile grew sharper, tinged with amusement. "Ah, it's simple, really. To openly disagree with Dante would cast doubt on our Paramount. That's not something I can afford. Better to tread lightly."

"You should have just told him," Akash said bluntly.

Vyn laughed, the sound light and genuine. "A breath of fresh air. I like you, Akash."

His tone shifted slightly, growing more serious. "It's not that I oppose taking the Spire. But what Dante is attempting has been tried before—and failed spectacularly. The War Dancers weren't built to be crushed under the heel of the Hopekiller. I won't lead my men into becoming yet another cautionary tale for the people of Reem. They'll need more than a command to join this march."

Veneres' glare sharpened. "So you'd abandon your comrades? Cower like a deserter because you fear the Hopekiller more than you trust Dante?"

Vyn's grin didn't waver. "Dante himself said he'd let us leave freely."

Veneres bit the inside of his cheek, clearly restraining himself. After a moment, he changed tactics. "It seems I'll need to visit the capital after all."

Vyn raised an eyebrow, his grin turning sly. "Oh? What a sudden change of heart."

"The other Sovrans can wait," Veneres replied tersely. "The Wardens and the Revenant Saints will march, regardless. They have loyalty and sense enough to see reason."

"Good for them," Vyn said airily, though the lighthearted tone failed to hide the tension between the two.

Akash, sensing the growing friction, interjected. "If we're going into the capital, then we can see that play you mentioned."

Vyn's grin returned in full force. "Now that's the kind of thinking I like. Never talk business on an empty stomach—or without music. Veneres could learn a thing or two from you."

Veneres' scowl deepened. "It will be a brief trip. Akash won't be joining. My goal is to acquire supplies for the Revenant Saints."

Vyn draped an arm around Akash's shoulders, ignoring Elys' low growl of warning. "Well, looks like Akash and I will have plenty of time to talk business while you run your errands. You'll be missed, Veneres. Truly."

Veneres narrowed his eyes. "What will it take to earn your cooperation, Vyn?"

Vyn's grin turned wolfish. "You already know."

The silence stretched between them before Vyn added with mock innocence, "Jassin's ward and his tiger need to come."

"I was going to come anyway," Akash said flatly.

Vyn laughed, giving Akash's shoulder an exaggerated pat. "See? That's the kind of attitude I like. Someone who does what he wants. We're going to be great friends—you, me, and Elys. The schemer and his muscle."

He turned to a nearby War Dancer. "Fetch Lyra. Let her know I'll be out until dinner. She can handle the accounts in my absence."

The War Dancer bowed her head and hurried off. Vyn clapped his hands together. "Well then, what are we waiting for? Lyra will have my head if she catches me, so let's move!"

Their odd group moved past the edge of the camp and into the grand capital of Reem's outermost districts. The path wound through offshoots of sluggish rivers that fed soot-streaked farmland, where the reds of the sand blended with the smoky grays of cultivated ash. The air carried a faint tang of scorched earth as they walked closer to Reem.

"Most of Reem is fed by these farms," Vyn said with a wink, gesturing at the soot-covered fields. "The capital stands for its two B's and an A: bread, meat, and ale."

Akash's gaze lingered on the city walls rising ahead, massive structures forged from compacted sand. They loomed impossibly high, designed to block the swirling desert winds. Yet despite their efforts, fine red grit still found its way into his eyes and clung to his skin. Both Vyn and Veneres wore thin veils over their faces, shielding them from the worst of the sand. Akash squinted, his annoyance growing with each step.

Beyond the walls, tall outposts of copper and black metal jutted skyward in sharp contrast to the dusty landscape. Their surfaces, pitted and worn, gleamed faintly in the dim sunlight. Reem was colossal, sprawling far beyond the horizon, its sheer scale humbling. Akash couldn't even guess how many people called this place home.

The capital of Reem was divided into three concentric rings, each separated by smaller inner walls and connected by towering gates. The Outer Ring, where they now stood, was the lifeblood of the city, filled with bustling markets, taverns, and homes for the common folk. The streets here were narrow and crowded, twisting unpredictably as they wove around older, decaying structures. Though chaotic, the Outer Ring was vibrant, with its countless stalls and workshops creating a patchwork of sound, color, and scent. From the rich aroma of freshly baked bread to the tang of leather being worked in the tannery, life in the Outer Ring was as raw as it was lively.

Beyond the Outer Ring lay the Middle Ring, home to Reem's wealthier merchants and lesser nobility. Its streets were wider and better paved, lined with larger homes and specialized artisan shops. Here, Akash could see hints of the city's architectural ambition—domed roofs, ornate carvings, and intricate mosaics depicting Reem's victories in battle. Fountains dotted the plazas, their waters flowing freely thanks to an ancient aqueduct system that ran through the city.

At the heart of Reem stood the Inner Ring, dominated by the Palace of Kings and the surrounding government buildings. The palace itself was a marvel of engineering, its massive domes and towering spires rising above the city like a crown. Constructed from imported marble and reinforced with enchanted metals, it gleamed even in the reddish haze of the desert sun. The Inner Ring was home to the nobility, the most influential generals, and the priesthood that served the God King.

"Reem wasn't built in a day," Vyn said, his voice laced with pride. "Nor was it built for the faint of heart. It's the beating heart of the west—everything flows to and from here. Trade, power, culture... and, of course, war."

Akash's gaze drifted back to the crimson flags waving above the sandstone buildings, their golden emblems shining against the backdrop of the dusty sky. "How many people live here?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Vyn shrugged. "Depends on who you ask. A few hundred thousand, at least. Maybe more. Reem's always growing. People come from every corner of the land to make their fortune—or at least to survive."

Their group moved deeper into the city, weaving through the crowd. Akash's eyes lingered on the vibrant chaos around him. Merchants hawked their wares with practiced enthusiasm, and street performers danced or juggled to earn a few coins. He could hear the steady rhythm of blacksmiths hammering at their forges, the hiss of steam from boiling cauldrons, and the occasional clink of soldiers' armor as they patrolled the streets.

"Since we're here," Vyn said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "we might as well visit a few good taverns. Veneres might even crack a smile if we show him something cultural."

Veneres scowled, quickening his pace without looking back. "We have no time for distractions."

Vyn rolled his eyes but didn't press further. Instead, he turned to Akash. "So? First impressions?"

"It's incredible," Akash admitted. His gaze lingered on the flowing banners, the ancient carvings etched into walls, and the teeming life that filled every corner. "It's like a city that never sleeps."

Vyn grinned. "It's that and more. But don't let the surface fool you. Reem's as dangerous as it is beautiful. The same streets that give you bread and ale will take your coin—or your life—if you're not careful."

Vyn bumped his shoulder lightly, snapping him from his thoughts. "Keep up, ward of Jassin. I'd hate for you to get lost out here. Jassin would be... less than pleased."

Akash glanced sideways. "What's Jassin like when he's annoyed?"

Vyn ignored the question, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he swept his arm out dramatically. "Welcome to the capital city of Reem."

"It's massive," Akash muttered, taking in the crimson banners draped from the tightly packed sand buildings. The streets teemed with life: merchants barking prices, children darting through the crowd, and soldiers marching in step.

Vyn let out a hearty laugh. "It always has that effect on first-time visitors. Just wait until you see the Palace of Kings."

Veneres' voice cut through the lighthearted air like the sharp edge of a blade. "Enough. We're not tourists. Our purpose here is to reach the market, acquire arrows, and gather rations. That's all."

Vyn smirked, undeterred. "Oh, come now, Veneres. Since we're here, we might as well visit the Five Pyramids of Honor. They're worth seeing, even for a dull blade like you."

Veneres scowled, his steps quickening as if to leave them behind.

"We should catch up," Akash suggested.

Vyn waved dismissively. "He'll be fine. Veneres is just annoyed that I don't fit into his perfect little picture. I take pride in that, actually. He thinks he's planned for everything, but he's blind to what really matters."

Akash's gaze wandered as they wove through the crowded streets. "I think I get it," he said quietly. "You and Veneres are like Mirak and me."

"Friend of yours?" Vyn asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Akash said, his voice softening. "We got separated. I don't know where they are now." A hint of sadness crept into his tone as he added, "I miss them."

"Well," Vyn said gently, "when you find them, you'll have plenty of adventures to share."

Akash nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on the crimson flags fluttering above the packed sand buildings. "Daenys would've loved to see this place. Mirak, though—he'd already be searching for a library."

Vyn chuckled, though his tone was quieter now. "They sound like good people."

Up ahead, the bustling crowd thickened, and the energy shifted. The noise grew quieter, the hum of conversation giving way to murmurs and whispers. A low, palpable tension hung over the square as people pressed closer together, craning their necks toward something unseen.

Vyn's expression sharpened, his grin fading. His gaze followed the crowd. "What are you up to, Veneres?" he muttered, his voice low enough that only Akash caught the words.

Veneres had stopped at the edge of the square, his posture rigid. He waited for Akash and Vyn to catch up before motioning toward the center of the gathering. "The Hopekiller is here."

Akash felt a chill crawl up his spine. Even the name seemed to suck the warmth from the desert air. Vyn pursed his lips, his usual nonchalance replaced with something colder. He didn't look surprised, but there was a grim weight in his expression.

A rider emerged from the crowd. The Hopekiller sat astride a massive black stallion, the beast's muscles rippling as it moved with slow, deliberate steps. The rider's white hood concealed most of their face, but their armor was unforgettable. Black as a starless sky, it seemed to absorb the sunlight, casting shadows over itself. A blood-red shoulder cape hung from one side, fluttering lazily in the wind. Dusky gray arms, marked with white tattoos that formed intricate lines, rested on the reins.

Four armored figures followed closely behind on equally imposing horses, each radiating a dangerous, predatory aura. The mere sight of them caused the crowd to retreat in hushed fear. Even the special infantry—battle-hardened soldiers of Reem—shrank under the gaze of these newcomers.

Vyn grunted. "The Hopekiller and his four lieutenants. Rhaine the Lionhearted..." He motioned toward a knight in gleaming silver and turquoise armor. White furs lined the knight's pauldrons, and a massive halberd rested in his hand, ready to strike. His shield bore golden symbols that seemed to shimmer even in the hazy sunlight.

"He's as bold as his name suggests," Vyn continued, his voice tinged with disdain. "Feared for his reckless courage, scorned for his unrelenting cruelty. A Knight of Franzisch."

Veneres' gaze shifted to the next lieutenant. "Karl the Mourning Sword," he said. "A knight of Astad, cursed to carry the soul of his lover within his armor. They say men weep when he draws his blade, as if mourning with him."

Karl's pointed silver mask glinted under the light, a stark contrast to the dark blue mesh visible beneath his armor. A massive broadsword rested across his shoulder, its presence both solemn and menacing.

"And Tannhauser, the Knight of Rusting," Vyn said, gesturing toward the third figure. This knight's bone-white armor was topped with a crow-skull helmet, and a white cape draped loosely over his shoulders. He carried a heavy ax in one hand, his movements unhurried.

"I've heard the stories," Vyn added. "He salted an enemy army's weapons once. Their blades rusted mid-battle."

Vyn's eyes shifted to the final lieutenant, and his tone became almost amused. "And of course, Ulrich Giantspear. A half-giant who carries a tree as his weapon. They say he eats his enemies."

Akash didn't doubt the rumor. The last lieutenant towered over the others, his size making his already massive horse seem small. His spear—a sharpened tree trunk—rested on one shoulder. His armor was a crude mix of furs and skulls, designed for function rather than appearance.

"And the Hopekiller commands them all," Veneres said darkly, his voice dripping with hatred.

The Hopekiller dismounted, their movements impossibly smooth. Each step forward was measured, deliberate. The crowd shrank further, and even the special infantry stiffened under the weight of their presence.

A single soldier stepped forward—Jiras. His weapon trembled slightly in his hands, but his voice held defiance. "You will pay for what you did to my lover. As my honor demands it."

Veneres murmured, "A smart move."

"A martyr's move," Vyn corrected.

Before Akash could ask what they meant, the Hopekiller struck. A black gauntlet whipped across Jiras' face, shattering his helmet and crushing the armor beneath. Jiras crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his broken face.

The Hopekiller's voice cut through the silence, deep and resonant. "You are nothing but sand in my ever-watching eyes. To think you would challenge me—pitiful little man."

They pulled back their hood, revealing ashen skin marked with jagged white tattoos. Their bright red eyes glowed with cold malice, and their bone-white hair flowed freely in the wind. The crowd gasped.

The Hopekiller was an elf.