The Shattered Crowns

Agony burned through Akash's body, consuming him like fire devouring dry kindling. Each ragged breath tore at his throat, his vision hazy with blood and sweat. The malevolent voice mocked him, every syllable sharp and precise, cutting deeper than the spear lodged in his back.

"Angel of the Red Sands," the voice said, heavy with contempt, yet laced with a cruel amusement. "Such a lofty title… such an undeserved farce. Did you believe you could live up to it? No, little vessel. You are nothing."

The obsidian spear—Nakba's spear—had driven straight through Akash's spine, pinning him to the translucent surface beneath his knees. The ground rippled faintly, as though it were water, yet solid enough to hold his weight. Around him, the pool stretched endlessly into the horizon, reflecting the faint, silvery glow of a sky that did not belong to his world. It was a liminal space, somewhere between existence and annihilation—a domain shaped by Nakba's will.

A boot pressed down against his back, shoving him deeper into the watery surface. Akash grunted in pain as his broken wings, crimson-streaked feathers trailing blood, flattened beneath him. The translucent liquid swirled darkly, stained by his life force.

Above him loomed Nakba, the tormentor, the blight, the whisperer in shadows. His form was almost humanoid but not entirely. His skin, unnaturally pale, was veined with black like cracks in ancient marble. Yet it was his hands that drew the eye most—their twisted, blackened form. They were hands that seemed to leech the very concept of light, as though shadows clung to them, writhing and alive. The veins feeding into them pulsed faintly, a deep crimson glow beneath the skin, like molten iron struggling to cool.

One hand rested on the shaft of the spear, pressing it deeper into Akash's back. The other hung at his side, talon-like fingers flexing absently. They bore the weight of a thousand sins, each darkened by the lives he had unmade. The way they moved—almost as if they had a will of their own—was unnerving.

"Do you feel it?" Nakba asked, his voice low, smooth, and cruelly intimate. "The weight of it? The Contract between us? Every second you exist is because I allow it." His boot dug harder into Akash's spine, eliciting a guttural cry from the fallen warrior. "You thought you could resist me, container? Foolish child. I have broken beings far greater than you."

Akash clenched his teeth, his trembling fingers reaching toward the resin-infused blade that lay just out of reach. Its faint glow was the only light in this suffocating abyss. He could feel its hum, its warmth, calling to him—a lifeline in the dark. But every inch he clawed forward sent waves of agony through his body, the spear anchoring him in place.

And still, that voice, that damned voice, whispered again—not Nakba's, but something else. Something buried deep within. A faint, fragmented echo:

"…shhh… reach out… to me…"

The words burned through Akash's mind like the blade of the spear twisting in his back. His vision swam, blurring the boundary between the external torment and the internal pressure building in his skull. His breaths grew shallow, each one wheezing through gritted teeth.

Nakba tilted his head, observing the container with an almost clinical interest. His molten eyes, a sickening swirl of crimson and black, narrowed. "What are you, I wonder?" he mused, his voice tinged with curiosity. "You fight harder than most. Is it pride? Or desperation? Tell me, little vessel, do you dream of breaking free?" His lips twisted into a grin, sharp and jagged. "You won't."

With sudden, inhuman speed, Nakba withdrew the spear from Akash's back, allowing him to collapse onto the watery surface. Blood gushed from the wound, spreading in dark tendrils beneath him. Akash's trembling hand reached the resin blade at last, his fingers closing around its hilt.

The weapon flared to life, its glow brightening as it connected with him, a symbol of his defiance. He pushed himself to his knees, his wings dragging uselessly behind him, feathers tattered and bloodied. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body, yet he stood. Somehow, he stood.

Nakba watched him rise, his blackened hands hanging loosely at his sides, his grin widening. "Ah, yes," he murmured. "Stand, little angel. Pretend that it matters."

Akash's legs shook beneath him, but he raised the blade, the glow casting faint shadows across his battered frame. Blood streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat dripping from his burgundy hair. His scar reopened, splitting his face with a fresh trail of crimson.

For a moment, Nakba faltered. The way Akash stood, the fire in his eyes, the raw determination that burned through his pain—it was familiar. Too familiar. Nakba's grin flickered, replaced by something colder, more calculating. He saw it now, the shadow of another. Another who had stood just like this, wings spread wide, a weapon raised against him. Another who had dared to defy him.

But that angel was dead. Nakba had made sure of it. He had torn her apart, consumed her light, and cast her essence into the void. This boy, this fragile vessel, was nothing like her. He could not be.

Could he?

Nakba's molten eyes narrowed, his blackened hand rising. He extended a single finger, pointing directly at Akash's chest. "Let us test your resolve, shall we?" he said, his voice like a blade dragging over stone. "Let us see how much further you can crawl before you break."

Pain flared again as Akash tried to pull himself upright, his fingers scraping against the translucent ground. Blood mixed with the water-like surface, the ripples of crimson spreading out in delicate patterns before fading into nothing. He clutched at his chest where Nakba's dark spear had struck, gasping for breath. The resin blade, dim and quiet, lay just out of reach once more.

Nakba turned slowly, his blackened hands resting at his sides. Shadows dripped from his fingers like living tar, pooling on the ground before slithering back toward him. His expression shifted, the faint smirk melting into something far colder, something primal. His molten crimson eyes burned as he stared at Akash, and when he spoke, his voice was deeper, resonating with power that made the very air quiver.

"Do you understand your place yet, Akash?" Nakba asked, his tone void of amusement now. "Do you see the futility of your struggle? The truth of your existence? You were born to serve me. You are me, little vessel."

Akash tried to rise, bracing himself against the spear wound in his chest, but his legs refused to obey. His strength was failing. The steady, determined resolve that had carried him through countless battles flickered like a dying ember. He reached for the resin blade again, but his blood-slick fingers slipped off the hilt. The weapon rolled slightly, as if retreating from him.

Nakba stepped closer, each stride unhurried, deliberate. His blackened hands flexed, the shadowy tendrils coiling around them like serpents preparing to strike. He stopped a few paces away, tilting his head to observe the broken creature before him. "Still reaching? For that?" he asked, gesturing lazily toward the blade. "You think this weapon will save you? A shard of resin against me? Against Nakba?"

He crouched beside Akash, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Pathetic."

Akash's chest heaved as he forced out a single word. "Monster…"

Nakba froze for a moment, then tilted his head back and laughed—a deep, guttural sound that carried across the void, echoing endlessly. It was a sound filled with contempt, malice, and a cruel sort of amusement, as if the word "monster" had only confirmed his own magnificence.

"Monster?" Nakba repeated, leaning closer until Akash could feel his icy breath against his cheek. "No, boy. A monster is something your kind tells stories about to frighten children. I am something far worse. I am the ruin of kingdoms. The undoing of Gods. I am the end that waits in the shadows of every foolish ambition." His voice dropped even lower, venom lacing every word. "And you—you are nothing more than a vessel. A tool. You are what I allow you to be, nothing more."

Nakba straightened, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Akash's crumpled wings. The once-proud appendages lay in a mangled heap behind him, feathers torn and streaked with blood. Nakba's molten gaze flickered with something almost like fascination. "Ah, yes. Your wings. A mark of the 'Angel of the Red Sands.'" He sneered, the title dripping from his lips like poison. "How undeserved. You wear them like a crown, but they are not yours. They never were."

His blackened hands stretched out toward the wings, and Akash instinctively tried to recoil, but the spear wound anchored him to the ground. His movements were sluggish, his limbs weak from blood loss. Nakba grasped one wing in his talons, his grip like iron. Shadows crept over the feathers, seeping into them, corrupting their once-vivid hue.

"You call yourself an angel," Nakba said softly, almost tenderly. "But you're not. You're a failed imitation. A broken reflection of something long gone. And I despise imitations."

With a sudden, brutal motion, Nakba ripped the wing from Akash's back.

The pain was blinding, a white-hot surge that tore through Akash's entire body. He screamed, his voice raw and primal, echoing across the endless void. Blood sprayed in an arc, splattering across the watery surface beneath them. The ripped wing dangled in Nakba's grasp for a moment before he let it drop. It hit the ground with a sickening wet sound, feathers bent and broken.

Nakba's smirk returned, his molten eyes glowing with cruel delight. He reached for the second wing, his blackened fingers trailing along its length. "Still fighting, are we?" he mused, watching as Akash weakly flailed, trying to pull himself away. "Good. I like it when they struggle."

Akash gritted his teeth, his vision swimming with pain and rage. He swung his arm weakly, trying to grab Nakba, to fight back, but his strength was gone. His hand fell limply to his side, and Nakba clicked his tongue in mock disappointment.

"Pathetic," Nakba whispered, and then, with the same brutal force, he tore the second wing free.

Akash's body convulsed, his head slumping forward as blood pooled beneath him. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, his entire frame trembling. He felt hollow, stripped of something vital. His wings—symbols of his defiance, his identity—were gone. He felt the absence like a gaping wound, a part of himself ripped away forever.

Nakba stood over him, the severed wings lying at his feet. He regarded them for a moment, then kicked them aside as though they were nothing more than trash. "Do you see now, Akash?" he asked, his voice soft and mocking. "This is what you are. Broken. Weak. Powerless. You call yourself an angel, but angels die. And you... you are not even that."

Akash's trembling hand reached out one last time, fingers brushing against the resin blade. Its faint glow flickered, almost as if responding to him, but Nakba's boot came down hard on his hand, crushing it against the ground.

"No more," Nakba said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He crouched again, his blackened hand gripping Akash's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Look at me, little vessel. Look at the one who owns you. Remember this moment. Etch it into your soul. This is the price of defiance."

Akash's eyes fluttered, his vision fading as the world tilted around him. The whispers in his mind were silent now, swallowed by the overwhelming void that was Nakba.

Satisfied, Nakba released his grip, letting Akash collapse into the pool of blood and water. He rose to his full height, his blackened hands flexing as the shadows twisted and coiled around him like living things. He turned his back on the broken angel, his voice echoing through the empty space.

"Rest, Akash," he said, his tone laced with malice. "Rest, and remember this day. For no matter how far you run, no matter how hard you fight, you will never escape me. You are mine. Always."

And as Nakba strode away, his laughter filled the void—cold, cruel, and endless.