The moon hung low and red, as though it had bled itself dry upon the land, casting long shadows across a battlefield that had forgotten mercy. The air was thick with smoke and ash, carrying the scent of blood and burnt earth like a stubborn perfume.
"Kian—there you are!"
The voice cut through the haze, and I turned to see Mahyar, breathless, his uniform streaked with soot. The battle had dragged on far longer than anyone had dared predict, and the hellscape only grew hotter as bodies fed the fire. Smoke clung to us like a second skin, heavy and suffocating.
"The gods must finally be smiling on us," he panted, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Reinforcements arrive in two days."
I nodded, polite, hollow.
Boom.
The ground shuddered under the impact of cannon fire, a familiar punctuation to our existence.
"Two days," I echoed, accepting the bottle he pressed into my hand. "Seems the Duke is eager to see this finished."
Mahyar laughed, eyes bright despite the chaos. "Cultivators and mages… monsters, the lot of them. Even the western ones—they carve strength straight into their flesh. If I had the coin, I'd do it. Then I'd find a better war. Or no war at all."
I drank in silence.
"So we stall," I murmured. "Two days of bleeding, waiting to be saved."
"Bloody beast people," he spat, taking the bottle back.
The night tried to be night. Fire and screaming would not allow it.
"Got another?" I offered, holding out a cigarette.
Time froze as he took it—then froze altogether.
Mahyar rose abruptly, pointing skyward. "What is—Kian, look. Is that an airship?"
I followed his gaze. There it was, cutting through the red-dark sky like a blade.
"But you said aid wouldn't come for two days," I muttered.
Chaos erupted before we could process the delay. A scream, a gunshot, another.
A figure moved through the smoke, polearm gleaming dully in moonlight.
"I do not have time for this," a cold, unfamiliar voice cut through. "Survive and spare. Resist and be parts."
Mahyar grinned, confident. Bang. His shot vanished into smoke. The figure surged forward, impossibly fast, weapon leveled at us. Mahyar fumbled to reload.
I fired.
The figure barely flinched. Mahyar didn't. His head was gone before the echo faded. Panic clawed up my spine. Reloading was hopeless. I lunged with my bayonet. The strike jarred against an unyielding force.
"How stupid," the figure said, almost bored. The butt of their weapon slammed into my skull. Darkness took me.
—
The second sun hung overhead when I came to, pale light illuminating my disgrace. I sat among other prisoners, wrists bound, teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached. Soldiers—The enemy soldiers—patrolled the area, ensuring we stayed in line.
In the background, members of the Church moved among the wounded. Pristine, serene, untouched by the dirt and fury of the battlefield, they tended to injuries with calm precision. Their presence was unnerving—halos of light in the corner of my vision, reminding me that someone, somewhere, was watching.
I burned their silhouettes into memory. Every movement, every meticulous gesture. Not combatants. Not judges. Not executioners. Just aid—but aid that made the air itself feel heavier.
Shame curdled into fury. Fury hardened into resolve.
"Beast people," I spat, the words tasting different now. Colder. Sharper.
For the first time, I understood the full weight of who the enemy was—and who the world considered divine. The Church would not fight for them, yet its presence changed the battlefield. Even in mercy, it was a reminder: survival alone was no longer enough.
And I would not forget it.