********
The merciless, scorching desert sun made her scaly skin shimmer like gemstones; he could never forget those shimmering emerald and aquamarine hues, nor the golden gleam of her viper-like eyes, nor the feminine figure hinted at beneath her silken priestly robes. Enkil, the soldier—the hero born to give his life for Settraliss's royal family—was grateful to stand near such reptilian beauty, near that priestess-princess whose gaze could mesmerize even the bravest soul.
The green-scaled priestess, clad in pale pink robes, raised hands adorned with dozens of golden bracelets toward the crowd gathered in the plaza before the temple of the Supreme God—the deity of life and sun, the Lord of Light. Her tail, emerging from beneath her garments and draped to one side, coiled with golden rings inset with blue mana gems, swayed gently at the tip. Her crest, rising from the base of her neck to her brow, was camouflaged by a headdress of blue-and-green gemstones and crystals.
The people—gentle and joyful before their nation's living treasure—fell silent as the leader's arms slowly lowered. For the tenth year, the prayers beseeching the great flood of the Ecklos River to bring bountiful harvests were led by Princess Sekani.
Sekani, the golden-eyed one, blessed by the Supreme God and favored daughter of Prophet-King Ur Atum, cried out in the sibilant Salessian tongue the rites for the benevolent god, while the miracle of light bathed his followers' bodies.
To Enkil, it seemed wondrous how the Supreme God's power washed away weariness, pain and sorrow. Yet in his eyes, far more beautiful was the existence of beings like the princess, entrusted to bestow these blessings upon the faithful. After the miracle wrought by and for her people, the green-scaled female closed her eyes and, bowing to the crowd, thanked both them and her God. Amid the faithful's jubilation, she slowly descended the main platform to meet her escort. The graceful, delicate way she navigated the steps—holding her thousand-fold dress with elegant hands, subtly lifting slender arms adorned with jewels and gold—made her guard's heart lurch.
Enkil loved the princess—quietly, resignedly. At first, shielding himself with loyalty to the throne, he believed his love was that of a follower for his mistress. But with time, he realized he loved her fervently, as a male loves a female of his own kind. Tormented, he denied his feelings a thousand times, burying them deep within—until he understood his one-sided love need not betray his principles. Enkil loved Sekani, and so he would be her most faithful, most devoted, most selfless servant. He would fight, kill, and die for her, for he loved her. He would guard her happiness and peace even if it meant offering his heart to the accursed gods, if only to see her safe.
Approaching her—his personal goddess—he extended a clawed hand in support. The beautiful female, pressing one of her own to her chest, accepted the offer and let out a long sigh.
"I'll never grow used to addressing them. I was so nervous!"
"Even if your words faltered, Settraliss's people would still adore you, princess."
Sekani smiled at her bodyguard's dutiful gaze and bow. He always made her feel so special, though she felt unworthy of the gifts bestowed upon her. The Lord of
Light had shown her such benevolence, yet she'd done nothing to earn it. Surely another—kinder, less selfish—could serve better.
Back then, neither knew the other's true feelings. Enkil dreamed of an unattainable, near-divine princess; Sekani believed herself undeserving of love, convinced all saw her as a spoiled princess favoured by the Supreme God's light. Soft and blind to one another, they gazed at the desert stars, each misreading the other's heart.
**********
That night, the three moons were shrouded by dark clouds—strange clouds resembling smoke more than vapour. The cold desert sand at midnight reeked with a strange odour, a stench of carrion and blood-tinged iron.
Enkil's tail lashed nervously against the palace tiles, alarmed by what his nostrils
and tongue perceived. As a Salessian, his hearing was scarcely sharper than a
human's, yet his sense of smell compensated for it. And this time, his senses whispered dire warnings.
It smelled of war... of wars past; smelled corpses rotting beneath the sun. He slid off the metal guards from his claws and pressed them to the ground, seeking the earth's vibrations.
Enkil felt the footsteps of palace guards hastening toward him; beyond, the tremors of military squads sprinting to the city gates, of heavy carts hauled by enmus —a species of white camel. His power only revealed events within the city; beyond its walls, an approaching enemy remained undetectable. Yet the military movements at this hour screamed of an impending attack.
Minutes later, a young brown-scaled Salessian arrived clutching a scroll—likely orders. Having already sent a maid to rouse the princess, Enkil craved details. With a tense military salute, he took the scroll and dismissed the messenger.
The note, scrawled on lotus paper, seemed hastily written. It described a horde of unidentified beings advancing. Most chilling was the weather accompanying them: scouts reported frost in the desert's heart, a phenomenon like a sandstorm—but where grit should rage, snow swirled instead. Biting cold barred approach within a hundred meters of the frozen mass. Its foul stench had made their scales bristle. They urged sealing and reinforcing the city gates against the oncoming, unnatural wave.
The notion of enemy wizards orchestrating this assault flashed through his viper-quick mind—yet his people were at peace. Not the orcs far south beyond the sacred mountains, nor the nomadic dwarves who'd once warred over territory... This warm desert fragment hadn't been contested for decades.
Enkil—the soldier who'd never feared an enemy, a hero among the kingdom's bravest—felt an electric jolt down his spine as snow suddenly began falling from the sky. Instinct screamed at him to act, to spirit his princess to safety. But how do you shield someone from a wave of snow and ice looming over the city like an
avalanche?
*******
The cold numbed their movements; the Salessians, cold-blooded beings, fared poorly in freezing climes. From the city walls, half a kilometre away, the advancing mass of snow and ice crawled forward like a sandstorm in slow motion.
Prophet-King Ur Atum had foreseen a great frost in his dreams, yet never imagined the prophecy would manifest so literally. He'd prepared for droughts, excessive river floods, even poor harvests—but how could one prepare for this?
His blue eyes and dark-green scales reflected the torch flames, now flickering weakly as the snowfall intensified.
Shivering beneath thick head-to-toe wrappings, Princess Sekani clasped her father's claw. She prayed to the Supreme God, to the animal spirits guiding her people, to her ancestors—and the miracle's warmth only a priestess could summon began heating those nearby. Ten meters away, Enkil watched, claws tightening around his bronze-and-steel spear.
This is wrong… twisted wrong…
He thought, yet voiceless. Something travelled within that icy cloud—something reeking of war, feeling like thousands of feet dragging across the ground.
A horseman-shaped dot appeared on the horizon, blurred by frost-haze at first. Behind him, four more figures coalesced. Gradually, the shadow sharpened as it emerged from the storm: dark armor with twisted light-shadows writhing between plates, a black mount with crimson eyes.
The sight was monstrous. That being—if man it could be called—exuded a
sepulchral aura that made onlookers tremble. His face lay hidden beneath a dragonesque greathelm resembling a crowned skull; only his eyes were visible—white, fiery orbs that seemed to freeze whatever they touched. His horse foamed at the mouth like a rabid beast. Thick mist rose from its bone-thin legs. Slowly, the figure halted before the city gates, flanked by four cloaked companions in the same aberrant armor.
Silence. An endless silence. Heavy breaths.
Fear.
Fear.
Fear.
The whssht of an arrow—loosed in panic—shattered the spectral quiet.
The projectile struck a hooded rider's head. Laughter rang out. A mail-gloved hand pulled back the hood, revealing a pale, gaunt face—arrow embedded in its jaw—yet no blood flowed, no pain contorted those handsome features. Only a wet, choking laugh. His blazing white eyes locked onto the archer.
One glance.
With disdain, the creature yanked out the arrow. Like some unknown miracle, the wounds sealed, lips reforming. Now whole, its smile widened, laughter swelling louder.
"By the Lord of Light!... Father, we must flee—now!"
Sekani's viperine face twisted in terror. Her God's warning had come too late. Perhaps her earlier trembling wasn't from cold, but premonition—a divine omen unheeded.
Undead. The antithesis of her beliefs. Beings tied to the dark brother of Sekani's own deity.
Only acolytes of the Death God could reanimate corpses with sentience. Dissenting necromancers barely managed mindless bones—flesh puppets without magic. Yet here stood these aberrations: not typical undead, but creations of the
Death God's own adepts—Liches who'd joined the Whisperers of the Eternal, trading mortal life for perpetual order.
Why?
Sekani's mind raced. Why would acolytes of the just Death God—scourge of demon-pacting witches—turn on Settraliss? Fear froze her scaled claws; her prayers brought only a faint shield of light around herself and her father. No answers
came.
Thunk.
The first archer tumbled from the walls, his jaw pierced by his own arrow.
"SURRENDER THE SPEAR OF APOPHIS, AND YOUR LIVES MAY BE SPARED!"
The helmed one's voice echoed with grave-resonance, surrounding them like the snowstorm.
Enkil knew then: they would die here.
His people couldn't fight freely in cold. They lacked human battle-wizards. Priests could barely stand, useless against arrows-proof monsters. Summoning all will, he sprinted toward king and princess—shoving them toward escape while roaring the order: "FIRE!"
That would delay them. Buy time to save the royals. Evacuate the city.
*******
According to Salessian funerary rites, their dead were wrapped in palm leaves and bandages, then placed in ceramic jars adorned with litanies to the Supreme God of Light, to be buried in family crypts—often located in household courtyards. This tradition had hastened Settraliss's fall.
The skeletons overrunning the city belonged to families who once lived there. Gradually, they'd clawed through sand and earth, shattering tiles and heaving aside stones.
Screams and wails pierced the midnight horror—innocents who'd trusted the Lord of Light to shield them now watched ancestors rise to slaughter them.
The small royal guard squadron carved through fleeing crowds and undead slaughtering everything in their path. The princess trembled as Enkil's hand sought to steady her—or perhaps he drew strength from her scaled grip clinging to his in terror.
"To the royal palace—take the escape route! Shelter anyone in need! Order evacuation to the coast!" Enkil roared over the chaos while civil guards tried saving survivors.
"We must retrieve the Spear of Apophis!" King Ur Atum's voice cut through his daze.
"If he claims it, not just Settraliss—all Salessians... the world will fall!
A divine artifact, sacred to the world's races, guarded by Salessians with
ultimate honor. Forged by Saint Apophis during the Godswar when ley lines fractured, inherited by the first Prophet-King.
No mortal could wield it. They enshrined it, knowing only god-chosen champions might lift it—like other relics scattered across seas and mountains, lost to time.
Legends claimed uniting them would birth a new god, yet no realm could hold one long.
As priest and king, Ur Atum knew these beings were the Death God's handiwork—a deity once deemed just and fearsome, part of Order's noble pantheon.
Yet his acolytes sought the holy relics.
Pleading now, not commanding, he repeated:
"We must secure the Spear! All creation dies if they take it!" Enkil—holding back skeletons lunging at the royals—understood his duty.
Never had he heard King Ur Atum speak thus: as if the world's weight crushed him, as if collapse loomed.
Shoving through to the barracks near the walls, he pushed his men and the royals inside. Scanning the room for the royal guard commander, he found her missing.
"She stayed behind," a blue-scaled comrade rasped. "Someone had to direct the rear guard."
"Understood." was all Enkil managed. Across the room, the king muttered his plea like a broken child.
Enkil's gaze locked with Sekani's. Terrified since seeing the riders, abandoned by her god's light, she mirrored his fear. He longed to say he understood—words died in his throat. Steeling himself, he turned to the king.
"I'll retrieve the Spear." Kneeling, he swallowed his dread. For her peace, for the world, he'd do this.
"You... can't," Ur Atum stammered. "Only a priest or someone blessed by the Supreme God can endure its touch long enough to shroud it in sacred cloth for transport."
Clasping his trembling hands, the king found his resolve. Prophecy had blinded him; these deaths were his burden.
"Take the princess and evacuees to port. Ships await since the signal. The Moon Elves' lands are safe—they must be."
Hearing this, Sekani erupted.
"No... Father... No!"
Shock and powerlessness exploded into frenzy. Guards restrained her as she crumpled.
"Take her. Force her if needed," the king whispered, eyes shut against hisndaughter's sobs. Enkil's heart shattered—but she hadtolive. She had to flee.
********
The remnants of the royal guard had secured Princess Sekani and were now racing toward the port through the city's siege tunnels.
The king and five soldiers charged down the main road toward the temple beside thencentral plaza. Half the city lay between the walls and their goal; behind them,nexplosions and screams from soldiers holding back the undead at the gates signalled their time was running out.
"The gate won't hold! Our men are already overwhelmed by the risen dead inside!"
Theynurged their battle beetles onward—slower than enmus but faster than foot travel in the chaos. Fire consumed buildings as thick snow carpeted the streets, now strewn with crimson stains and fresh corpses twitching back to life.
"Faster! Move!" Even the king's face hardened with resolve as they trampled reanimated skeletons.
The temple doors loomed ahead. Only the corpse-choked plaza barred their way. So close...
Then an avalanche-like roar thundered behind them. Three ice dragons soared overhead, frost-breath shattering the city gate. Frozen shrapnel exploded, shrouding everything in impenetrable fog.
"Press on!" the king bellowed.
Enkil drove his battle beetle through skeletal ranks. Soldiers shielded the king,nbones crunching underfoot. Guided by instinct, they breached the temple—losingntwo men to cold that near-froze their limbs.
There it stood: the Spear of Apophis, bathed in divine light upon the altar, flanked by stone effigies of Settraliss's sacred heroes. The king scrambled up gold-inlaid steps and seized it. Power surged through him—unstable, overwhelming—as he frantically wrapped the relic in his cloak-cape.
A dragon's roar shook the temple. Stones rained from the ceiling; snow poured through a gaping hole torn by an ice dragon's landing. Through the settling dust and frost, a shadow emerged.
A werewolf—female, towering in obsidian armor studded with the Death God's thousand-faced skulls, purple acolyte cloak billowing. Frost-shrouded axes gleamed in her hands as white eyes burned beneath lupine features. Her frostbitten fur bristled.
"Shield the king!"
Enkil lunged at her. She batted him aside with an ice-magic blast. Exhausted, frostbitten, and bleeding, the Salessians were no match.
The king rose, dignity intact. Clutching the spear, he prayed to the Supreme God of Light. Radiance healed his guards' wounds. The she-wolf howled, eyes fixed on the spear—and ice spikes erupted from the floor.
Two soldiers fell: one impaled through the middle, the other gutted by frozen spears. The werewolf bared her fangs in a grin. She had them cornered. Trapped.
*******
Prophet-King Ur Atum had lived a dignified life. He had done all he could as ruler—made mistakes, and owned them. This would be his final error, his ultimate act of redemption.
In his robe pockets lay mana crystals—enough to amplify his power. He begged the Supreme God of Light to hear him, to grant strength. He felt the light's warmth flood him. Fear faded; doubts dissolved. Then, swift as his Salessian muscles allowed, he hurled the spear toward Enkil while summoning an area shield.
The shield enveloped the space—everywhere except where the royal guard's second-in-command stood. Stunned, the soldier couldn't believe his eyes. The king he'd sworn to protect was sacrificing himself so he could flee with the spear. Enraged, the she-wolf charged the light-dome, yet it stood firm as an unbreakable wall. Enkil seized the spear fallen beside him.
He heard nothing from within the dome but knew—the king was screaming for him to run, to escape. Agonizing chaos surged through him as he touched the relic. Praying to the Lord of Light for grit, he lifted it. Exhausted, wounded, the artifact's warmth offered fleeting relief. Blood dripped from his nostrils—proof of its overwhelming power—but he pushed on. He ran with every ounce of strength left, unaware that the king who'd died for him had just been slammed against the dome's edge by the werewolf's berserk rage.
*****
His limbs responded sluggishly, his viperine face smeared with blood. He didn't know how he'd reached the main square, but he knew a sewer entrance lay nearby—a place to hide. His goal was escape, yet he knew it was impossible. He had to conceal the spear. Even with his life.
Crawling forward, he finally spotted the wastewater duct. Relief flooded him—joy. He never noticed the furry paw closing in. Then came the pain: something heavy crushing his body.
"You scuttle like a cockroach," the woman werewolf taunted in a guttural growl, her roar afterward like self-approval for some dark intent.
No.
Enkil refused. He had a duty—couldn't die, couldn't fail his people. Summoning his last strength, he begged the Lord of Light for a miracle. The answer came as a halo blazing from his empty hand.
Enkil never imagined the Lord of Light would answer him. Like the famous paladins, the Light's power coalesced into a scimitar—healing him, fortifying him, granting one chance to fulfil his oath.
Renewed, body miraculously whole, he invoked a divine shield that hurled the she-wolf backward, buying time to rise.
Snarling, the Knight of the Eternal Vow glared from where she'd fallen. A barking laugh escaped her as she charged, axes finally drawn—a twisted acknowledgment of her foe's grit.
Enkil braced himself. He hurled the light-scimitar while conjuring more shields.Unpracticed but buoyed by holy power, he believed: I can win. Reunite with Sekani. Save my people.
The lupine knight dodged the blade effortlessly, smirking. She'd seen it: this Salessian was raw, untrained—but brave.
Feinting, she forced Enkil to shield his face—then slammed a paw into his gut. His shields lessened the blow, yet he crashed backward. Too fast, he thought, even in heavy armor. But he had to win. He could—
He never felt the spear slip from his grasp.
Power had made him arrogant. He'd dreamed of heroism. But he was no hero.
Just a fool.
He looked up, nostrils clogged with frozen crimson—his people's cold blood, now ice. The warm light no longer answered. Before him loomed the armored she-wolf: in one paw, a shadow-wreathed axe bleeding cold; in the other, not its twin, but the Spear of Apophis.
Slowly, the spear's radiant gold sickened into dark, bruised purple. Corruption spread. Hope died.
He'd trusted his power. He'd ruined everything.
Sekani… He'd failed her. Not the world, not the kingdom—her. Serpentine eyes welled. Blood gushed into his mouth, choking him.
"Ah…" he rasped. "So this is the end. I'm a fool."
"Indeed you are," the she-wolf agreed.
His final sight: the corrupted spear rising above him.
"I hope you survive… my beloved one."
*******
Lord Rendezvous—a human who appeared around thirty, sporting fashion too flamboyant for a Sworn Shadow—smiled beneath his violet armor hood. The new acolyte brought by the she-wolf had finally awakened from the soul reforging. His near-intact body seemed a work of art. A few missing scales revealed patches of dry, smooth skin, yet such flaws were acceptable for a race as physically exquisite as the Salessians. Now, the final test approached.
The Knight of the Eternal Vow recruit scanned the room as if searching for
something after a long slumber. With theatrical warmth, Lord Rendezvous asked his name.
"Enkil," came the sibilant reply. "Enkil Artreassil."
"Splendid, dear recruit," the Sworn Shadow purred. "Now, accompany me. Your final trial awaits."
"Of course, my Lord."
Rendezvous led him to a snow-dusted sand circle. There, Salessian survivors of the purge knelt bound, awaiting transformation into something more useful. Among them, one especially feeble yet significant: the Prophet-King himself.
Enkil, now bearing recruit armor and a new weapon, had embraced his undeath—like all raised by the incarnate Death God's power. Loyalty must be proven.
"Do you recognize this Salessian, Brother Enkil?" Lord Rendezvous's whisper slithered into the reborn knight's mind.
"I do," Enkil replied coldly.
"Then you know your task."
"Enkil?! What have they done to you, boy?!" Ur Atum—barely recognizable—stared in disbelief. Hope died as he
understood. "The Spear... No... it cannot be... I—"
"Ah, dear elderly friend! The Spear now serves our beloved lord—The Aterior Zephyr, Incarnation of the Death God."
The Prophet-King's reality shattered. Why? How? The Death God had taken mortal form, discarding benevolent order for slaughter. Absurd! Yet the truth chilled his dying heart.
"I'll end his suffering," Enkil declared. Life was pain. True salvation lay in death. The Death God only sought to save them—he would liberate all from life's yoke. For this he'd been born. For this he'd died.
"No more pain."
The recruit knight's blade stained itself with his former king's blood. Henceforth, it would stain again and again—all to save the world from suffering. For true salvation could only be found in death.