“A pity that the Seraph’s bane is granted solely upon so feeble a mind that is Gravitas. Alas, the conceptual machinations of gravity and its influence is far too complex a principle for our Astrologians, much less the common legionnaire, to comprehend. How is such a blood-craved buffoon able to command its might? Hm… perhaps idiocy is a boon. To reduce countless shifting variables into an unintelligible naivety is a talent only given to the fool.”

—Grand General Xeros, Ruler of Nox Caelum

———

Lorelai

“Mmm…” the hulking tyrant hums, tilting his head back and raising his arms up towards the sky. “Aaah… yes. This air. This tension. This anticipation. How magnificent it is. Sharp and jagged. Coursing with a raging bolt. The calm before the carnage.”

His voice is as deep as the abyss. Every word thunders with an oppressive, tyrannical husk. Yet it is his composure that sends a creeping chill along Lorelai’s spine. 

Gravitas is undisturbed amongst the rotting forest. Rather, he relishes in it—gargantuan body steeped in an aura of tranquility. This is where he belongs: an eternal field of death.

“Oooh… nothing to say, little bird?” A nauseating croak of amusement is spewed forth from his vile maw. Mocking. Taunting. “Come now girl, must you be so rigid? I remember you so full of life last we met. When was that again? A decade ago. Yes, I remember now. It was when I slayed your mother.”

Keep it in, Lorelai. Grind your teeth and keep it in. His provocations will not work on her, but a bitter taste remains nonetheless. The despots of Caelum are all the same: vulgar and without an inkling of morality. Her rage will only serve to stoke his arrogance.

Gravitas chuckles and slams his mace into the muck below him. “She must be ever so lonely without her beloved daughter by her side, but no longer. The day has come for you to fulfill your filial duty, little bird. The family shall finally be reunited.”

A ray of gold hurdles straight past his neck. Lorelai’s blade is poised, ready to lunge, but the Caelum Commander responds with nary a flinch.

“You’ve become glib with age, Gravitas,” she spits. “Has defending the border left you rotting in brain as well?”

“Hehe, perhaps it has. Rotting, indeed. My mind, my body, my soul… rotting is all I could do in that barren desert. That is why I intend to savor this suspense for as long as I am able.”

He drops down with a weighty thud upon his rear and beckons for her to follow him. “Have a seat, little bird. I am in no rush. Take as long as you need to gather the rest of your winged insects.”

So he knows. I expected as much. It infuriates her to go along with the commands of her sworn enemy, but if he is conceited enough to await the knights at their best, then far be it for her to refuse.

She tentatively lowers onto the ground. Now, it is just the two of them—glaring at one another as the horde of legionnaires linger in an unsettling silence.

Time crawls still. Slowly. Agonizingly. Each second, pure discomfort.

“Is this what you desire?” Lorelai says, keeping her focus primed on the tyrant.

“Hm, I must admit: This is rather dull. Can’t you leave and bid your forces hurry in haste? I promise to not stir even a single finger.”

“You speak as if you truly expect me to trust your words.”

Gravitas roars out in laughter, clasping his hands together in glee. “You wound me, Lorelai! I am nothing if not a man of my word, but if your company shall beget such scathing remarks, then I shall be happy to maintain this little accord.”

“How you derive such amusement baffles me.”

“Is that so?” The madman almost seems solemn for a moment.“There is no greater joy than witnessing one’s adversary grow in strength. To ascend from a lowly worm, not yet worth plucking, to a warrior worth butting steel with.”

He lifts a bulging finger and points directly at her. “Brevity is a jovial game—a method in which to rile one’s blood and lure the ferocity buried deep within. But in the end, my only wish is for us to tear into each other with our hearts aflame with zeal. There is no moment more tender, more personal, between two souls than when they’re clashing on the precipice of life and death.

“That connection cannot be felt anywhere else. Through our battle, everything that culminates our being shall be laid bare. And through the victor, the deceased shall live on as a part of the eternal pantheon. Their strength, their resolution, their beauty… forever as one. Do you truly not experience such sincerity?”

“No.” Lorelai’s answer is immediate. Firm. The swiftness surprises even Gravitas. “I do not. You are simply insane. What you feel is but the adrenaline spawned from the haze of slaughter. There is no substance to it. No actual reasoning. Just a mindless slave to instinct.”

I refuse to believe such a connection could ever be conceived through so selfish an act.

“…Hm,” Gravitas grumbles. “You may have grown into a warrior, Lorelai, however you are still but a little bird.”

The tyrant growls with a disappointed drone and slowly staggers himself up. “Well, no matter. You will join these valiant souls within me regardless of your obstinance. It is about time we end this farce.”

A deafening chorus of plated footsteps rumble and shake the earth behind her. Stomp upon stomp in a synchronized, rhythmic formation, they stride forward—Seraph; knights; and Astrologians all. Emboldened by the chivalric code and their honor as a protector of Polus.

“I agree,” she says, ascending with heart aflutter. “But it shall not be I who perishes on this day. Hollow puppets follow thy every wake, yet none is more solitary than you. Look upon them, Gravitas. And now look towards the coming tide of true fellowship.”

With an ear-splitting cry, the forces of Polus stamp their soles in place and ready their weapons with methodical precision. They blot out the plain as far as the eye can see, armor bathed in blinding ivory, and harden their wills firm until every corner of their countenance is strained with intensity.

From the nimble to the stout, of cleaving halberd and piercing spear, their determination burns bright. Their gaze speaks resolve to confront death’s eager maw with nary a slight nor shiver. Terror has no place within their ranks, for even a split-second of hesitation shall spell endangerment for their fellow sibling-in-arms.

“Gahaha!” Gravitas cackles. “All I see is a swarm of frightened nestlings, flesh not even worth staining my mace. Is this truly the best you can muster?”

But his jeering remarks are only met with a cold shoulder as she turns to face her army.

“Thy part to play has come at last, Lunas,” Lorelai whispers, holding her silver blade up to the heavens. The tyrant makes no effort to stop the coming prayer. He simply idles by the side and watches her with growing expectation.

Her sword glows an incandescent pale, the Solas cheering on with coarse flickers of encouragement, and slowly drips its light into a flowing stream up high. It swirls into a crescent halo, extending and extending, until a full ring of lunar gleam is formed—awaiting for Creation’s call to breathe it life.

“O’ fair moon’s rise, fly into the umbral night. Fear not the blazing day. Fear not the sun’s might. Spread your darkness under the gazing Stars, and bathe thy blessed children renewed - sanctified in moonlight.”

The light ignites in a resounding flash, calling forth a misty drape as darkness materializes from the abyss wrenches away the vibrant blue sky. 

The clouds have gone. The sun has fallen. Shadow obscures all, plunging the world into the realm of the evening dusk save for one corner of the land.

A gentle ray showers the Polus army from beyond the fog-ridden veil. There, newly-born and floating up high, is a miniature manifestation of the moon. Celestial. Holy. A divinity brought forth into reality. The light purifies their filth and fatigue, seeps into their blood a spell of power, and leaves behind a pale aura to linger adrift their body as a cloak of effulgence.

Lorelai stands triumphant before them, presence beholden with royal grace, but hidden unbeknownst to her people is a shaking hand and a gaunt face. Every breath is tormented by harrowing stabs. Every heartbeat is accompanied by a terrible wheeze.

But she must not show weakness. She is their beacon: their rallying banner. No matter what, she must not fall.

“Mmm… what a beautiful moon,” Gravitas says, facing the manifestation with a welcoming embrace. “This shall do nicely: a massacre under the twilight. How atmospheric. I can feel my spirit rousing now!

“However… no, the time is not yet right. The air is too thin. Too bloodless. It needs something more.”

He turns around and faces his mindless legion of husks. “Yes, what it needs is the stench of death!

With a raise of his mace, Gravitas unleashes a massive spiral of violet to the heavens and roars out with a savage, beastial-like scream.

“CHARGE, YOU HOUNDS! LET THE FESTIVAL OF COMBAT BEGIN!”

In an instant, the legionnaires storm forward in a rancorous deluge of demented cries. No thoughts. No plan. No complex strategy. They simply deign to trample everything before them—to push on with overpowering might.

But power isn’t everything - a lesson they shall pay dearly for.

“ORGANIZE RANKS!” she bellows, wind parting way in a dizzied scurry before her echoing command. Lorelai Principality is gone. Now, there is only the Heaven’s Throne.

“Precept of the Power: Damascus Gate. To arms!”

The sea of stalwart souls rapidly begin to shuffle into battle formations. They mobilize in tandem, twisting and shifting as if the thousand strong are but one whole, and leave not a trace of wasted movement amongst the organized scramble. 

Mighty giants in full plate march to the forefront with towering, weighty shields and smash them upon the floor bed, anchoring in place as they ready great lances of steel behind the narrow gaps. This is where their devotion may shine true: a wall, unyielding. 

And not a moment too soon, for the ravenous horde is advancing by the second. They surge. They writhe. They scream.

“Hold…”

They creep forward with an unnatural weight, eyes blazing with a furious red glimmer. There is only madness reflecting in their sockets, and an aching desire to mutilate the living.

“Hold…!”

The smell of rust is pungent. Their mad ramblings are defilement to the ear. The legionnaires are now a hair’s breadth away. Closer and closer, step by step, until the wretched pipes of sludge and stain on their bodies are visible before all.

“PIERCE!”

With a thunderous shout, the Polus phalanx pierce through the mechanical legion, skewering the countless husks as a deluge of blood and grease spouts high into the air. Their pained screams fuel the army’s righteous fervor, but the onslaught is not over just yet. The Caelum soldiers climb over the bodies of the fallen, tearing away at their fellow comrades until they’re but a mangled pile of bone, and slam themselves against the wall with reckless abandon.

“Second Precept of the Power: Parting the Red Sea. Rotate!”

The knights retract their lances and slam into the opposing army with a coordinated bash of their shields. The force sends the soldiers flying back, tumbling on top of the confused wave behind them. But before they can recover, the shield squadron is replaced by a line of juggernauts—armed with great cudgels and hammers of imposing size. The warriors stamp forward, raise their weapons, and swing with every morsel of strength within.

“CLEAVE!”

Their blunted end smashes into metal, crushes into flesh, and renders the Caelum soldiers into mere bags of splattered meat and brain. They fall - a pathetic, grisly end - and are just as soon replaced by an undeterred, indifferent, wave.

“Hasten the injured to the back. Switch, recover, and repeat once more!”

The front line repeats the two simple, but effective, movements as they demolish the spewing horde with faultless precision. Defend. Pierce. Push. And cleave. For the subjugation of such mindless, intoxicated beings, nothing more needs to be done.

But the legionnaires aren’t the only force advancing upon them. Creaking in the distance, a gathering of horrid, mechanical constructs push their way forward—swirling smoke and plume surrounding the fouled bronze.

The wall won’t be able to withstand such force. The machines must be destroyed.

“Astrologians, prepare your chants!” Lorelai commands to the rear. 

The constructs charge ahead, indiscriminately trampling everything before their path. Legionnaires alike are pulverized into a bloody mist below the spiked tracks, organs and sinew sent flying through the air, but the speeding nightmares remain unperturbed. Faster and faster, still. Howling a dissonant rumble.

“Now, Precept of the Sovereignty: Rupturing Earth. Rise!”

The earth begins to shake. The ground wells up into coarse, uneven lumps. With a prayer to the Creation resting below, the soil erupts, sending billowing pillars of debris up high. The machines are upturned, twisting and spiraling helplessly, before crashing atop the growing mound of bodies with a fiery explosion.

A rain of crimson pours down upon the weary knights. Yet, even after all the destruction, the Caelum ranks have scarcely dwindled in force. For every slaughtered husk, another rushes to take their place. Endless. Inevitable.

Damn it all… we cannot afford to maintain this war of attrition. The Astrologians are fatigued and the Power knights are beginning to falter.

It is possible to slay the sprawling legion, but only if the Seraph regain their wings. For as long as Gravitas’s power remains pushing down upon them, such hopes are in vain.

This assault shall only end with Gravitas’s death. But to go on the offensive now would mean to endanger the lives of all entrusted upon me.

She has no choice. There is no other way.

Lorelai is a leader, and it is a leader’s duty to bring victory no matter the cost.

No matter the sacrifice.

Forgive me. I shall do all it takes to lay thy souls to rest, back in the comfort of our beloved home.

“…Changing formations!” Lorelai roars. “Precept of the Principality: Thrusting Longinus. Scatter!”

The Polus knights shuffle in unison once more. Divisions of ten gather into a singular unit, ranks composed of Astrologians and infantry and vanguard clustering together and taking the form of a hardened bastion.

There is nothing else she can do now but to give the order and to pray that they shall meet again when the sunlight’s kiss is free of scarlet.

“FORWARD!”

The knights holler out to the heavens with a valiant cry and advance into the horde—blades primed and eyes lit with zealous determination.

With a clash, they collide, steel sparking embers as they wade through the viscous red stream below. The vanguard rams every soldier and machine in front of them, pushing them aside for the wielders of sword and spear to slaughter in one fluid motion. 

They cannot slow down. They must continue surging forward, faster and faster, no matter how many of their kin fall around them. To falter is to die, to be surrounded by the ravenous legionnaires and suffer a terrible fate of being ripped and torn asunder by whirring saws dripping of oil.

Such is the nature of the battlefield. Hold fast, or perish.

Lorelai, meanwhile, is already far ahead of the other knights. There is no need to worry of being overrun; the knights shall cover her rear. Her duty lies in creating an opening.

She wades and weaves through the Caelum ranks, slicing as many of the wretched husks as she can with a deadly dance of her twin swords. A slash. A thrust. A pierce. Corpse after corpse is left in her wake, her armor rendered a muddled black from the constant spray of fluid and bile, but it deters not the keen edge of her blades. Sever. Cut. Split.

How many have sunk below her, she knows not. She cares not. Gash. Carve. Dice. Again and again, until the only sight that graces her eyes is a grim necropolis of damned souls. And she is their reaper, her only companion: death.

Finally, she arrives at the center - breath croaking and body panged with terrible pain - but the worst is yet to come. She has a tyrant to slay.

“Aaaah…” Gravitas hums, mace firmly staked into the earth as he rests with not a care for the bloodshed around him. “Mmm…”

He rises up and grasps his implement with a clenched hand. A deep, odious chuckle is gushed from his raspy throat.

The Caelum Commander has been waiting for her. Patiently. Voraciously. And now that she is here, he descends into a fit of joy.

“Yes, that desperation in your step, that appearance stained in the aura of death… none look more enchanting than you do now, little bird. Breathtaking. You shall be my greatest feast of all.”

“Save your remarks for the void.” Lorelai readies her stance. She has had enough of his barking. Only with his head shall she finally find peace.

“…You are right. I’ve waited long enough. From thus on, let our strength speak in our stead.”

The two lunge forward, and their weapons collide.