“Kill…ssslay…eat…”another hissed.
“Sskin…alive…eat…thrash…”
“Save us! Save us all!”
Beyond the timbre of the words purred a growl, vibrating beneath each syllable’s unnatural shadow.
Resh drew his crystal blade. Zarrek reached back and pulled his colossal battleaxe free from its bindings. The varkhounds were close, already mimicking their prey to instill a sense of dread. Once they devoured man flesh, they stole their victim’s voices, learned enough words to keep the fear alive in what they hunted next.
With each moment, more and more Reskala formed up at the fences, their weapons drawn, their runes glowing beneath their armor.
A shoulder bumped against his—sharp, intentional. Thessia.
“Worried your moonbeam will get bruised?” she murmured, cocking her head as she cracked her knuckles. Resh didn’t answer, but the flicker in his jaw must’ve betrayed him, because she let out a low laugh. “Gods, you’re gone for her.”
He turned to shoot her a look. “Eyes front, Thess.”
“Always, Resh’Agar,” she drawled, saluting playfully. “But if she ever needs a new tent—mine’s warm.”
As she passed behind him, her glaive tapped against the back of his thigh hard enough to make him shift.
Resh growled, low and unmistakable. “Thess.”
She grinned wider, clearly delighted. “Don’t scorch your veins over it. She’s dug in behind two lines of shielded wagons. Wind’s withus, not against—she’ll be fine. Even if a rift breaks open, it’s going to form near us, not her. She’s safer there than in the command tent.”
He didn’t say anything. But something in his shoulders loosened. Just a little.
“Besides,” she added. “Your girl glows like the moon. Even the beasts won’t know what to do with that.”
Resh's hands flexed at his sides, fists tightening and loosening once, as if trying to wring the worry from his bones. Thessia gave a final smirk and turned away, slipping into formation with the ease of a seasoned predator.
The howls rolled closer. A gust of sour wind cut across the field.
Zarrek stepped up beside him, eyes scanning the darkness. “Better throw one more guard to the horses, don’t you think? Maybe two.”
Resh motioned for one man to come close. Bigger than his fellow warriors, he lumbered over. When he stood before his Commander, his hands flew out to sign Resh’s title in the silent language of Krystopolis.
Hail the Resh’Agar.
The Fist to Crush the Spine.
Arm of the Void.
“At ease,” Resh said. He pointed to the other side of the fences where he could already see a flash of silver standing with the horses. “You’re reassigned. Take one more and stand there. Keep the horses safe.”
The Reskala’s eyes flew wide. He signed—'Gratitude,mighty Resh’Agar.To guard the Sokâr is honorable.’
Resh’s throat tightened. “She’s not the Sokâr,” he said.
The Reskala only smiled wider, like he hadn’t heard him at all. If anything, he looked evenmorepleased as he nodded, saluted, and turned to fetch a second guard.
“Now focus,” Zarrekshoved him. Hard.
A normal man would have sprawled into the mud. But Resh just leaned sideways, smiled, and nudged him in return. Their teeth gleamed white in the pallor of the moonlight.
The howls struck again, this time close.Deafening.A wall of earsplitting shrieks.
Resh pulled his mask into place. It hissed as it sensed the mana in his skin, and as it sealed against his face, the runes within the aethersteel erupted in a blinding blue glow. One by one, each symbol connected with the next in a spiderweb across his armor. Shoulders, chest, arms, legs, and feet. The power dug inside him, searching, seeking blood. In a silent cry, the aethersteel answered, providing an anchor for the mana drain.
