And as those loyal eyes close in around me — hardened plates, bruised arms, silent vows — I know they see what I am.
Not a king. Not a ruler. Not even a warlord.
I am a storm wrapped in flesh.
And we ride the wind.
The night erupts like a dying star.
Steel screams. Bone cracks. The air is thick with smoke and iron.
I step forward into the fray — boots on scorched earth, claws drawn, rib-bones rattling under old wounds — and I feel alive for the first time since the pit.
Around me, the outpost burns. Flames lick at shattered walls, torch-light dances wet and hungry across blood-slick stone. The smell of charred wood and ozone and fear mixes into a bitter perfume that stings lungs and drives adrenaline sharp and hot.
I don’t pause. I don’t think. I slash.
The clang of Reaper blades greets me — dull metal ringing hollow against spur-armor and bone. A rebel swings low — a savage arc aimed for my thigh. I pivot on one boot, bone-plate grinding against metal-edge, and my claw snaps outward. Hot, bright spray. A scream.
I catch his shoulder, then his throat. Grip is bone-firm. Bone-spur bites through flesh, cartilage crunching. He tries to throw me off, thrashing — but the taste of blood is already on myteeth. I twist. His neck gives. A ragged snap, wet spray, and he crumples to ash-stained earth.
Behind me a roar — my survivors follow. A dozen, twenty, picked-through warriors and civilians made fighters, eyes wild in torch-glow. They fall in behind me. No hesitation. No questioning.
I turn. Raise my voice — rough as shredded hide.
“Push! No mercy. Take nothing but justice!”
We surge forward like a tide of claws and fury. Reaper steel rises to meet us, shields lock, blades meet bone plates, sparks scatter.
A flash of fire — torch-gasoline ignited under a rebel ammo crate. The explosion rattles ears. I taste ash in my mouth. A young warrior next to me catches the blast from behind; his scream rips me apart, pulls me sideways just in time to catch another swing from a traitor blade. It scrapes across my forearm — the metal tears the leather but the plate holds. My flesh beneath burns, but I keep advancing.
Somewhere screams — men I knew, women I thought loyal, faces contorted with betrayal and desperation as we carve through them. The smell of smoke, metal, cordite. The taste of blood, on tongue, in lungs, in the sweat that streams from every scar.
I don’t want the throne.
I don’t want the lands.
I want one name. One soul.
And every swing, every roar, every broken bone carries me closer.
I press deeper into the compound core — once polished stone corridors, now cracked, stained, torn. Doors blown, ceilings collapsed, alarms still wailing — but the traitors are falling.
The hall where Arnab fled—the place of deals, of silvered lies— it lies drained of pretense. Broken tables, shattered holopads, blood-rivulets that flicker under torchlight.
I smell him before I see him. Rage, sweat, fear, metal dust. My nostrils flare. The world narrows.
“Arnab!” I roar his name like a death knell.
He turns. Mid-sprint, mid-flight. His eyes wide — terror and anger and surprise all tangled. He drops the pistol-rifle in one hand; the other claws for a blade on his hip.
But he moves like a man scrambling on fracturing ground. I am wind. I am storm. I am the bone-reckoning they lit when they spilled blood and thought it would burn me down.
I surge forward, boots pounding rubble, cloak whipping, claws shining in firelight. His blade slides free — but slow. Hesitant. Dirty.
I catch the swing — dull impact, a shudder through my arm. The blow knocks me off-balance, spine wrenching, ribs biting savage. Pain blooms white hot. I grunt and stagger… then roar back.
Claw-hand lashes out like lightning. My strike cleaves through his ribs — metal-plate rending, bone-splintering. He screams, a wet, ragged sound, and staggers back. I don’t give mercy. Mercy died with false promises and traitor’s smiles.
