"I do not understand how a buffoon so thoughtless as Gravitas managed to wield an intricate power such as gravity. Before he came into mine legion, he was a simple gladiator, enslaved and made to fight in a primitive nation I have long conquered. The fool yearns only for blood, but I cannot deny his usefulness. He shall be my trump card against the nuisance that is Lorelai."

  —Grand General Xeros, Ruler of Nox Caelum

  ———

  Lorelai

  “Mmm…” the hulking tyrant hums, tilting his head back and raising his arms up toward 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, his gargantuan body soaking 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 spews 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 hurtles 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 want?” 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? I promise to not move even a single finger.”

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

  Gravitas roars out in laughter and clasps 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 get any amusement out of this 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 set aflame. There is no moment more tender, more personal, between two souls than when they’re clashing on the precipice between 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’re just insane. What you feel is only a selfish adrenaline. 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 bloody 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 synchronized, rhythmic formations, 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 won’t be I who perishes on this day. Hollow puppets follow your every wake, yet none one is more alone than you. Look at my people, Gravitas. Witness our company 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, armors bathing in sparkling ivory, and they harden their wills firm until every corner of their faces are 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 would mean endangering their siblings-in-arms.

  Gravitas cackles and extends his arms in greeting. “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 met only with a cold shoulder as she turns to face her army.

  “Your part 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 white, 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 sanctify thine children in blessed 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 and holy. The light purifies their filth and fatigue, seeps into their blood a spell of power, and leaves behind a pale aura to linger around their body as a cloak.

  Lorelai stands triumphant before them, but hidden unbeknownst to her people is a trembling hand and a gaunt face. Every heartbeat is followed by a sharp stab. Every breath is accompanied by a terrible wheeze.

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

  “Mmm… what a beautiful moon,” Gravitas says. “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, beast-like scream.

  “Charge, you hounds! Let the slaughter begin!”

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

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

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  “Organize ranks!” she bellows. 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 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 scrambles.

  Mighty units in full plate march to the forefront with towering, weighty shields; and they smash them upon the floor, anchoring in place as they ready their lances behind the narrow gaps. This is where their devotion may shine true: as 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 in 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. 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 spurts of blood and grease spout 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 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 ends smash into metal, crushes into flesh, and renders the Caelum soldiers into mere sacks of splattered meat and brain. They fall a pathetic, grisly end, and are just as soon replaced by another indifferent wave.

  “Hurry 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 and indiscriminately trample 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 blood pours down on 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 can’t keep this up for long. The Astrologians won’t last, and the 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 will only end with Gravitas’s death.

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

  The Polus knights shift in unison once more. Divisions of ten gather into a singular unit. Their ranks compose of Astrologians and infantry and vanguard that cluster together and take the form of a hardened bastion.

  “Forward!”

  The knights holler out to the heavens with a valiant cry and advance into the horde. 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. They must advance, 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 apart by their saws. 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 about being overrun; the knights will cover her rear. Her duty lies in creating an opening.

  Lorelai 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’s been long 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 graveyard of the dead. And she is their reaper — her only companion: death.

  Finally, Lorelai arrives at the center. Her voice croaks and her body pangs with terrible pain, but the worst is yet to come. She has a tyrant to slay.

  “Ah…” 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, rumbling chortle gushes 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.” Lorelai readies her stance. She’s had enough of his barking. Only with his head will the Throne finally find peace.

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

  The two lunge forward, and their weapons collide. A mighty boom erupts from their clash, sending a shockwave all throughout the battlefield and toppling the forces of Polus and Caelum alike as sparks fly from their weapons’ struggle for dominance.

  The Solga and Lunas are unmatched in their ferocity, but a strange force covers Gravitas’s mace: draining, redirecting her force away as if the twin blades are being twisted into another direction. Her balance and trajectory skew. If she attempts to push on here, only misfortune awaits.

  Lorelai grunts and vaults away, her hands quivering from the impact. It is no use. She can’t win a direct contest of strength.

  “Oh, little bird… struggling already?” The tyrant pounds his chest with a jubilant cry and slams his foot down. “The fun has only just begun, Lorelai. Do not disappoint me now.”

  Gravitas charges, recklessly hurtling the full weight of his body directly at her. Lorelai only has a split second to react and twists her waist, erecting a golden barrier before suffering a devastating hit from his wieldy bash.

  Lorelai yelps in pain, her body sent flying into the air. But before she can recover, the tyrant’s gravity suddenly intensifies. She plummets violently and crashes into a dusty crater.

  Her mind is dazed, her vision blurry. As she teeters herself into a resemblance of a stance, a glint of steel descends from the murk.

  Now.

  Lorelai’s miserable demeanor disappears. She spins around the mace in an explosive blast of movement, her body a fleeting image before Gravitas’s eyes, and slashes at his throat with every shred of her might. There’s no point in honor here; if pretending to be weak lowers the man’s guard, then she’ll gladly feed his ego.

  “Mm, a paltry attempt. Such deception insults me, Lorelai.”

  Gravitas slams into her chest-plate with a crushing swing of his fist. Breath leaves her, air rapidly escaping from her lungs, but Lorelai redirects the force away from her body at the last moment and pirouettes back to safety.

  What’s going on? I saw it; the twins clearly lopped off his head. No… that’s not it. There was no resistance, no feeling of flesh. It’s as if I swung at mere wind. Damn this! Nothing else to do but try and figure out his trick myself.

  Lorelai bolsters her body firm and takes to the offensive. She rushes headfirst into Gravitas’s range and attacks with rapid bursts, utilizing quick flurries and maneuvering around his strikes to pierce at his gaps.

  The tyrant is strong, his every swing full of overbearing power. A single impale from his spiked weapon will cripple her on impact, but his bulk is his own nemesis. Slow. Sluggish. He rends the earth asunder and leaves behind pockets of pulverized dirt, yet his mace is always one step behind the nimble Throne.

  Lorelai persists in her onslaught, but it’s proving ineffective. No matter how many times she attempts to slash at his openings, the blades veer off at the last second, leaving her side to be momentarily exposed to Gravitas’s ferocious barrage. She can’t hurt him. He can’t hurt her. The two are stuck in a perpetual whirlwind of steel, waltzing together under the diminishing light of the moon. It is fading. The blessing won’t last for much longer.

  Gravity. There’s a thin layer of gravity around his armor; that’s what’s repelling me. I can’t penetrate it without the full strength of the twins, but can my body withstand the strain?

  No, there’s still another way.

  “Solga, lend me your flame!”

  The sun’s sword ignites in a fiery conflagration. Arcs of ember pull toward the earth due to the tyrant’s pressure, but that’s exactly what she wants.

  “A miserable kindling, little bird. Becoming desperate now, are you?”

  He laughs and pursues after her once more. Lorelai’s flaming sword does little to change their stalemate, but she can’t be impatient. A moment will come soon between the gaps and sparks. She just has to wait, to persist, until an opportunity appears.

  Gravitas’s mace comes crashing down in a sudden burst of speed, the spikes only a hair’s strand away, but Lorelai twirls around the massive bludgeon and plants her feet directly on the hilt. The clipped Throne leaps as high as she can directly above his head, fighting against gravity’s duress with a streak of flame following from close behind. There’s no escaping his retaliation when she lands, but if everything goes as planned, then there’ll be no need to.

  Lorelai points the tip of her blade to Gravitas below and lets out a booming command.

  “Solgas, drown our foe in an inferno, unending!”

  A violent spout of wildfire descends onto the warrior of gravity, yet he moves not a single step. Gravitas merely stands still, basking in his arrogance. He opens his arms wide in a mock embrace and taunts her with a jeer.

  “Foolishness. Do you really expect this paltry flame to reach me? I thought you better—”

  But his words soon turn into screams. The gravitational layer around his body only serves to transform the flame into a spiraling tornado. It feasts upon the flowing pockets of air, surrounds him in sizzling combustion, and roasts his mechanical suit into a charred, coarse black.

  He can’t breathe. He can’t escape. His own protection only serves to aid in his suffering as he flails about within the fiery blaze. There is only one thing left to do: slay the tyrant once and for all.

  Lorelai dashes forward, blades ready with razor-sharp intent. She will not fail this time, and soon, she closes in on the still-thrashing wretch.

  With clenched hands and gritted teeth, she swings… and is then sent tumbling back from a sudden outburst of violet. The wave pulses through the earth; it ripples through the sky. The Throne quickly repositions herself onto her feet and looks back at the energy’s source.

  Gravitas’s armor now courses with bolts of crackling energy. The surrounding flame has been smothered. Now, his sockets glow with an eerie display of ecstasy, but the damage he suffered is great; and he soon collapses onto one knee while muttering a deep, wheezing groan.

  “Very… good,” he coughs. “I admit, my own rapture got the better of me. This pain is a suitable reminder. I thank you, Lorelai. But it shall not occur again.”

  He rises up, body swelling with power anew. A last attempt at resistance. His strength is nearly hollow, as is mine, but I have the upper hand. I need only to—

  Lorelai stops, and then turns her head toward the forest.

  A scream.

  Gut-wrenching.

  Horrifying.

  Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.