Smoke. That was all he could see for malms out to the horizon as it billowed up in thick plumes from the valley floor below. When combined with the eerie orange glow of the flames lashing out at the sky from below, it was as though the spectre of death spread its inky tendrils to every corner of Gyr Abania. So choked with ash and soot was the air that every gasping breath scorched his throat and lungs as his body desperately fought to keep him standing. Heâd been fighting for so long now that heâd lost track of time. How long had it been? Thirty minutes? A bell? Maybe more- without the sun it was impossible to know. All he knew for certain is that his limbs were so heavy there may as well have been lead weights hanging from his wrists and cermet in his boots. At long last his legs gave out and he collapsed into a sitting position in the dirt.
   Everyone in Eorzea knew it was only a matter of time before the Empire retaliated after Ala Mhigoâs largely successful uprising, but no one expected it to come this swiftly...certainly not this aggressively. The relative peace that had settled over the Ghimlyt Dark was little more than a prelude to the symphony of destruction that was to come. Somehow, despite everything, the Empire had managed to not only recover from the series of blows delivered to them by the Alliance but counterattack with such overwhelming force that they shattered the Allianceâs fortifications in the Dark and swept back into Ala Mhigo to wreak their terrible vengeance upon the people of Gyr Abania. Though only barely reformed, the Fists of Rhalgr had tried in vain to put up some kind of resistance across the steppes and they too were swatted away like gnats.
   There had been twenty of them when he first joined the mob hastily assembled to defend some of the outlying villages while the people evacuated, but those numbers dwindled rapidly. Too few. Too little training.
Too goddamn weak.   Only a few had stayed with him when the others decided to save the few wounded they could as they fled back toward the west. She had wanted to stay as well- the blonde one with fire in her eyes and lightning in her fists- and it took no small amount of shouting and arguing to convince her otherwise. The weak would have need of the strength she possessed to see them through to the border. Eventually she relented and grumbled something near enough to âgood luckâ before rallying her people to depart. A pleasant enough notion, perhaps, but a pointless one: both of them knew exactly how today was going to end.
   The time since had been a blur, a smear of fists and steel that all ran together into one big muddy blob of unrelenting carnage that had only just ceased. This reprieve, he knew, would not last. His head thumped against the sturdy pole behind him and his gaze drifted skyward, toward the great purple and white banner flying above him. Tattered and scorched though it was, that banner was the most visible act of defiance his group had been able to display and they were certain it would draw the Garleansâ ire. Scores of broken Imperials in varying states of dead and dying around him and his now long-dead comrades were proof enough of that theory. All he could do now was sit and wait for the next wave.
He didnât have to wait long.
   Again the enemy presented himself, but not the way heâd expected. Instead of the thundering footfalls of a horde of men and machines, he heard only a single man approaching. His footfalls were even, measured, unhurried; it was as if he had all the time in the world to take a leisurely stroll across the killing fields. He drew in another deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes as the footfalls drew nearer and nearer before coming to a stop only a few short yalms away.
âDisappointing.â That voice made his skin crawl. He opened his eyes and turned toward the source. The man who stood before him was towering, even by Ala Mhigan standards, and adorned in Garlean armor that may as well have been painted with blood. It wasnât the armor or the almost porcelain paleness of his skin or the shoulder length blonde hair billowing in the wind that he found the most striking about this man, though. It was his eyes. Blue, piercing, and...completely devoid of the spark of life. âI had hoped to find my friend amidst this carnage, yet all I am met with is a half-dead animal.â The Garlean heaved a weary sigh and turned to leave.
âAnd surrounded by your all-dead pals, asshole.â He grunted, braced himself against the pole, and slowly pushed himself to his feet despite his bodyâs many protests. âI donât know what they feed you limp-dicked whoresons in Garlemald, but it makes smashinâ your fuckinâ skulls in real satisfying.â
   This apparently gave the Garlean pause. When the manâs attention fell upon him again, he noticed something of a spark flickering in the darkness of those eyes. For several long moments did his foe stand rooted to the spot and he could feel himself being judged as something less an enemy and more livestock at an auction. It was in this moment that the realization of who this person was struck him like a levinbolt from Rhalgrâs own hand. This was no imperial noble or princeling playing at being a warrior. No, the man he found himself standing in opposition to was none other than the butcher of Ala Mhigo- Zenos yae Galvus. He should have felt the creeping stranglehold of dread slithering up from the pit of his stomach- any normal man would- but instead he felt fire stoked anew course in his blood.
âThis country bores me. These people bore me.â Zenos took a few short steps to his left and now stood directly in front of him. One hand lowered toward the contraption hanging from his hip, which rotated with a whirr and came to rest with a dull thunk when Zenosâ wrist came to rest casually atop it. He could only assume this man had decided which implement of death would be the end of one more sick animal. âHardly sporting, but I suppose youâll do.â
   Every fiber of his being was burning from a combination of exhaustion and what mustâve been a dozen injuries, minor or otherwise, but he wouldnât let himself show it. There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now. âAnd you call me a rabid dog?â He scoffed, pushed through the pain, and forced himself into his stance. âSick bastard.â Zenos remained motionless, a statue with his eyes squarely fixated on the man he had decided would be prey. Both of them remained in this state as the world fell away around them, consumed by the all-devouring jaws of complete focus. He forced himself to draw in a long slow breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth, to feel the world around him as he and the ebb and flow of the battlefield became one. Memories flashed in his mindâs eye as he breathed in again, reliving the briefest of moments from battles past and catching glimpses of the warriors who took part in them. Tiny pools of aether scattered around him came together to form rivers that wound their way to the swirling tempest of power at the very core of his being.
   Rhalgr. You and I have rarely spoken- Iâve never known or needed the words. The rivers built in intensity, crashing against the shore of his soul. But I need them now. Grant me this one request, Destroyer: grant me the strength to crush the invader before me. Rivers became torrents became floods that overflowed and warped the air around him in a shimmering haze of his aether. And if you do not listen? He drew in one final breath. Everything he had left, every onze of energy he could muster, was going into this one fight. There was no other option.
   Stone splintered beneath his feet as he lunged forward fueled by the very aether of the battlefield itself. He could almost feel the spirits of his ancestors driving him onward, filling his body with an unnatural strength the likes of which heâd never known. In an instant he was upon his foe, feet planted, hips rotating, driving through his shoulders to pour everything the man he was into his fist as he focused entirely on driving it straight through the Garlean who had yet even begun to move. Earth trembled and a mighty clap of thunder filled the air around them as he drove his strike home, certain that it had landed clean. Then came pain, white hot and racing up his arm from his fist as the dust began to clear and he cursed under his breath. Not only was Zenos not crumpled on the ground at his feet, heâd simply absorbed the blow with one hand.
   He created separation, exhausted beyond belief but unwilling to give up the fight, and surged forward again. A hailstorm of blows followed, snapping kicks, tight hooks, and punishing straight punches from every angle that he could create. Not a single one of them got through the red armored Garleanâs effortless guard and his body began to break down. Zenos slipped under one hook and he saw what he thought was an opportunity. He shifted his feet wide apart, dropped his rear shoulder, and snapped his hips to drive all of his weight into a savage right uppercut...straight into his opponentâs armored elbow. His wrist buckled, then shattered. The followup left hand was caught in a mailed fist and crushed with next to no effort. Zenosâ expression never wavered throughout. In agony, without the use of both hands, and on his last legs he knew the end was near. Surrendering was out of the question. Not here. Not to him.
   With a bellowing roar, he closed the distance between them again, planted his right leg and lifted his left- a desperate feint at this point- then dropped his left leg back and threw everything he had into his right leg aimed squarely for Zenosâ ribs. He connected cleanly, but not hard enough- Zenos trapped his leg against his side with his right, then delivered a devastating chopping blow to the knee that shattered bone and crumpled him immediately. He lay there in the dust, groaning in agony, as the victor took stock of his prey.âValiant,â spoke the Garlean in that flat tone, âbut pointless.âHe glared up from his prone position, unable to even lift himself from the ground.âIâve seen that look before. In my friendâs eyes.â Slowly, Zenos retrieved one of the blades from its scabbard. âCuriosity gets the better of me.â He canted his head ever so slightly to the side. âWhat is your name?â
âEhren,â he spat with all the venom he could muster. âEhren Ahyfend.â
âI shall remember you then, Ehren Ahyfend, as one who entertained my hunt if but for a moment.âZenos raised his blade. Ehren, determined to remain defiant, held his head high. There was a flash of silver.
Darkness.( @spiral-seeker thank you for the ask! I got a little carried away. Also @hellocatemonster for the mention )
