Red dust rises beyond the horizon—and tearing through that dust emerges the army of Delran Balan.
They do not come like soldiers; they come like desert phantoms—riding waves of burning sand. Beneath their feet, green grass dries away, the earth cracks open, and the Samardun near the rivers, unable to draw water, begin to gasp one by one.
They strike together—their movement so fast, so choked with dust, that the Samardun warriors flying above cannot keep their eyes open. Inside the storm of sand-spines they see nothing, and within that blindness—suddenly rise Delran's thorned spears.
Before a Samardun can even understand, sword raised, his chest is torn apart—a reddish metal point bursts from the sand, shredding armour, body, soul, thorn by thorn.
Each of their warriors is like a desert cactus—sharp, unseen, filled with a thousand needles. They rush forward, spreading desert heat through the air. In that heat, the feathers of the Samardun wings dry, crack, and flight becomes impossible.
From their breath rises desert vapour—when it enters Samardun lungs, it chokes them into silence.
One warrior tries to raise his sword and suddenly stops—his eyes are scorched by the burning sun; he sees only shadows… and from that shadow rises Delran's stone fist.
Delran Balan himself advances to the front—desert talons in his eyes, a thorned scimitar forged of burning sand in his hand. With a single strike, he severs a Samardun's wing at the root, and the wing ignites as it falls upon the sand.
His soldiers attack through shadows—kicking up dust, stealing sight, suddenly lunging like thorns and crushing three or four with a single assault.
They do not fight—they dry the enemy out. They do not strike—they erase existence within sandstorms. And behind them remain heaps of dust… and the torn feathers of the Samardun, sun-burned blood, and burning air.
The army of Solran Balan—they do not arrive with footsteps, they arrive beneath the current.
From afar, it seems only an artificial river advancing, its waves glittering in the sunlight. But beneath those waves hide hundreds of warriors—their bodies merged with water, nothing visible… only now and then the tip of a sword surfaces, trembling like a fish's fin.
And then… suddenly, they rise through the water.
A Samardun descends from the sky. In an instant, the water beneath his feet bursts apart. From within it, a water-warrior hurls a spear—the spear flies upward and pierces the wing at its very root. The Samardun spirals downward and vanishes within the mass of water.
From the depths, hundreds of soldiers awaken together—their hands hold swords gleaming like liquid metal, their mouths make no sound—only the hiss of water and the breath of death.
They do not walk—they roll forward with the water. They leap into the Samardun ground camps, sever wings, and with sword strokes drown shattered bodies.
Solran Balan himself stands upon the back of a massive wave—vortices swirl around him, the depth of the sea in his eyes, and calm fury.
At his command, water-mounted riders rise from all sides—the sun reflects off their armoured water-gear, and with every strike burst droplets of water and fountains of blood.
A Samardun warrior steps forward with sword in hand.
One of Solran's warriors dives with precision. The water beneath the Samardun's feet suddenly transforms into a hardened vortex—the sword falls away, and in the blink of an eye, the warrior is dragged into the depths.
They do not fight—they submerge. They do not search for enemies—they flood in from all directions.
And when they depart, only mud-stains remain, broken wings, shattered swords, and soldiers sleeping in eternal rest beneath still waters.
The shattered Samardun.
*****
—A sky-breaking torrent of burning grief—
Those who were once kings of the sky now lie upon the earth—silent, drained, lifeless.
The sun sets in a strange colour—not red, not gold—
a hue like the light of a dead hour stained by the blood of torn wings.
The feathers of the Samardun no longer dance in the wind,
they lie scattered upon the burning breast of the land,
sometimes scorched by fire, sometimes shrivelled by poison,
sometimes buried in dust, sometimes drowned in water.
Each feather of the wing is now like a dead bird.
Swords lie abandoned on the ground, claimed by no hand,
for those hands are either severed, or reduced to empty absence.
Barzak, that dawn-crested hero,
at whose presence the sky once cast its shadow,
now his helm lies on the riverbank,
there is no sunlight left in his eyes—only astonishment,
and a single question—"Who brought about our fall?"
In answer, the wind trembles,
mountains shatter beneath the hammers of the Thanlas,
the ash gathered in the eyes of the Malth scatters into the void,
the fire dancing in the manes of the Kavanruth casts long shadows,
the dust of Delran Balan covers all memory of green,
beneath the waters of Solran Balan, breath runs out.
The Samardun fought with honour,
they believed those who know the sky cannot be defeated.
But even the sky grows weary one day,
when fire slips in between wing and shadow,
then no sun shows the way.
There are no feathers left in the sky now—
only drifting smoke, shadows, and the music of torn wings.
And upon the earth?
There the history of the Samardun is being written—
in blood, in ash, and in the saga of a glory lost to emptiness.
Silence.