The desert wind howled like a wounded beast, whipping sand against the cracked stone walls of the ruined fortress. Kael Veyne crouched in the shadow of a fallen pillar, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his spirit dagger. The blade hummed faintly, its embedded gem pulsing with the last dregs of his mana.
*Not enough for another spell.*
Across the courtyard, the remnants of the Twelfth Legion—his Legion—fought like cornered wolves. Steel clashed against steel, and the air reeked of blood and ozone. The usurper's forces had them surrounded, their black banners snapping in the gale.
"Captain!" A hand seized his shoulder. Ryn, her face streaked with ash and sweat, yanked him back as an arrow thudded into the pillar where his head had been. "We can't hold this position. The eastern gate's still clear—if we move now—"
Kael shook his head. "They'll cut us down before we reach it." He glanced at the sky, where the first hints of dusk painted the horizon crimson. The sandstorm would worsen soon. *If we survive that long.*
A roar tore through the chaos. From the shattered gatehouse, a figure clad in gilded armor strode forward, his greatsword gleaming with unnatural fire. Tyrin Dareth, the man who had once been Kael's brother-in-arms—now the architect of their ruin.
"Kael Veyne!" Tyrin's voice boomed across the battlefield, amplified by the enchantment in his helm. "You've nowhere left to run. Surrender, and I'll grant your men a quick death."
Kael spat into the dust. "You always did talk too much."
He didn't wait for a response. With a sharp whistle, he signaled the Legion. The surviving soldiers fell back, forming a tight wedge around him. Ryn's fingers flickered in the air, weaving the last of her mana into a shimmering barrier just as the enemy archers loosed another volley. Arrows shattered against the translucent shield, but Kael saw her knees buckle under the strain.
"We need a miracle," she gasped.
Kael's gaze darted to the crumbling watchtower behind them. The structure leaned precariously, its foundation eroded by centuries of sand and neglect. A reckless idea took root.
"Buy me thirty seconds," he ordered, then sprinted toward the tower before anyone could argue.
The climb was a blur of splintered wood and jagged stone. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, but he forced himself upward, the spirit dagger clenched between his teeth. Below, the Legion fought with desperate fury, their shouts swallowed by the wind.
At the top, Kael drove his dagger into the tower's central support beam. The gem flared, its energy seeping into the wood. He didn't have the mana to trigger a spell—but he didn't need to.
"Tyrin!" he bellowed.
The usurper turned, his eyes narrowing.
Kael yanked the dagger free and slammed his fist against the beam. The tower groaned. Then, with a thunderous crack, it collapsed.
The world dissolved into chaos. Stone and timber crashed down upon the enemy ranks, swallowing them in a cloud of dust. Kael leaped clear at the last second, rolling to the ground as the shockwave sent him sprawling.
Silence.
Then, a ragged cheer rose from the Legion. The eastern gate stood open, the path beyond obscured by the swirling sandstorm.
"Move!" Kael staggered to his feet, hauling Ryn up beside him. "Before they regroup!"
The survivors fled into the storm, their footsteps swallowed by the howling wind. Kael risked one last glance behind him. Through the haze, he glimpsed Tyrin emerging from the wreckage, his armor scorched but his sword still burning. Their eyes met across the ruins.
This wasn't over.
---
Hours later, the storm relented, leaving the desert eerily still. The Legion huddled in the shelter of a sandstone bluff, their numbers halved. Kael crouched beside a shallow fire, his hands shaking as he cleaned his blade.
Ryn dropped beside him, pressing a waterskin into his grip. "We lost the supply wagons," she said quietly. "No food. No medicine. And the nearest outpost is three days' march."
Kael took a swig of tepid water, the taste of grit lingering on his tongue. "Then we march."
"To where?" Her voice cracked. "Tyrin controls the garrisons. The cities. Even if we make it—"
"We'll find allies." He forced conviction into his words, though doubt gnawed at him. The Twelfth Legion was broken. Exiled. But they were still breathing.
A murmur passed through the camp. One of the scouts stumbled forward, his face pale. "Captain. You need to see this."
Kael followed him to the edge of the bluff. Below, half-buried in the dunes, lay the wreckage of a ship. Not one of theirs—this was something older, its hull carved with runes that shimmered faintly in the moonlight.
Ryn sucked in a breath. "That's Aetherian script."
Kael's pulse quickened. The Aetherians had vanished centuries ago, their magic lost to time. If this ship held even a fraction of their power…
He met Ryn's gaze. "Gather the men. We're not leaving empty-handed."
The desert stretched endlessly before them, but for the first time in months, Kael felt the faintest spark of hope. The Legion would rise again.
And Tyrin Dareth would regret the day he betrayed them.