The Shattered Crowns

Water spilled from her lips as her body convulsed, wracked by shuddering spasms. Her lungs burned, her breaths shallow and jagged as she clutched at the cold air, desperate for stability. Slowly, her breathing began to even out, the violent retching subsiding. A moment later, she became aware of the coarse gravel pressing into her palms, grounding her in this unfamiliar place.

Where was she?

Daenys' eyes darted around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Flickering flames dotted the horizon, sending tendrils of smoke spiraling into a darkening sky. Two tattered flags swayed over a battlefield scarred by death. One banner, black and gold, bore an emblem of interlocking squares chained together. Opposite it flew a pale green-and-white flag, its edges scorched, adorned with the crest of a crown resting on laurel leaves.

Her gaze shifted from the ruined land to the heavens. A solitary ruby star blazed against the twilight as the sun sank below the horizon, its light bleeding away. High above, the twin moons—Titan and Rhea—began their slow ascent, fractured and luminous. Night was closing in fast.

The devastation stretched far beyond her vision, endless and oppressive. Daenys forced herself to her feet, her body trembling as she tried to steady her uneven breaths. Faint cries drifted on the wind, the desperate voices of the dying.

"Water..."

The word echoed across the field, a feeble plea that clawed at her ears. She stumbled forward, her pulse thundering like a war drum. Every step sent a sharp jolt of pain through her limbs, but she pressed on. Winter's warning rang in her mind: Move. Don't stop. Find shelter before nightfall.

She limped toward the flags, her bow serving as a makeshift crutch. Blood-soaked armor and shattered swords littered the ground like grim trophies of a battle long lost. Around her, corpses lay still and cold, eyes wide with fear or frozen in agony.

Where were Mirak and Akash? Were they still alive? Was anyone?

Winter should be alive—she had to be. Daenys had seen her moments before the sea had swallowed them. If anyone could survive, it was Winter. The thought kept her moving, though the battlefield seemed endless, mocking her with its silence and decay.

A flicker of movement caught her attention. Amid a heap of twisted bodies, something stirred. Her breath hitched as she hobbled toward it. The stench of rot grew stronger with every step, and carrion birds scattered as she approached.

Daenys knelt, pushing aside limp, bloodied limbs to reveal a man barely clinging to life. His skin was coppery, but pale from blood loss. A gaping wound marred his chest, the ragged edges glistening with wet, dark crimson. He shouldn't have been alive—couldn't have been—but somehow, he was.

She leaned closer, her heart thundering. Was her mind playing tricks on her?

The man's eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused. His hand shot out, gripping her arm with startling strength.

"Are ye... an angel?" His voice was barely above a whisper, rough and weak.

Daenys flinched, instinctively trying to pull her arm free, but his grip was ironclad. He was delirious, his gaze fixed on her as though she were some divine apparition.

She looked nothing like an angel. Her face was streaked with blood, her hair clumped into damp, tangled strands, the tips dyed red with gore. Her hunting gear was soaked through, heavy with grime and salt. She was a survivor, not some celestial savior.

"They say," the man rasped, his voice trembling, "when ye see an angel, they've come to take ye to Totallis' side. To fight the Spider... in the next grand battle. Drema's chosen... angels..."

His voice trailed off, his grip loosening as his head sagged forward. Yet, his clouded eyes never left her, and a faint smile curved his bloodied lips.

Daenys' stomach churned. There was something unholy about the peace etched into his features, a reverence that made her skin crawl. Men shouldn't die smiling—not like this.

It was the same smile her father had worn before he passed.

"Stay with me," the man gasped suddenly, his body trembling. "Tell me... what it's like... on the field of broken swords. Will my blade shatter? No... no, not with Totallis beside me."

A wet cough cut him off, and blood flecked his lips. He reached into the folds of his torn tunic, fumbling until he produced a small, flowered shoulder veil. The fabric shimmered faintly, its golden petals delicate and intricate.

"Ma gave it to me," he muttered, his voice faltering. "Said... I should give it to my wife... someday. Guess that won't happen." A bitter laugh escaped him, turning into another hacking fit.

He thrust the veil toward her. "Take it. Ma said it... should be seen on a beautiful face. Not wasted... on a corpse like mine."

Daenys hesitated, but the raw desperation in his voice pierced through her. Bowing her head, she accepted the veil and tied it around her left arm. "I'll wear it," she murmured. "Until I die."

A faint sigh escaped the man's lips, and his bloodied smile softened. "Ah... thank ye..."

The sun's last rays vanished, plunging the battlefield into shadow.

The Lunar Storm was coming.

Daenys froze as the first wisps of the storm descended, shimmering like threads of liquid light. Titan and Rhea hung high above, casting fractured beams through the mist. The crimson star burned brighter, its ominous glow reflecting off the encroaching anomaly.

The mist slithered across the battlefield, tendrils reaching like spectral hands. It crept over the dead and dying, coiling around them like a lover's embrace.

Daenys watched, transfixed, as the mist touched the man. His body convulsed violently, his back arching as a guttural scream tore from his throat.

What was happening?

The strange light crawled over his skin, changing it. Blisters formed, swelling and bursting, leaving trails of pus and raw, peeling flesh. The mist seeped into his mouth, his nose, his ears, and his screams turned to weak, pitiful whimpers.

Daenys stumbled back, her heart pounding. Was this what Lunar Storms did to men? Why wasn't it happening to her?

The man's body jerked one final time before going still. His skin darkened, splotched with black and purple as if rotting from the inside out. The mist continued to swirl around him, devouring him inch by inch until he was nothing more than a hollow, glowing husk.

Terror gripped Daenys as she scrambled to her feet, clutching the veil on her arm as though it could protect her. Her ankle gave out, sending her sprawling again. She clawed at the ground, her hands scraping against broken swords and shattered armor as she tried to escape.

But the mist was everywhere.

A sharp, cold pressure pressed against her neck. Daenys froze.

Above her stood a figure cloaked in red. His face was obscured by a hood, but his presence was unmistakably human. His leather chestplate bore scars from countless battles, and a wooden talisman hung from his neck. Blood and mud caked the steel boots planted firmly before her.

"I've found a starving griffin," the man said, his voice deep and calm, "lost among ghosts."

Daenys' body went rigid. The blade pressed lightly against her throat, not cutting but a clear warning.

This was it. This was how she would die—by sheer, cruel chance. Her chest heaved as panic set in. Akash and Mirak were dead. She'd never even buried them, and now this stranger would end her, leaving her to rot in this cursed place.

No.

Her father's face flashed in her mind, his voice urging her to live. She couldn't give up—not like this.

Daenys reached up with trembling hands, gripping the blade despite the way it bit into her palm. Her blood slicked the steel, but she stared up at the hooded figure, defiant. "Where..." she rasped, her voice barely audible. "Where am I?"

The man didn't move for a long moment. Then, he sheathed his blade with a deliberate motion.

"Will you come with me, little one?" he asked, his voice softening. "Be born anew on this battlefield. A wounded griffin can still learn to fly."

The mist crept closer, and Daenys flinched as its icy tendrils brushed her skin. She didn't have a choice. Anywhere was better than here.

"Yes," she whispered. "Please... help me."

Those words carried more weight than a simple "yes."

The warrior sheathed his blade in a single, fluid motion and crouched before her. Without hesitation, he scooped her up, his movements smooth and deliberate, as though she weighed nothing at all. His arms were strong and steady, offering an unspoken promise of safety as he rose to his full height.

Daenys clung to him instinctively, her trembling fingers brushing against the veil tied to her arm. She wasn't sure why, but the feel of its soft, delicate fabric brought her a sliver of comfort amid the chaos.

The man's voice broke the silence, low and steady, with an edge of grim amusement. "Unlucky bastards, the lot of them," he muttered, his tone tinged with disdain. "How many more lives will Astad squander chasing a lost cause? Foolish. Sending soldiers this close to a Lunar Storm... I thought they had at least some sense left. Clearly, I was wrong."

His words hung heavy in the air, but Daenys barely registered them. Her throat was dry, and every breath sent fire through her chest, but she forced out a question. "Where... where am I?"

The man didn't pause as he strode across the battlefield with purpose, his boots crunching against broken metal and brittle bones. "You're on the border," he replied evenly, his tone gentler now. "Between Astad and the Estil Dominion. A no-man's land of blood and regret."

He glanced down at her briefly, his crimson hood shadowing his face. His voice softened further, steady and almost soothing. "Rest, little one. I'll take you somewhere safe."

Daenys wanted to argue, to demand answers or resist giving up control to this stranger, but her body betrayed her. Exhaustion bore down on her like an anchor, and dark spots swirled at the edges of her vision.

"Why... are you helping me?" she croaked, her words barely audible.

The man placed a gloved hand gently on her head, his touch surprisingly calming. "Even in war, fate chooses its favorites," he said simply, his voice tinged with something unreadable.

The weight of his words carried her into darkness. As her eyelids fluttered closed, her last conscious thought was that, for now, she would have to trust him.