The Shattered Crowns

It was some time before she woke, but when she did, the scarred battlefield was far behind them. The stench of blood and ash was gone, replaced by the crisp, earthy scent of open air. For a brief, fleeting moment, Daenys lost herself in the warmth that surrounded her. It reminded her of when her father used to carry her, back when the world still made sense.

A low chuckle pulled her from the memory. "Back from the dead, it seems," her rescuer said.

Daenys groaned softly, the grogginess slowly ebbing away. "Who…" she began, but the word trailed off as her mind was overtaken by the flood of memories. The cries of the dying, the mist, the man who had smiled as he died. Mirak and Akash—they were gone. The silence in her heart became deafening, clawing at her chest with the weight of loss.

Her savior broke through the quiet again. "My name is Nirme Rev," he said evenly. "I hail from the Estil Dominion. And you, little griffin? Do you have a name?"

"Daenys Godren," she said weakly. "I come from… far away." She hesitated, unwilling to name Morgoi. That part of her life felt fragile, like glass that would shatter if spoken aloud. She didn't want to explain herself. Didn't want to feel the pain of admitting how much she longed to be back home, safe with her sister and mother, watching the forest come alive in the glow of the evening.

Nirme's gaze lingered on the mangled corpse of an Astad soldier as they passed, his lips curling into a grimace. "War is an ugly thing," he murmured. "One counter-raid, and hundreds of children are left orphaned. For what? A sliver of land no one will remember?"

Daenys' voice was hollow as she scanned the fields, taking in the carnage. "So many dead," she whispered. "And this was only a counterattack?" She turned her gaze to him, her voice gaining a faint edge. "Why are Estil and Astad fighting?"

Nirme let out a long, weary sigh. He wished there were an easy answer, but there wasn't. War with Astad had become so ingrained in Estil's history that most didn't even question it anymore. It was as though their very identity was tied to the sword. What happened to a blade with nothing left to cut? He didn't know. That was why there could never be peace.

He shook his head, his thoughts heavy. "War with Astad has shaped the Dominion," he said quietly, his words more for himself than for her. "It has bled into the heart of our people. The Castellans call it duty; they speak of raids as if they were scripture. Fools, the lot of them." He paused, his tone growing colder. "The truth is simpler. A sword made to kill doesn't stop swinging just because the killing becomes pointless."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Nirme glanced down at Daenys, his thoughts dark. He had been fighting Astad for twenty years now—longer than some of the soldiers he commanded had been alive. He was one of the oldest Gahkars, forged by Val himself and blessed—or cursed—by Udubar to continue fighting.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a breath laced with regret. Another pointless battle. More needless deaths. Perhaps saving this girl would amount to something, though part of him doubted it. One life saved against thousands lost—what did it matter? Still, the smallest flicker of hope kept him moving forward.

As they neared an Estil corpse, Nirme murmured a quiet prayer. "Let those who fell today join Totallis in his halls. May they fight the Spider as they did in this life, and may their dreams bring peace to their children."

No more words were spoken as they approached a camp nestled atop a small hill. The glow of torchlight pierced the encroaching wisps of the Lunar Storm, holding the anomaly at bay. Footsteps echoed as a guard emerged to meet them, his wolf-helmet catching the firelight. His surcoat was pristine white, embroidered with black and gold wolves circling one another in an endless dance.

"My Gahkar," the guard greeted, relief evident in his voice. "The men feared you'd gone and lost yourself on one of your 'walks' again."

"Not lost," Nirme replied dryly, striding past him with Daenys still in his arms. "You'll find, Augustus, that as you age, walks become the best way to find peace of mind—or what's left of it."

Augustus fell into step beside him, keeping pace with practiced ease. Daenys remained silent, her sharp eyes darting around the camp. She had clearly never seen a war encampment before, let alone one of Estil's. That much confirmed what Nirme already suspected—this girl wasn't from Astad, nor Estil. She was an outsider.

Nirme spared a glance at Augustus. The man was a veteran, his spear strapped securely to his back and a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders. A shield engraved with a direwolf hung alongside the spear, gleaming in the firelight. His armor was spotless, though the wolf-helmet bore streaks of blood and grime from battle.

"How many did we lose?" Nirme asked, his voice gruff.

"Three of the Deathless, my Gahkar," Augustus replied solemnly. "We're still counting the war horses and the other regiments. I'll have a full report once the Lunar Storm passes."

Nirme waved him off. "I'll handle the logbooks myself tonight. Go. Celebrate the spoils of war. Drink and tell tales of your fallen brothers."

"My Gahkar…" Augustus hesitated, then added, "Is the girl Astad?"

Nirme sighed, his voice growing sharp. "Does it matter?"

Daenys found her voice, weak but insistent. "I'm not from Astad."

Augustus tilted his head, his tone neutral but probing. "Then perhaps she'll take up arms with us. There's always glory in our raids."

"She's injured," Nirme snapped, his tone brooking no argument. "Glory can wait until she's healed. For now, she needs food and rest."

"You know as well as I do," Augustus pressed, "that here, it's war or herding sheep. There's no middle ground."

Nirme's amber eye glinted with irritation. "Enough, Augustus. Go."

The younger man bowed his head reluctantly. "I'll leave you, Gahkar Rev. But the Deathless will remain close to your tent tonight."

"You're still young," Nirme said, his tone softening slightly. "Enjoy what time gives you before it's too late. But don't drink yourself useless. We ride east at dawn."

Augustus grinned faintly. "Only enough for a buzz. You know as well as I do, my Gahkar—horse riding with a hangover is a fool's errand."

Nirme snorted. "An Estil man could ride a horse with enough booze in his stomach to kill a Pureblood elf."

"True enough," Augustus replied, grinning wider. "I'll drink to the knight you killed tonight. It's already becoming a tale worth telling."

"Tell whatever you like," Nirme muttered as he turned toward his tent. "Just make sure you're up in the morning."

The tent sat on a slight incline, overlooking the rest of the camp. Nirme pushed aside the heavy flaps, stepping inside. The space was modest but cluttered, dominated by a wooden table buried beneath stacks of parchment and maps.

"You don't get many visitors, do you?" Daenys asked, her voice cutting through the quiet.

"Most of my visitors are other Gahkars," Nirme replied dryly, setting her down carefully. "And they know better than to comment."

"So… you're a leader?"

"A raider chained to the Dominion, yes," he said. "One of ten."

He pulled back his hood, revealing a face weathered by time and war. His hair, streaked with silver, clung to his forehead in damp, uneven strands. A jagged scar ran across one eye, which was clouded and lifeless, while the other, golden and sharp, seemed to pierce straight through her.

Daenys stared at him, unsure what to say. Nirme's voice broke the silence. "You spoke the truth earlier—you're not from Astad. Nor are you Estil. But you're no stranger to struggle, are you?"

Daenys hesitated, her jaw tightening. She wanted to tell him everything, to cry out that she just wanted to go home, but the words stuck in her throat.

Nirme shook his head. "Keep your secrets, little griffin. We all have them. But heed this: the people of Estil do not trust outsiders."

"Then what can I do?" Daenys pleaded, her voice trembling. "I don't know this place. I have no one. I'm…" She choked on the word. "Alone."

Nirme studied her for a long moment. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "You have fire," he said. "But fire needs direction, or it'll burn itself out. Take a breath. Think. What is it you want?"

"I want to go home," Daenys whispered, her voice quivering but resolute. "I want to argue with my mother. I want to read to my little sister until she falls asleep. I want… my father to hold me again."

Nirme's expression softened for a brief moment, but his reply was harsh. "And how will you do that? If your family was near this battle, they're likely dead. Your home is ash."

The truth struck Daenys like a blade.

"You would let me leave?" she asked, her voice breaking.

"I didn't save you just to watch you die in the wilderness," Nirme said gruffly. "But Estil is a hard place. You'll need to find your strength, one way or another."

Daenys clenched her fists, her voice shaking but defiant. "I'll live. I'll find my family."

Nirme sighed, the weight of her resolve pressing on his conscience. "Maybe you are one of Fate's favorites," he said quietly. "She's a cruel mistress, but she watches her chosen closely."

He leaned forward, his amber eye gleaming. "Welcome to the thousand-year war, little griffin. A war where legends are born—and die—in droves."