Part 42

The Arrival of the Samardun.

When a monstrous roar began inside the womb of the sky, no one yet knew that destruction itself had spread its wings above their heads.

The clouds turned black, as if darkness itself was preparing its throne.
In the flash of lightning, they were seen for the first time—thousands upon thousands of shadowed forms, messengers of ruin hanging in the chest of the sky.
Then came the sound—clangour. The unified vibration of thousands of armours.
These were the Samardun—children of the sky, heirs of the storm, constant companions of destruction.

The moment the first warrior touched the ground, the earth trembled. Behind him, thousands more descended, one after another, as if they were not meteors but the embodied forms of an ancient curse.
Their wings—vast, magnificent, covered in ash-black feathers, each feather sharp like a blade. When they beat their wings, the air carried the scent of metal, mixed with the smell of blood—the memory of old battlefields.
Their armour—woven grey steel upon every warrior’s body, not gleaming in sunlight but absorbing it, as if darkness itself had hardened into metal to protect them. Upon their chests was carved the Crown of Storms—the eternal symbol of the Samardun.

The male warriors were mountain-tall, their eyes burning with the experience of a thousand years of war. The female warriors were no less deadly—their gaze colder than ice, their swords more certain than death itself.

The same expression rested on every face—stone-hard, emotionless, as if they were not people but statues shaped by a god of war. Their presence made the air grow heavy, making it difficult for all on the battlefield to breathe.

Then Barzak stepped forward.
With each step, the ground shook, as if the earth itself was bowing before him. His presence felt as though he stood touching the sky. His body was a fused poem of stone and storm—every muscle a work of art, yet within that beauty lay terrifying power.
His hair—waves of deep blue-black flowing from shoulder to waist, as if the midnight sky itself had taken refuge upon his head. It did not fly in the wind, but moved like liquid darkness.
But most terrifying were his eyes.
Metallic blue—as if molten silver had been fused with the essence of ice. To look into those eyes was to feel memory halt. Some said that within his gaze slept a thousand years of darkness, once seen, never to be forgotten.
Ancient scripts were engraved upon his armour, their meanings lost to the womb of time. Yet those who saw the markings felt primal fear awaken in their hearts—as if a nightmare buried in their ancestors’ memories had risen again.

The warriors parted from the middle, splitting into two paths. Through that path, Barzak advanced.
With every step he took, silence descended upon the enemy ranks.

The warriors tightened their grip on their sword hilts, yet their hands trembled—not from fear, but from that primal reverence a person feels when standing face to face with death.

Barzak stopped.
The air around him became still, as if nature itself was holding its breath.
Then he spoke.
His voice was deeper than thunder, more terrifying than a collapsing mountain. Each word crashed into the enemy’s hearts like a hammer blow:
“You have raised your swords to bury the sky beneath the earth.
I have brought the sky to bury your swords beneath the earth.”

These words were not merely heard by the ears—they were felt in the marrow of bones, in the flow of blood, deep within the soul.

Those among the enemy with weaker hearts fell to their knees at that very moment.
The others, who believed themselves brave, understood that today’s battle was not merely a clash of weapons—it was a struggle for existence, a final attempt to survive.

Behind Barzak, thousands of Samardun warriors stood in silence. Their wings were half-spread, their swords sheathed, yet their very presence was enough to proclaim destruction.

The clouds grew darker still.
The air began to carry ancient scents—the screams of lost civilisations, and the ashes of countless wars.
Only a single breath remained before the war would begin.

Then?

Destruction.

******

The winged children of the Samardun descended, tearing through the sky.
Their arrival was an omen of destruction—the sun was swallowed, the earth’s skin began to crack from heat. In perfect unison, they cleaved the air with their wings, hurling a torrent of ruin downward.

Barzak moved first, surging forward at blinding speed. The crimson sun reflected off his golden helm, igniting fiery streaks across the sky. His sword fell like lightning upon the Malth ranks. He had no wings, yet he moved as one who flew.
A single strike—and a massive Malth body split in two and crashed to the ground. Lightning raced through its nerves, smoke flooding the air.

A female warrior, radiant lines of sunlight etched along her wings, leapt upon a Malth. With a single blade stroke, the serpent-like neck was severed, and its poisonous fumes were silenced before they could spread.

Their wing-shadows fell, and within those shadows began the dance of death. They plunged downward—grey armour gleaming dull, eyes aflame, mouths whispering ancient oaths.

Barzak hurled his sword—a spinning violet-blue arc. It encircled three Malth, and in an instant, three colossal bodies were torn apart, the ground melting into ash and liquefied poison.

Another warrior—nameless, unknown—split a Malth clean from mouth to tail in a single breath. From the touch of his blade burst fountains of glowing blood, soaking the ground beneath the Samardun’s feet.

One by one they descended, bringing thunder, fire, and the breath of shadow. Wings sliced through Malth flesh, and sword strikes silenced the poisonous whispers.