Part 43

From the fire-red eastern sky, the forces of Kavanruth advanced with a thunderous roar.

That roar was not just sound—it was a signal of annihilation. Thousands of fire-lions, each as massive as a mountain, cracked the earth to ash with every step, scorching grass into flame—they charged forward as if the sun itself had descended upon the land.
They ran—star-fires blazing in their eyes, raging flames licking through their manes. The air filled with the stench of burning, and the world was painted in smoking red.

Before the Samardun could descend from their aerial stronghold, the first Kavanruth leapt upward—vaulting straight between the wings of a winged warrior in the sky. Feathers burned in that inferno, armour split apart.

The warrior was hurled away, his sword torn from his grip, and as he fell, he merged with the earth forever.

Then ten more… fifty more… they leapt one after another, as if fire itself were being hurled upward, tearing open the sky. With each impact of their feet, Samardun winged warriors were knocked from the air, armour scorched, sword-blades melting away.

The mighty Ragnor, leader of the Kavanruth, entered the battle himself. His roar shook the heavens—a Samardun warrior, suspended midair, lost all sense of direction from the sound alone and fell, flames igniting across his wings.

With a single bound, Ragnor struck a supreme warrior standing beside Barzak. His blazing claws tore through armour and flesh alike. When that body fell, it burned until nothing remained—only ash.

The Kavanruth leapt skyward again and again—with every jump, rivers of fire surged from the earth’s core. They plunged beneath wings, burning Samardun warriors one by one with the flames of their manes.

Their claws were knives—one strike severed wings at the root. Their teeth were fire-scorched diamonds—where they bit, nothing remained.

Ragnor roared once more—fire surged from his gaze toward six Samardun in the sky. In a blink, their bodies were engulfed in flame, and they fell lifeless, burned and shattered by the blazing manes.

This is not a battle—this is a wildfire.
This is not a hunt—this is total consumption by flame.

The Samardun swords now trembled in desperate defence, while the fire of the Kavanruth longed to hear screams, longed to see ash.

Then the devastation of Thanlas descended.

Beneath the Samardun in the sky, the air began to tremble—first softly, then as if the entire land had begun to dance.

The earth split open and fifteen-foot-tall giants emerged—ground collapsed beneath their feet, rivers twisted away in fear, and mountains screamed as they crumbled.
They struck together.
Each one leapt skyward, raising colossal thunder-hammers—impossible in motion, unbreakable in force.

One hammer strike—and a Samardun warrior was torn from the sky with his wings, like a tree split by lightning.

A Thanlas slammed his hammer into the ground. The impact shattered the earth, breaking the balance of five Samardun above—lost in the shaking air, they fell, and the Thanlas waiting below crushed three of them at once with a single blow.

With every hammer strike, bolts of lightning burst forth—striking wings and dragging the Samardun’s dominance of the skies down to the earth in an instant. Swords trembled, but before they could land a blow, they shattered against the iron hides of the Thanlas, tearing only at futile, sharpened hopes.

The invincible Gammar, leader of the Thanlas, stepped forward—molten iron tears streamed from his eyes. Where they fell, there was smoke, craters, ash.
In a sudden leap, he surged into the sky and struck the centre of a flying formation. The sky split apart.
With one hammer blow, five Samardun bodies were hurled in all directions—some torn apart, some burned and melted by fire.
The bound souls within his hammer screamed—their wails echoed across the heavens. At that sound, the rhythm of more Samardun shattered, wings faltered, and they drifted into chaos.

They come like living mountains. They strike as if the land itself is taking revenge. They destroy… and behind them remain only craters, ash, smoke, and the sharp scent of lightning in the air.

In the sky, on the ground, in the air—the wildfire of war spread everywhere.

******

The winged Samardun dove from the sky upon the Malth. Blue fire poured from their swords, burning even through the Malths’ iron scales.

But the Malth did not yield so easily. They coiled their serpentine bodies around the winged warriors. Death-cries rose into the air, mixed with sprays of blood and the stench of burning flesh.

The Kavanruth unleashed their fiery breath toward the Samardun. But the winged warriors reflected the flames with their armour, sending them back into the sky. The clouds burned, and instead of rain, drops of fire began to fall.

The Thanlas struck the ground with their hammers. The earth split wide open, molten lava bursting from its depths. Many Samardun warriors fell into those burning chasms.

In the midst of battle, a Kavanruth released such a roar that the entire battlefield froze. Tears of fire fell from its eyes, boring holes into the ground where they landed.

A Samardun female warrior, her wings shattered, still fought on with sword in hand. There was no fear on her face—only pride—the pride of her people, the pride of her ancestors.

A Thanlas warrior placed his hand upon his dead brother’s head and swore an oath—his tears mixed with blood, and his roar shook the sky and air alike.

The war continues, and it will continue.

The sun has set, the moon has risen—but the war has not stopped.
Under the moon’s silver light, rivers of blood gleam, and mountains of corpses pile higher.

Flames burn in the sky, blood-flowers bloom upon the ground. In the air drift songs of death, roars of victory, and cries of defeat.