The sun was merciless, hanging over their heads like a death sentence. Willem felt his own throat crack with thirst as they marched; he could only imagine the pain that the still-wounded soldiers felt. Absentmindedly, he idly wondered what it was that drove these men to fight when every day was a fiery hell. Was it their dedication to the cause? He doubted it—he doubted the strength of men to bleed over something intangible, over a mere concept. Was it their bonds to each other? Now perhaps that was more likely, if unfortunate—men who fought for each other’s sake would lose that meaning as more of them fell.

And if the past few days were any indication, there would be many left behind in the dust and dirt.

The skal and their god had not taken kindly to the legions’ intrusion, and they had suffered five more attacks at seemingly random intervals. Some came in the night, just before dawn when the campfires were burning the lowest and the watchmen were the most tired. Others came in the middle of halfday, when the soldiers had thought themselves safe.

The first time a serpentine skal had erupted and burst out of a shadow, the men had been thoroughly shaken. They had expected to die on the battlefield, he supposed, but not while on the march. Yet with each successive attack, the men grew more and more disheartened. Now, their faces were sallow and thin, their expressions grim as they marched under that relentless sun. Few of them wanted to sleep for fear of death, although their exhaustion left them little choice in the matter.

Morale was most certainly low, not only from the loss of men but also from lack of supplies. The catapults had been crushed and burnt in the madness of the Gates, but so had many of the carts that they had been using to haul food and other necessities. They had been forced to leave much behind, and many of the men faced a disturbing incentive for more of their brothers to die so that the rest could afford to eat.

Yet in spite of this looming sensation of dread, the march to Meshira continued without halt. The men were pushed without sympathy, without remorse, and overlooking them all with a look of detached disinterest stood Joy—

Willem did not wish to think of Joy. His thoughts always turned scattered when they turned to the demon.

Why is that? A rasping voice hissed in his ears as he tried to turn his thoughts away. It was not the first time that Willem had heard the voice—he had felt the whisperings clawing at his thoughts ever since the Gates. Yet he had dismissed them as fantasy, as a simple madness and nothing more.

No, not just simple ravings, the voice laughed lowly at his feeble attempts to dismiss it. Truths. The truths that you are too weak to face.

That word again—weak. How many times had Willem told himself that he would no longer be weak? How many times had he failed that promise? Too many to count, far too many, the voice mocked. And yet you are still weak. Hiding in the demon’s shadow, loyal like a dog even after it has killed your friend—what is that if not weak?

Willem, clutched at his eyes, feeling stinging tears bite away at him. His friend, aye—Norus had been his friend. And they had stolen him away, locked him in a cage and sacrificed him to open the waypath. Not just that, they magicked away your memories. You call these things your friends? You call them allies?

Do allies poison your mind? Do friends kill each other? The whispers grew more poisonous, wearing away at his psyche.

Why do you fight with them? And there it was again—the final question, the one that the voice always asked last. The voice would see him run away, would see him flee in terror and leave this land to be consumed by shadow.

It is futile to resist any further, futile to even think of defeating—

“Halt!” a harsh voice suddenly called out, and Willem snapped his head up, pushing aside all thoughts of treachery at the sight of what lay on the horizon. Barely visible against the skyline were a few sets of apparent buildings spread out along the plains, leaning near an apparent coastline. In front of a few crudely pitched tents lay fields and fields of crops, although there were no people managing them. Willem, seeing the looks of confusion on Joy and the others’ faces, hurriedly made his way over to join them.

“What is this?” Joy hissed out at Mors, and the man shook his head with furrowed brows.

“I have no idea either. It wasn’t on the map, I can tell you that much.” Mors peered in the distance at the tents, although the effort seemed futile. “I can’t make out much from here.”

Joy snorted softly, squinting his own eyes. “I can see a few people hiding in the fields.” he replied, and Willem started in surprise, not having been able to make out any people himself. Hurriedly, he looked once more, this time reaching deeper within himself and feeling the heat of mahji bubble forth. He pulled it up his neck, letting the stabbing ribbons wreathe around his eyes, and he felt his vision distort and sharpen. Abruptly, with some effort, he could make out dark, blurred forms hidden amongst the thorny crop fields

“W-what do we do then?” he stammered out, cutting off the flow of mahji and feeling his body stumble at the sudden change. It was as if a sudden spark of heat had abruptly been doused out with cold water, leaving him empty and weak.

“We have demons capable of flight, do we not?” Mors asked, gesturing towards a handful of the surviving pups. “Why not have them investigate further?”

Willem saw Joy’s face instinctually twist into a rejection, a defense of his fellow demons. See how he loves his own kind, like a beast? The voice hissed treacherously in Willem’s ear, conveniently ignoring that the boy was now a beast as well.

“It is a…fine idea…” Kha murmured abruptly, the saurian demon appearing suddenly as it was wont to do. With such a simple few words, Joy seemed to grit his teeth before finally acceding.

“Send them then.” he growled out, waving an angry hand, and Kha slunk away to inform them. Strange. Alien. Obscene. The voice had nothing but criticisms, and Willem swiftly found himself growing tired of its influence.

“You are Atal, are you not?” he whispered lowly under his breath, turning away so that the others would not hear him. “I know not how you have touched me, and I know not what you wish of me, but know that I will not bend.” The more that he spoke, the more rage began to build up inside of him. He was no mere pup, to be fed lies and twisted. He was no fool, to be spun around a god’s finger.

“You will leave.” he hissed, before feeling a sudden pressure stab at his temples.

You cannot command a god, the voice responded, and Willem felt a sudden wave of immense strength overwhelm him.

You do not even know what it is to be God. His mind suddenly seemed to swell, the voice feeling him an immeasurable amount of thoughts. His vision sharpened a thousand times, his every senses firing madly. He saw everything, felt everything, and it was all too much. More than that, he felt a faint connection to everything, from the dirt under his feet to the water crashing on shores a thousand miles away. It was only for a brief moment before fading, but that temporary omniscience and omnipotence left him trembling and gasping for breath.

As his senses returned to normal, Willem panted hard before watching as three of the winged demons suddenly took flight with a blast of wind. Their forms were thin and light as they made their way towards the gathering of tents, swiftly shrinking in size as they flew higher. They kept that same distance as they neared, circling briefly in an effort to elicit some response. Willem himself once more drew the mahji into his eyes with a shaky effort, watching the figures in the grass and fields for some movement.

He was so focused on those men that he nearly missed the massive cloud of skal’va that suddenly swarmed out of nowhere. Suddenly, the air behind the tents seemed to shimmer and distort before twisting into existence. Where there was one empty sky, there now stood a shadowy spire, its presence marked by pluming mist. Out of its tip, a cloud of insectoid skal’va suddenly lunged at the demons in the sky, who let out a few pathetic jets of flame before being torn to pieces.

Their bones, as they fell to the ground, were swiftly frozen and broken into dust that scattered in the wind.