Were they merely lucky? It was a curious thought that danced through Willem’s mind. They were nearly halfway to Meshira, and yet the skal had never ambushed them as they were wont to. Rather than being reassuring, however, it only served to further send him on edge. A hundred theories danced through his mind as they made their way through the dust and sand. With harsh sun and abrasive winds, there was little else to do but think, and so he wondered.

His mind concocted half a thousand fantasies. Perhaps, he hoped, they were wounded and had retreated, trying to heal. Perhaps their numbers were little more than a bluff, and whatever black magic had created them was now out of fuel. Idle dreams, but still, one could hope. Yet the more that he wondered, the more his mind turned to dark thoughts.

Perhaps the skal were biding their time, waiting to lull their prey into a false sense of security before bursting out in a swarm. Perhaps they were teasing them as a cat does to a mouse, playing with the wounded, tired men. Or perhaps they were no longer seen as a threat, not even worth killing—the desert would do that task for them.

Breathing hard, Willem shook his head and tried to force himself away from those thoughts. They would not help his morale, nor would they aid the final fight. Instead, he turned to his companions—the painfully small number that remained. They were not strongest of the number that had started, not the smartest nor the most charismatic. But there was a grit in their spine that they all shared, a steel resolve that made them plod on with the next step. There was a ferocious glint in their eyes, and the flames of their passion were slow-burning and persistent. Others were flashes of heat and bursts of surging fire, but these men were the embers in the cold morning just before dawn. They were the heat when it counted the most.

They were all that remained.

How? That thought danced through Willem’s mind. How were they so strong? How could they keep pushing forward when the path is paved with thorns? And perhaps the hardest one, the one that persisted in his thoughts—How could they keep fighting when everyone else is gone?

He received a myriad of answers, their voices low and grating. The fight had worn on more than just their bodies, and they glanced back at him with tired eyes, their expressions lined with exhaustion. They spoke quietly over the campfires, lost in thought as they stared off into space. Willem could only wait patiently after asking, hearing their answers and their stories.

Some spoke of family back home that they needed to protect. Their eyes grew moist as they thought of fathers slaving away on farms, of mothers tending to crackling hearths. They spoke fondly of younger brothers running in the fields, of sisters learning to sew and dance.

Nessa’s soon to be married; she’ll be gotten herself a man by now—he laughed over the fire, taking another swig out of his flask as his eyes grew misty. Keron is all that Ma and Pa have left, and he doesn’t even know how to till a field. What kind of older brother would I be if I left him to do all the heavy lifting, eh—they smiled, trying hard to keep their composure.

Others spoke not of the living, but of the dead. They talked of brothers that had died on the fields, men that they had loved—and watched fall right next to them. They spoke of promises they needed to keep, ashes that needed to be returned, letters they needed to write.

I promised Mikel that I’d see this letter sent back home, and I intend to see that through—the young man spoke solemnly, the expression too serious for a face as youthful as his own. We came together into the legion—all six of us—and now I’m the only one left. We promised each other that we’d all be standing at the end of it, and now I’ve got to do my best t-to, to see that through—the man’s lower lip started to tremble even as he finished the thought. Tears leaked down the side of his face, dripping off his chin as he turned away in embarrassment and grief.

Yet for some of the others, there was no choice. Take a look around, demon. You see what goes on here for miles and miles? It’s fucking desert. Nothing more than sand and grass as far as the eye can see. What’ll I do, run back home? I’d starve and die in my own shit. No, I’d much rather sit here with a warm fire by my feet, drinking till I’m shit-faced, and die killing a few more of those bastards. The man’s tone was as callous as his face, his skin grizzled with scars and his expression resembling that of a beast backed into a corner. He had nowhere to flee, no choices to mull over. This was the only path still open to him.

“These are the people you would have me leave behind.” Willem whispered that night to the voice in the back of his mind. Yet now of all times, the god gave no answer. He had been silent recently, missing just as his servants were, and when Willem pressed for the presence in his mind, he felt only a faint pain and a flash of heat. It was a pain like stretching a scar, and for a moment, Willem even fancied the notion that the god might be wounded.

A myriad of answers given to him, all different and yet strikingly similar. Willem tossed about nervously at night, their words bouncing around in his mind. Sleep refused to come for him as he mulled over their thoughts, struggling to answer the very same question that he had asked them. Why was he fighting? Atal would have him believe that he should not fight, even if the god had fallen strangely silent as of late. So then, why should he?

To save the world? Perhaps, but he doubted it was truly for such a noble purpose. The world was unsatisfying when your brothers were bleeding out in front of you. Saving some old farmer’s arse by the Cold Sea did not warm you when the night was cold—principles and lofty thoughts no just that, words.

Was it for their sakes, then? He fought because they fought, because of some guilt or pressure or damned conscience that demanded it? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, and a part of him screamed out that no, he was not doing this for someone else.

Then perhaps Willem was closer to that grizzled old soldier than any of the young, heartbroken romantics. He certainly had no family, no loved ones, no one close to his heart that was waiting for him to come back home. He had no close friends either, be it legion or demon. So then he was fighting because there was no other choice, because it was all he knew how to do.

He was fighting because his back was against the wall, because all other bridges had been burned to ash, and now he stood in the middle of this path with only one way to go: forward. Aye, that was an answer that he could live with. The notion settled firmly in his chest, burying itself there as it hardened around his heart, and every breath seemed to come a bit easier with that resolve.

And as for the others—the ones with family, with fallen brothers, with dreams of their own still—Willem found himself uttering a soft prayer for them under his breath. It was a simple thing, something from the recesses of his memory that he could not have remembered had he not been on the edge of sleep. He recalled his Ma whispered the words to him at night, when he had been scared that Pa would not be coming back.

Bless this soul, to save its light. Bless this soul, to heal its sight. And know that e’en in frozen night, He will aid with all His might.

As the prayer left his lips, a strange sense of amusement settled over him. He certainly had never felt such attachment to anyone ever before—not to the demons, at the very least. And yet here he ways, giving bedtime prayers for a group of broken men.

Perhaps, in spite of his form, there was more human than beast in him after all.