Zaahen, The Unsundered
“Steel the mind. Temper the flesh. Hunt the Fallen.”
Rhaast and I circle one another on a flattened mountaintop. We have warred for many days and nights, unflagging even when the mortal armies far below us rested to count their dead. Malice makes his features cruel, sharpening him almost beyond recognition… almost.
“You have fallen far, brother. But this is not who you are.” I offer my hand. “Come, fight beside me—for what we once were.” I would show mercy to every god-warrior I hunt, though I know it will not reach them.
Rhaast barks out a laugh. “What we once were is nothing. What we are now, you deny. It sickens me.”
He hunches, prowling. I hold myself upright, bringing my proffered hand to a fist behind me. A moment passes, the sun beholding its once-divine children, before we lunge.
Each strike of our blades rattles the heavens. The golden edge of my glaive veils the sun as I raise it again and again. The skies weep crimson, long since aflame from this war waged across lands, across centuries. I stab forth; he slashes; we bleed. With every wound we draw, Rhaast roars with joy. To watch him grin in madness’ hold, to see how far he has fallen—it awakens a cold wrath, a hatred to the death, for this is the face of my failure.
“Why do you not join us, Zaahen?” he taunts, corrupted power gathering at his clawed fingertips. He wrenches it across his flesh, forcing his wounds to close. “This world has forgotten its masters. It deserves to be ravaged!”
I cannot deny the whisper within that wants nothing more. If I turn against this world, I will be lost to fury, to bloodthirst, to the fall of our kind—but at least we will be lost, together. If we turn against this world as one, none could stop us.
I cleave the thought from mind and ready my blade. We clash again.
Flesh tears. My chest blooms with blood, a wound deep enough to be fatal. Warmth spreads through me; my divinity surges, working desperately to heal the gash. Not enough. I fall to one knee. Blood stains my feathers, the stench of iron chokes the air.
I hear my name, shouted from far below—the voice of an old friend, calling to a broken god.
I drag my talons through the wound, drawing blood from blood. My veins blacken, my body seethes as muscle and sinew weave back together.
“We are masters of nothing. We are Darkin.” I stand. “And we must all be destroyed.”
I rise in rage for what we have become and reverence for the gods we once were. I rise with the pride of our great kinship and the pain of betraying it in bloodshed. Clinging to broken vows and broken brotherhood, the divine and profane war within. Yet in battle they find the same purpose: fight on. In this, I am whole. In this, I can silence all disquiet, carve away doubt, rise above my suffering.
If the Darkin cannot be saved, then we must be silenced.
This memory fades, leaving only the emptiness of my prison—the weapon that binds me.
Beyond its confines, I sense movement: footsteps echoing through the temple halls. The tread of an ally… my old friend, ever vigilant. She often comes close, or so it seems, but never crosses the threshold.
Does she think to free me? She cannot, she must not. She knows as well as I that Darkin and divine battle within me.
Yet somewhere within that endless warring, the better part of my nature stirs, and remembers...
I once stood upon the Ascension steps, wreathed in golden light, glaive in hand—a silver-winged god.
A nascent Shurima stretched before me, destined for empire. Ritual drums resounded; thunderous ovation rose from an audience ten-thousand strong. Among them, a host of god-warriors, resplendent in their armor, rejoiced as I joined their ranks.
I had led many to these same steps. It was my duty, my honor, the calling that earned me a place upon the sacred dais. I had come to them in what would be their last days of mortality, gave word of their worthiness to become gods, and swore guidance to deliver them unto eternity.
I envision them as they were: young Rhaast, his wit and ambition sharp as his scythe; Xolaani, gentle-hearted and weary of war; Varus, the voice of reason who guided us back to duty; Setaka, lion-hearted, the pride of our kind, to whom I pledged my blade…
My chest swelled with love for them, for the kin we were to be. I hoisted my glaive and vowed to fight beside them, to guard the light that made us.
The brilliance of the memory disperses, as do her footsteps. I am alone once more with my thoughts, my war unending.
This is my eternity. Time forgets, but I remember every vow, every face, every failure. If I am called again, I will save this world... or finish what we began.