Chapter 1 - Ulmiah

Tasked with bringing the 'Golden Beasts' too their knees, the Royal Guard leads the legions of Pyrrskegard into the hellish deserts of the Sand's Caliphates.

The sun shone, hard on the skin. Ripples of heat dominated the horizon, blurring the bright sand dunes all around. Captain Azalea Leoncoeur's blue cape and emerald eyes could've been mistaken for an oasis that disappeared under the General's tent. "He is late," The Captain declared. "Again."

Leaning over a table was a man in shining plate armour under a long, sleeveless white coat with black details and black breeches. "He will come." His voice had his usual august tone.

Barón Sapientia, General of the Royal Guard who commanded the Royal Legions of Pyrrskegard, was almost uncomfortable to look at, as if there was not a single imperfection on his pale and strong body. His distinctive white and long hair never appeared to be dirty, not even from sweat. There was no perception of knots, and no split ends could be distinguished. Many would say he was physically ideal, as if a delicate craftsman had carefully sculpted even the smallest of details. His icy grey eyes seemed to hide all other colours within them. But these eyes did not meet the Captain's, his stare remaining fixed on the sapphire-like crystal in his hand.

"It is his duty. He will come." General Barón continued. Azalea's eyebrow twitched, as if restraining herself to say anything else on the matter. Beads of sweat were dropping down her golden braided bun over her temples.

"A report came in earlier." He said, motioning the blue artifact in his hand. "That is, after all, why I summoned you here, Captain." Barón resumed, with a weak smile. Azalea nodded.

 "It appears the bulk of the Caliphates' army will meet us from the east by sunrise." The General stopped, turning his gaze back to the crystal as he placed it on the war table. "As expected." He added. The relay crystals served Pyrrskegard as a communication method. They allowed speech transmissions between their holders, giving the Royal Legion a big advantage over their enemies.

"The men are ready." Her voice was stern, and there was a hint of pride in it. "Let the guilty face the justice of Pyrrskegard." Her posture became even more upright than it usually was.

The young General gestured his head in agreement. "Dismissed, Captain."

Azalea exited Barón's tent, where her silent shadow awaited her, the so-called Duelist. Never had he been seen without the strange helmet after he became one of the 'thralls'; past convicted criminals that had been repurposed to serve as an unfaltering shield of flesh for the legions. The cost? Their intelligence. Their ego. But who would miss those rapists and murderers, anyway? What Azalea hated the most, evil and wrong, she now seemed to care for. These weren't their past selves anymore.  They were innocent souls now, and she protected the truly innocent, she did. She enjoyed to personally oversee the newly added units, and treated the veterans with pats and food. Aye, most agreed, her presence seemed to calm them.

A golden lion rampant over a field of azure, the sigil of House Leoncoeur, flowed atop the centre pole of the Captain's pavilion. As much as it identified her ancestry, the Captain had always associated herself far more with Pyrrskegard's chilly white banner and its all-seeing eye pierced by a sword pointing downward, both black as death. It represented her well, and her black and white sense of justice, for there was virtue and there was evil and corruption. The former, she held, had to be pursued at all costs. The latter, however, was to be annihilated and cleansed from this world.

The Sand's Caliphates had brought this down on themselves when their leaders, the self-styled 'Golden Beasts' began dabbling in illegal practices of Concept Manipulation. History had shown the consequences of such actions, and how it birthed horrors that yet remained in the most remote places of the world. No, judgement was necessary. It was their duty to sink entire kingdoms if need be. Pyrrskegard was right when they sank the Feng Empire centuries ago. Millions died, yes. But such is justice, and its price.

Azalea inspected her troops and their equipment. This was the first time the sinking of a region had been ordered since Feng in the Age of Inquisitors. They had to be ready. She was in charge of the infantry. The first line of defense. The shield wall. And as such, hers was large and thick, in the shape of a tower, almost as tall as her. It was heavy, all agreed. It looked heavy. But her sinewy physique was used to it, and was stronger than most men's.

She turned to her shadow, and patted the side of his arm as her lips drew a subtle, wistful smile. The Duelist was regarded as an eerie figure. The only proof that he was once human was his shoulder-length, bleached lilac hair that hanged like dead grass from the back of his helmet. The latter resembled more a mask, and had no apparent visor. Instead, it was covered by a wall of refined engravings and patterns. He wore a high neck piece that connected the helmet to his thin armor. Over his right shoulder fell a tattered sable cape.

He seemed to understand, no longer following his Captain anymore. Instead, he stood completely still, like a corpse suffering from rigor mortis.

The sun was setting now, but the heat remained the same. Azalea entered her tent, seeking refuge in the more forgiving embrace that her pavilion's shade provided. She reached for straps in her armour, and began disassembling it. Battle loomed at sunrise, and rest was important. Her men trusted her. With some luck, she'd be able to scrape a few hours of sleep, she reckoned.

And so it was that she found herself standing eastward, with each man in her line standing shoulder to shoulder, and a complete stillness in the air. The sun had not yet truly risen, but they stood ready. The General's archers and crossbowmen were behind them, reigning over a sandhill. He was the only one ahorse. A shining figure amidst the ocherous sands. His skull-shaped helmet covered his face, but his pearly hair still cascaded down his shoulders onto his coat and pauldrons. The 'White Death', some had begun calling him. If such a title brought fear to their enemies, then it was well received, Azalea thought. To his side, a bannerman holding the white skull surrounded by lapis lazuli coloured flowers over sable fabric. On the other side, the all-seeing eye of Pyrrskegard.

Clouds of dust loomed in the wavy horizon up to the dark blue sky. The Sandish army was close. Banners of yellow and orange began streaming over the dunes now. Their sigils slowly became distinguishable. The Elephant of Al-Sulman, the haughty and eccentric merchant. The Crocodile of Eniola Abebe, the political and nationalistic merchant. The Scorpion of Salam Al-Rakhim, the  honourable one, perhaps, but still a villain. They and their hired blades and mercenaries. All were villains to Azalea. The sound of their marching was almost deafening now. And he still hadn't come!

The battle was about to begin.

Author's Note

Criticism welcome.