Eshent had always been enamored by those people, those people that could shout profanities and not regret it afterwards. Who could hold their convictions without guilt, even if they were wrong by social standards, even if they drew the world's ire.
He longed to become a person like that, a terrible person.
Because he did not mind the price that was exacted. He did not mind being a sinner, a cruel and vile figure.
The only thing that mattered, above all other things, was cultivating a belief of self. In himself. In no others.
He watched the harrowing scene of yet another battle unfold in the city square, his gaze hollow. His expression reminded himself that he was still only acting, only pretending that he had become what he wished. It was the tome of his Lord resting in his pocket that made him that way, cold, unfeeling.
Because he was not yet vile, he was not yet cruel. He was only a borrower of these traits.
Screams echoed all around the painted soldiers, strewn and bedazzled in the crimson price of war. Eshent was sure that not only fighting was weighing down on the Reapers, but also of their flailing comrades resting overhead. In the high arches of the square, many of these Reapers of the Red Prince had been hung up high. First, incapacitated by the removal of the top half of their head. Then, hung from the highest point of the square's arches, their arms and legs bound together.
They would regenerate, they would live, they would hang, they would die. Constantly, endlessly. Hisses and gurgles a bare and cruel symphony in the center of the blessed city.
A terrible reminder to the Reapers of what they tried to struggle against.
And why? Their Lord's son no longer remained in the City. Why did they continue to fight for it? Eshent had tried to make them understand this, he had told them many times before. But whether they were choosing not to believe him, or just continuing with their basic nature, was uncertain.
He had learnt their true name, not through the whispers of soldiers this time, but their cries. Torture was befitting to the constantly-renewed. They spoke of their trials, of their promises, of their purpose. Their fleeting purpose, their abandoned purpose.
Reds. They were not Reapers, they were bred with purpose to kill, but not to sow death. Only to sow blood, crimson, red. Only soldiers, nothing more. They had no other purpose but to fight, never for the sake of killing, but swinging their sword.
So when they started to dwindle, when their deaths suddenly started to become final, corpses hanging from the arches without respite from the cold embrace of death, Eshent knew. They all knew.
Their Lord had abandoned them.
Because there was no more purpose left in them.
"Eshent." A plain, polite voice pierced the darkness from behind him. "What shall we do about the King and his army?"
He had long noticed the appearance of the Archknights and the House Guards led by August Lunastre. It was why he had positioned himself on the cliff-face beside the city, overlooking the battle in the square as well as the plains outside its walls.
"Come here." He gestured with his hand for the figure to approach. As she came into the light that was being reflected by the radiance of the city, a lithe woman with flaxen hair and amber skin stood before him.
It was Farsa, the flame-wielding General under his command.
She stood politely and obediently in front of him, awaiting any command he might administer.
Eshent suddenly reeled back before hurtling his fist towards Farsa's face. When it collided with her jaw, he felt teeth rattle against his knuckles. He grimaced, but only slightly, being sure to restore his calm demeanor once Farsa had glanced back up at him, her stalwart expression unfaltering.
She didn't seem surprised by this, nor did she seem angry. She was as loyal as a person could be. All of his Generals were like this.
Blood dripped down from her lip and nose, even though he was sure he hadn't even hit that high.
"Are you alright? Does it hurt too much?"
She reached for Eshent's hand, pulling it upwards to touch upon her cheek, letting out a relieved sigh.
"No. Not much."
At the same time as this happened, he had already drawn the black-steel jian with his free hand, dragging it along the length of her arm. Finally, Farsa winced slightly, the corners of her eyes creasing in pain.
"Should I stop?" Eshent asked, calmly but sternly.
She shook her head. "No."
She still held Eshent's hand against her cheek. It seemed that she could care less.
I'm the last person you should like, Farsa. I'm not worth loving. Even now, you're only satisfied with a touch, even though its cost is this absurd pain.
He reached his hand down, grasping a handful of the black soil before lurching forward, splashing it across Farsa's blood-painted skin.
Then, he grasped her by her jaw, pulling her towards him as he placed his lips on hers. She blushed, leaning into him, embracing him fully, her blood soaking into his yellow cloak.
He wiped the saliva off of her bottom lip with his thumb as they broke away, smiling.
"You'll do well for me, won't you, Farsa?"
Her entire body seemed to tremble under his grasp, not necessarily out of fear, and heat surged up towards her face. She glanced away, nodding her head in silence.
He gestured away from the cliff-face, towards the army that had gathered in the distant black plains.
"I want you to go there, find their leader. His name is August, but don't let him know that you know that. He has pitch-black hair, and eyes that are a striking violet. He carries himself like a normal person, but often his demeanor can seem… Deific. You'll know him when you see him."
"What shall I do?"
"Pretend to be someone who found themselves stuck in this place, pretend to be feeble. Earn their pity, worm your way into their group, and travel with them. I'll come for you, I'll find you. But I'll bring friends along with me. At that time, pretend to be afraid."
"Very well, Shepherd."
In an instant, Farsa hopped away from the cliff-face, leaving her signature yellow cloak behind as she vanished into the darkness.
Eshent grinned, an unsettling darkness churning in his amber gaze.
"I'm coming for you, dearest Punisher."
—
August stumbled along the plains with his Archknights flanking him in all directions. He fought against the proposition, but was ultimately overruled by them.
It was Lysia's reasoning. How could he fight against it? Would he harm his own knights with his overwhelming strength? This was something they knew he would never do. So, he had to give in, give in to their protection, to their rules.
He let Gwennaude and Lysia lead him, the smaller girl, Kafka, walking beside him. At the same time, the blind Archknight, Clement, who tended to distance himself like Arcas often did, was keen on listening to their surroundings, and walked directly ahead of August. Arcas, on the other hand, weaved about the shadows as he scouted their surroundings, not only ahead of them, but on both sides.
The space ahead was bordered by forests, they could not grow careless. August, Lysia, and Gwennaude had all seen what Shadowhaunt held within it the last time they had visited.
They couldn't lose awareness, or they would all die.
The remaining Archknights either bolstered the protection at August's sides, or commanded the House Guard that followed close behind. They had all but given up the idea of stealth, it was impossible with so many hundreds of guards all grouped together. If it came down to it, it wasn't like fighting was a terrible option.
After all, it was an army they had brought.
But this worried August immensely. It meant that there was no one left in Naasis to protect it, to protect its people, to protect his Consorts. Isolde, Ms. Eunice, Adeline, and of course, Artemis… whatever was going on, he was constantly obsessing over the idea that they might be in grave danger.
When he managed to return to Naasis, what would he find there?
Would he find corpses?
Would Naasis have fallen to ash and rubble?
Would he find the body of his lover..?
"Ms. Summerstelle, are you afraid?"
"No, your Grace."
"Then, is it the cold that's making you tremble? Your armour keeps clattering." August joked towards Kafka.
Her expression faltered, sheepishly smiling.
"Ah... yes, it must be the cold..."
It wasn't just Kafka that seemed afraid of their sudden transportation to the vile space below Naasis. Many of his Archknights, his prime soldiers, trained all of their lives to fight, were like this. So it wasn't a surprise that nearly all of the House Guard were wracked with terror as well. Many of them were just normal people, people who had been mildly trained to wield a weapon.
There wasn't much a need for combat when it came to guarding Naasis.
After all, who would dare to steal from or attack the Palace of God?
These normal people... because of him, they were now facing horror in such a terrifying place.
August would deliver them home at all costs!