The Beastborne
The winter winds howled across the Wastelands, biting and merciless. Snow clung to broken ruins and twisted steel, burying what remained of the world's past beneath layers of frost and silence. The endless white seemed to swallow sound, leaving only the crunch of boots in the snow as Solace and his group pressed forward toward Base 2.
The air was heavy with exhaustion and tension. Their journey had stretched long, each mile carved from hardship. The cold gnawed at them, seeping past layers of clothing and armor, chilling even the fire that battle usually stoked in their veins. Night walked beside Solace, his great black form leaving deep prints in the snow. He had grown far too large to perch on Solace's shoulder now — his sleek, scaled body was already longer than a horse, wings tucked tightly to his sides against the cold. His breaths fogged the air, and the sharp glint in his eyes mirrored the unease all of them felt.
They moved through the shattered remains of an old city, frost-covered husks of buildings standing like gravestones. The quiet tension between Solace and Lyra still lingered like a weight neither could shake. They hadn't spoken more than necessary since the last battle. Every glance between them was filled with unspoken words and the ghost of things they both tried to forget.
Then, it began.
At first, Solace thought it was the wind. A low, rhythmic sound, too steady for nature. It grew louder, heavier — footsteps, deliberate and heavy, crushing snow and debris beneath them.
Solace stopped. Night let out a low growl, ears flicking forward. The others slowed, their hands moving toward weapons. The cold seemed sharper, the stillness deeper.
"They're here," General Francis muttered, his breath misting in the frigid air.
From the shadows of broken buildings, they emerged.
Figures, hunched and feral, shapes caught between man and beast. Twisted bodies wrapped in tattered, frostbitten clothing, skin marked with strange symbols carved deep into their flesh. Eyes gleamed with a mad hunger, glowing faintly in the dim winter light. Their faces were wrong — distorted by unnatural growths, horns, patches of scale, warped bone protrusions.
Lyra stepped forward, her breath steady despite the frost, her eyes hard and cold. "Beastborne." Her voice cracked through the silence like the snap of ice underfoot.
The twisted figures circled them, teeth bared. Their gaze was drawn to Solace, to Night beside him.
One stepped forward — taller than the rest, draped in a patchwork cloak of beast hides. Half his face was covered by a mask stitched from scaled skin. His voice was gravel, raw and cracked from too many winters spent howling to dark skies.
"You carry the creature," he rasped. His gaze flicked to Night. "The god's child. You imprison it. For that, you will die."
Solace's hand tightened on his artifact, already shifting into the cold steel weight of a katana. But before he spoke, Lyra's voice cut in, sharp and controlled. "You're wrong. Night is no god. He's our companion. Nothing more."
The Beastborne leader's lip curled. "Lies." He spat into the snow. "The gods have returned. They speak through the blood of beasts and bone of the fallen. We are their chosen." His wild gaze swept across them. "And you stand in the way of salvation."
Francis' expression was stone. Mara Renn vanished into the shadows, already preparing for the inevitable. Arlen Kade shifted his weight, frost crunching beneath his boots, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike.
Solace stepped forward. "You're deluded." His breath misted in the cold, curling around his words. "You won't take Night."
The leader's snarl became a battle cry.
They charged.
The clash was brutal, violent, and immediate. Snow stained crimson beneath their feet. The Beastborne fought with a feral savagery that bordered on animalistic — biting, clawing, raking with sharpened bone. But the group met them with cold, disciplined violence.
Solace's blades danced. His artifact katana gleamed as it cut through the frost-heavy air, meeting flesh and bone with precision honed through endless battles. His military-issue katana moved in his other hand, a heavier, brutal counter to his artifact's elegance. The two blades sang together, steel harmonizing in lethal rhythm.
Lyra moved beside him, silent and deadly, shadow dancing along her limbs as she struck with fists and feet, breaking bones and crushing windpipes with brutal efficiency. She moved like the winter wind — cutting, cold, relentless. Her eyes burned with a cold fury.
General Francis fought like a juggernaut, each strike measured, each enemy falling with surgical finality. Mara struck from nowhere, blades whispering through tendons before fading back into the shadows. Arlen was speed incarnate, a blur of motion that left broken bodies in his wake.
But the Beastborne did not fall easily. Their bodies had been twisted by their dark faith. Some healed as fast as wounds were inflicted. Others shrugged off pain with inhuman resilience. Their strength was monstrous, their madness absolute.
One lunged at Solace — a mass of scales and horns. His blades flashed. The creature's chest split open, but it kept coming. Solace twisted, drove both blades into the wound, forcing the abomination to the ground. He barely caught his breath before two more took its place.
Night roared, frost and dark smoke curling from his jaws. His tail lashed out, sending Beastborne flying. But even he could not stem the tide.
Amidst the chaos, Solace's mind turned dark. These were once humans. Twisted by belief, by madness. They thought themselves saviors. They fought not for power, but for purpose. And he was killing them.
A shadow fell across him.
The Beastborne leader charged, claws gleaming with ice and blood. Solace met him head-on. Blades clashed against bone-reinforced arms. The leader struck like a beast — wild, unpredictable. But Solace was colder. Sharper. He ducked low, swept one leg out, and drove his katana upward, piercing the leader's throat.
The man gurgled, blood freezing on his lips as he crumpled.
The battle wavered. The others faltered. Those who could still think turned and fled into the snow.
Silence fell.
Only the crackle of blood freezing in the cold, the ragged breaths of survivors.
Solace stood over the body, his chest heaving, blades dripping crimson that steamed in the icy air. His hands trembled. Not from exertion. From what he had done.
Lyra approached him, footsteps soft in the snow. She said nothing. Just stood beside him, watching as he tried to breathe past the weight in his chest.
"I never wanted this," he whispered. His breath shuddered, curling up and vanishing into the grey winter sky.
"You protected Night," she said, her voice quiet, not offering comfort — only truth. "You protected us."
He looked down at his bloodied hands. They felt heavier than steel.
Night pressed close, his warm breath fogging around Solace, eyes filled with concern. But even his presence couldn't banish the cold inside.
They had won. But the weight of human blood on his blades would not wash away with snow.
The Beastborne were gone. But the scars they left would remain long after the winter thawed.