The Death of Bay

The transition was not a descent into darkness, but a sudden, jarring shift in the fabric of his own being. One moment, General Bay was ash drifting on a salty breeze; the next, he was gasping for air that felt strangely familiar.

Bay sat up, his hands pressing hard onto a surface that he was all too familiar with. It was hard, green, and stretched finitely in every direction, meeting the sun and sky.

He looked down on his body. He was no longer charred. The obsidian burns were gone, replaced by skin that looked translucent, glowing with a faint, internal indigo light. He was “whole” but he felt light — as if the weight of his armor, his injuries, and gravity had been stripped away.

In the distance, the ground began to ripple. Shapes began to form out of the mist - jagged mountain peaks, frozen tundra, and silhouettes of comrades that he had long buried.

He cried at the sight of them, realizing that he had made it to the great hall.

“So,” a voice echoed, not from the throat, but from the air itself. “The bright warrior of Belomas had made it to the halls.”

Bay stood, his legs shaky for the first in what felt like an eternity. He recognized that voice, the voice of a man that had long been claimed by the gods. It was Yarik, the great warrior that perished to preserve the lives of those at the camp in the last campaign.

“Yarik,” Bay sniveled, happy to see his friend once more. “You made it to the halls!”

Yarik chuckled, sighing at the sight of Bay being here so soon. “You were one of the brightest ones at Belomas, kid. If you had lived longer, you could have done greater things for Belomas.”

“Possibly, but who knows,” Bay shrugged, not unsatisfied with how things went. “I am just glad I did not die of old age or some illness, but rather because I fought somebody stronger than myself.”

Yarik shook his head, slightly touched by his friend’s contentment. “So how was he?”

“He was strong, like very strong!” Bay exclaimed, motioning to Yarik how Alkibiades delivered his strikes. “Plus, I do not think he went all out. The whole time it felt like he was testing the waters, trying to see if I could handle him.”

“Honesty,” he continued. “I do not know if I ever had a chance at beating him.”

“Oh?” Yarik muttered, surprised to hear him say that. “He was so strong that you can admit that freely?”

“What do I gain from downplaying him?” Bay asked. “He beat me fair and square, Yarik. Although, I do feel a bit sorry for him though.”

"Sorry?" Yarik said.

“I was too weak for him, Yarik,” Bay admitted, disgusted at his own weakness in his fight with Alkibiades. “He was never able to give it his all. I could not handle it. And that is the one regret I will ever have.”

Yarik put his hand on his shoulder, telling him if that was his only regret, he could die at ease.

“Is that so?” Bay asked. “I guess you are right, Yarik. I just pray that the others do not join us so soon.”

In the aftermath of the battle, Alkibiades stood before Bay’s troops, emitting a sense of authority and triumph over their general. The troops could not help, but have disdain for Alkibiades, who they believed to have cheated their general.

Alkibiades looked over his shoulder to see the sea of faces - hardened men of Belomas who had seen their general crumble into ash. He could feel the heat of their hatred radiating towards him. It was a physical pressure, thicker than mist.

“Your General fought with the strength of a thousand men,” Alkibiades called out, his voice carrying effortlessly across the battlefield, resonant and clear. “He reached the height of his power battling me. You should be honored to have witnessed one of your compatriots put on a show like that.”

A low, guttural growl rose from the front ranks. A young captain, his knuckles white around the grip of his spear, stepped forward.

“Honored?” the captain spat, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury. “You used a coward’s trick! You pulled him into your world of shadows because you could not defeat him here! You did not beat him — you cheated him!”

Alkibiades' expression did not soften, but his eyes narrowed. The “triumph” he felt was tempered by the realization that these men would never understand the “truth” of what had occurred. To them, the reality-warp technique was a cheat; to him, it was a display of the pinnacle of one’s power.

“Ignorance is bliss, soldier,” Alkibiades replied, his voice dropping an octave, becoming cold and heavy with the authority of a king. “I gave your general the highest honor a warrior can receive: I showed him the pinnacle of the world. He did not die from a cheap trick. He died to a superior warrior.”

He raised his hand — the one that had cast the reality warp — and a faint, golden hum vibrated through the air. The Belomas troops flinched, their shields rising instinctively.

“The siege is over,” Alkibiades declared, his gaze sweeping over them. “Your General is gone. You will retreat and give that man the proper funeral rites, or you may stay and become our slaves. I am a man of my word. Do not push me to forgo my promise to your general, to spare your lives.”

The troops did not move. The disdain in their eyes was so sharp it felt like a volley of arrows. They did not fear him; they loathed him. In their minds, Bay had won the duel, and Alkibiades used his trickery to catch Bay off guard.

They looked at the empty field where their general had stood, then back at the shield and helmet he had thrown aside earlier. The captain, who spoke to Alkibiades, went over to grab the helmet and shield. They were the only things that remained from their general, and it would be the only proof of his existence.

The captain, Kozma, ordered his comrades to depart from the battlefield. They had lost fair and square, and they did not intend to waste the efforts of their general by challenging Alkibiades.

Kozma scowled at Alikibiades, declaring to him and Rostov, “This is far from over! We will avenge our general, and we will tear those walls apart!”

Alkibiades chuckled, amused at his words. “I will be waiting.”

The heavy tread of the Belomas withdrawal was the only sound left on the field. Kozma led the retreat, clutching the bronze shield and helmet to his chest as if they were the relics of a saint. Every solider who marched past the glass crater spat into the cooling sand — a final, silent insult to Alkibiades.

Alkibiades watched them until they were nothing, but a dark smudge against the horizon. The golden hum around his fingers flickered and died, leaving him in the natural, dimming light of the evening.

Now that the audience was gone, the “triumph” in Alkibiades' posture shifted. He stepped down into the crater, his boots crunching on the vitrified sand. He looked at the spot where Bay had stood — the exact center where the ash had been thinnest.

“Vengeance,” Alkibiades mused, the word tasting like copper on his tongue. “The concept of it repulses me.”

He reached down and picked up a handful of the ash. It was still warm. He knew Kozma was right: the war was far from over. By killing Bay in such a terrifying, otherworldly fashion, he had not defeated an army — he had made the same mistake the Nori did. Alkibiades made a martyr out of Bay, like the Nori, who made Yarik.

Belomas had a personal reason now to destroy Rostov.

Diana’s return to Stalavat was pleasant as her shield maidens welcomed her back home. As she rode through the town, the weight of her armor felt heavier than before. The cold breeze, which cleared her head, now served to remind her of the warmth that she had left back in the cabin.

Inside her fortress, Diana moved like a ghost. Her guards, once intimidated by her presence, grew concerned with her strange behavior. She was a strong woman that was built to lead and triumph, but her visit to Belomas changed her.

As she lay on her bed, staring at the wall, the world felt like it was paused to her. Diana gripped onto her breast, her yearning for him growing. She did not feel right without him. It had not been a day, yet she found herself missing his warmth.

“Illya,” she whispered, her voice trembling for the first time in years.

The Jarl’s silence was broken by one of her Maidens, Phillipus, who brought news of the campaign at Rostov.

“Jarl!” Phillipus yelled, her voice steady but laced with the urgency of a soldier. “We have been informed that the conflict with Rostov has come to a close.”

Diana sat up, her movement fluid but heavy. She smoothed her hair, trying to put her vulnerable womanly self aside, but her eyes still trembled. “Tell me. Has Belomas finally laid waste to Rostov?”

“No, my lady,” Phillipus corrected, stepping closer. “The shield maidens and those men you provided them returned, saying that a singular Rostovian man defeated Belomas.”

“Belomas lost?” Diana gulped, her eyes growing with concern.

Diana felt a cold surge of dread. If Rostov had won, the next step of this war would be to raise another army and select a new general. This general was likely to be Illya, who did not have the capacity nor experience to lead an army.

“He cannot,” Diana whispered, her mind racing to Illya. “He is not ready yet. No, I cannot allow him to go.”

Phillipus watched her lord closely. “We await your orders, Jarl. Do we take the initiative and strike back? If we move now, we can catch them by surprise.”

“No,” Diana ordered, her voice cold and stern. “We will not attack Rostov right now. Prepare the shield maidens and inform Belomas that we will be returning. I must discuss with them.”

“We cannot,” Phillipus hesitated, “If Rostov learns of your absence here, we risk the city falling into their hands!”

“Let them learn,” Diana replied, her mind set on returning to Belomas. “Have you forgotten, Phillipus? We still have men. Summon, Alexander, this instant!”

“Him!?” Phillipus exclaimed.

“Yes, him,” Diana confirmed, finding Alexander to be the answer to Stalavat’s safety. “Alexander, the Jarl of the segregated district of Stalavat, summon him now!”

Phillipus hesitated to follow her orders, but she followed through. ‘I do not like this one bit! That stupid kid changed her! Alexander, of all people…why would she put the woman in his hands? Oh, sister, you are worrying me’

In the walls of Rostov, the villagers are in awe as they watch Alkibiades parade the army in a glorious triumph. Alkibiades led the pack, not atop a horse, but on an elephant, displaying his glory to everybody in sight.

Behind him, the soldiers marched in perfect, rhythmic fashion. The village was thrilled to have overcome Belomas in such a fashion. Mothers held their children up to see Alkibiades. Men cheered and congratulated the young man, forgetting his controversial actions for a moment.

Harps and horns rang out from the balconies. The lovers of Alkibiades watched their love being adored and cherished by the villagers. They did not cheer. They knew that he would not be satisfied with this victory. If they knew him as well as they thought, they knew Alkibiades planned to use this momentum for something much bigger.

“He did it,” Kynaios said, adoring his love from the distance.

“Save your admiration for the night, Kynaios,” Eleni retorted, smiling at the thought of Alkibiades' sexual drive for the night with the victory. “If there is anything to smile about, it is going to be about tonight.”

“As if you will get to enjoy him tonight, Eleni,” Kynaois replied, his voice filled with pride and possessiveness.”

Eleni stood with her arms crossed, her eyes fixated on how Alkibiades' muscles coiled in his armor. She licked her lips at the thought of being in his arms tonight. “Oh, darling, you have never been a rival to me. Alkibiades and I will have something you, and he never will, and that is because I can bare him children.”

Kynaois grabbed onto the woman’s shoulder, gripping tightly onto her. “A child is not the true embodiment of love! It is the commitment and attentiveness that matters!”

She turned her head, unbothered by his grip. “You can give him your love and your body. I can give him a legacy — a line of kings that will rule the world for ages to come. Believe me, darling, if I considered you a rival for his heart, you would be six feet under.”

Within the confines of the chamber of elders, the elders present had mixed feelings regarding Alkibiades' victory. They found it hard to believe, a singular man pushed Belomas out of their territory.

“I do not think,” Sokrates chimed in. “Belomas will abandon the idea of conquering us.”

“Neither do I, Sokrates,” Perikles added, “The battle was won. The war has yet to be won by either side. Belomas is certain to return with more troops, and a new general at that.”

Kimon nodded in agreement, although Alkibiades' victory was spectacular. They could not rest easy yet without planning in advance. “Alkibiades, while your victory is appreciated, I cannot be comfortable without preparing a contingency for Belomas.”

“Elder Kimon,” Alkibiades interjected, finding his worries to be reasonable. “You are right to feel that way, considering Illya himself is not present at the campaign. From what I learned, Belomas is currently being governed and run by Stanillo. Stanillo, you people know, is quite an able strategist. His selection of Bay did not in any way diminish us. On the contrary, Bay was quite the general.”

Sokrates smirked, surprised to see the humility in his pupil. “You, Alkibiades, speak great of another? What occurred to my beloved student?”

“In a way, I feel reborn from battling Bay,” Alkibiades admitted, reminiscing about the battle between himself and Bay. “Anyway, we can not discard the possibility of Stanillo coming into the mix now.”

“That is true,” Perikles said, recalling the genius of Stanillo. “Stanillo is not a man to be underestimated. He is the right hand of Illya for a reason.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Alkibiades agreed, before his arrogant grin returned to his face. “If Belomas wishes to play this game, why do we not join them? I mean, why not try to take them?”

“You want us to conqueror Belomas?” Perikles questioned, the idea sounding preposterous.

“Yes, uncle,” Alkibiades answered, firm on bringing the battle to Belomas. “Belomas believes she can run freely without protecting herself. Let us show her why she is sorely mistaken.”

Sokrates licked his lips, smiling at his pupil’s proposal. “You did not find humility there — you found a hunger that I so much despise. The hunger of conquest that I will never sign off on.”

Perikles ran his hand through his beard, in disbelief of his nephew’s audacity. “I cannot believe how ambitious you can be. Is the offices at Rostov not enough for you?”

Kimon, unlike his peers, found the idea to be plausible. “No, no, gentleman. If we bring the battle to their borders, we can free ourselves from the destruction and ravaging of our lands.”

“Good point,” Perikles admitted.

“Gentleman, it is not about conquest,” Alkibiades said, elegantly speaking in a way that made it hard for his elders to disapprove. “It is about not being the defenders any longer, and being the aggressors.”

“If we are to win the war against Belomas, it will be the beginning of our empire, not theirs!” he continued, his eyes sparking with the possibility of earning renown. “All I ask of you is to think about it. If you come together as a collective, I will gladly provide my services!”

Finishing his proposal, he lowered his head to the elders, a total shock to those present. Alkibiades was willing to bow down to authority, in exchange, to have the possibility of leading the greatest campaign anybody had ever seen.

The elders chattered amongst themselves for a while, but came to an agreement that they should campaign against Belomas. In a month, Rostov planned to make her move.

In the meantime, Alkibiades found himself fulfilling his sexual appetite.

The chambers were thick with the scent of expensive oils, musk, and spilled wine. Outside the chambers, the city of Rostov was still a cacophony of celebration, but inside these walls, the noise was reduced to rhythmic, heavy breathing and the soft rustle of silk.

Kynaios was in a frantic storm of devotion. Every touch was an attempt to reclaim the man who had laid claim to his heart long ago. He clung to Alkibiades as if trying to anchor his soul, his eyes never leaving Alkibiades' face, searching for the reciprocation he desired.

Eleni was different. She moved with calculated precision, her eyes fixated on his lips that trembled from the pleasure of her hands caressing him. She did not want to be the one satisfied tonight; she wanted to give him an unforgettable night. To her, this was the communication of her love, the literal forging of souls.

Alkibiades laid at the center of the decadence, his body a target of two predators that wished to have their way with him. Even at that moment, he was not entirely present. His mind was focused on the battle he had with Bay — the sound of his blade, the smell of blood, and the courageous look in his eyes that turned him on.

Every time his heart hammered his ribs, he felt a phantom of the thrill of fighting Bay. The hunger of finding a worthy opponent continued to grow — one who was aggressive, restless, and never satisfied with his level of strength. He took from Kynaios and Eleni with the same intensity, with the same intensity he had used to fight Bay, passionately using his every wit to take everything from the two.

As the early morning light began to penetrate the blinds of the room, Alkibiades sat up, unbothered by the exhaustion of his lovers. He looked at his hands. They were steady now, his appetite being satisfied for now.

At one point, he had feared fighting the Elder Illya. Now, he welcomed the opportunity. He could almost feel the cold wind of Belomas calling to him, challenging him to do the impossible: conqueror Belomas.

In a place not so far away, the news of Bay’s death and the withdrawal of Rostov reaches the ears of an unexpected person, the Elder Illya.

The Elder Illya sat there motionless upon a slab of unhewn granite. He sat there for hours, his breathing so slow it mirrored the pulse of the earth itself.

In disbelief of the defeat, Fedor sat there. He did not have the words to comfort his chief, finding Bay’s death to be unexpected.

“I-I,” Fedor stuttered, trying to keep his composure. “It is just hard to believe, man. Bay died at the hands of Rostov, but I thought that Stanillo and your son were leading the campaign, Illya?”

“I thought so, too,” Illya spoke, his voice brittle and confused. “If Bay had been leading the campaign, what have those two been doing?”

Voron stepped in, chiming. “Managing the village, perhaps?”

“No,” Illya retorted, citing the task to not require both of them. “Those two have been hiding something from us, and I do not like it one bit! I am going to head over there in this instance !”

Fedor grabbed onto Illya’s shoulder, using his force to keep the man down. “Do not be foolish!” he exclaimed. “What difference would your presence make? Have you forgotten that we have our hands occupied here? We have yet to solve the problem concerning our allies, who are suffering a siege at the moment.”

“Forget them!” Illya retorted, smacking Fedor’s hand off him. “This is not as important as the safety of our motherland! Rostov is in high spirits right now. They have the momentum, Fedor, and they will surely make the move to invade Belomas!”

Fedor sighed, not denying the possibility of his claim. “Whether that may be true or not. We cannot afford to abandon our post in Ugrica, right now, Illya.”

“He is right,” Voron added. “As long as Stanillo remains, we must trust that everything will be okay.”

“You two remain far too optimistic for my liking,” Illya hissed. He eventually took a breath, calming his nerves. “We will not retreat, for now.”

“Great,” Fedor smiled. “We have been stagnant as of late. I believe, Illya, it is about time we made our next move and confronted the coalition of Ugrics harassing our ally.”

Illya scratched his head, not excited about the idea. But he knew it was his obligation to aid the Sejuku, who helped him with the Nori. “Prepare, the soldiers, then. We will strike tomorrow morning, Fedor.”