The desert wind tore through the battlefield with a howl, carrying with it the scent of scorched earth and blood. Underneath an ominous twilight sky of burnt ochre and violet, Ra-Sekhmet, the last city of the Atlantean Southern Empire, stood defiantly with its colossal obsidian spires illuminated by rivulets of molten gold. Dust danced through the air like restless spirits, and at the heart of the chaos stood Amara, her black battle tunic clinging to her lithe figure as the sun dipped below the horizon.
She adjusted the chain harness across her waist that shimmered faintly with an unnatural, pearlescent glow. Her braid—a striking blue, braided tightly over one shoulder—whipped violently in the winds, its hue vibrant even against the ashen and blood-stained world in which she now made her stand. Her bronze skin glistened with sweat and streaks of sand, and her sharp amber eyes were aflame with determination. Behind her, sprawled the ruins of an Atlantean battalion, their shining steel armor crushed under the talons of their enemy—shifting, shadowy beast-soldiers corrupted by the Warlord Kaen.
One of the creatures snarled, its form barely humanoid. Shadows crawled over its skin like living ink. Amara didn’t flinch as she drew her twin falx blades, their crescent edges shimmering faintly in the dim light. With a silent prayer to the goddess Iska-Tar, she struck first—leaping through the air with deadly precision. The evisceration brought no time for pause; there were many more.
Two Days Prior
Ra-Sekhmet had been cast in opulence then, its marketplaces brimming with merchants and priests wearing vibrant robes adorned with carnelian and lapis beads. Noble children chased scarab kites through marbled streets, while the elderly beneath alabaster colonnades dictated stories of when Ra-Sekhmet was a beacon to the world. Amara, however, was in an unassuming barracks just outside the purview of magnificence. Soldier first, woman second—that was how she often framed herself.
“You’ll need more than brute strength for him,” General Nefarre barked, his golden helmet pulsing in the light of strategic flame-pyramids. His features spoke of age but his voice commanded power. He handed Amara a small crystalline shard, pulsing faintly with cerulean light. It matched the color of her braid, an ancestral mark passed through generations of her lineage—a bloodline said to be blessed by the sea-god Tiaman. “This relic carries the will of our goddess,” Nefarre continued. “It will bond with your chains. Kaen will not hold dominion over you.”
Amara studied the shard fleetingly before tucking it into her gear. “Bond or no bond, I’ll strike him down the same.” Her confidence earned a rare grin from the general, though his expression hardened when her back turned to leave. War always forced its children to grow old.
Now
Kaen himself emerged at last, his silhouette bursting from the ranks of his shadow-spawn like obsidian carved from nightmares. He towered impossibly tall, his eyes burning with pale blue flames that mirrored ancient Atlantean power—stolen from the city’s lifeblood. His voice boomed, “Your city crumbles, yet you persist? Foolish little Amara, even the chains that bind you are hers, not yours.”
“They are mine now,” she screamed over the storm, her braid flung against her jawline as she charged. The chains at her waist began to glow fiercely, responding to the pull of the god-shard embedded within. They unfurled from her body unnaturally, like serpents gliding through the air, encircling her in a radiant miasma of light and steel. With each motion, the chains arced and lashed out, severing the creatures that Kaen summoned as easily as one might swat flies.
The battle moved in rapid bursts, each motion a symphony of cutting blades, flying chains, and Kaen’s blasts of dark energy crackling across the obsidian sands. Her black tunic was now shredded, clinging to dashes of bronze limb and muscle, but she refused to falter. When Kaen grabbed her mid-air, his claws digging into her side, she locked eyes with him and sneered through the pain. Her hands grasped the twin falx blades and drove them deep into his throat.
The End of the Warlord
With a shattering cry, Kaen collapsed, his massive frame dissipating into tendrils of shadow. The winds eased, and the faint golden reflections of Ra-Sekhmet seemed to shimmer more warmly. Amara pressed her forehead to the sand in exhaustion, her braid now dulled with the grime of battle, but her chains—faintly glowing—wrapped themselves gently around her like sentient protectors.
When she finally stood, limping back toward the city gates, the people there began to cheer. And though she saw the victory in their broken smiles, Amara’s eyes drifted to the horizon, where she knew another storm was always waiting.
Genre: Mythical Fantasy
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Striking Black and Blue Cosplay: A Daring Venture into Edgy Elegance
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