Valerius POV

  Valerius stands proudly at the vanguard of her army, ensconced in her chariot. A zandleeuw is harnessed to the chariot, its mandibles click with a menacing rhythm that sends vibrations rippling through the earth beneath them.

  Towering above conventional mounts, these formidable creatures reach six meters in length and stand three meters tall, their bulk weighs in at a staggering nine hundred kilos.

  Their sleek bodies are encased in a smooth exoskeleton, at the belly of the beast sprout pseudopod limbs adorned with shifting plates, granting them unparalleled agility in traversing the rough sands. Atop their fly-like heads are eyes resembling a myriad of reflections, each glance akin to peering into an endless kaleidoscope of perspectives.

  People tend to avoid looking at a zandleeuw′s eyes. It is unnerving. These zandleeuws, are not merely beasts of burden but esteemed companions, sustained by the algae and mold that grow beneath the desert's surface in its endless cave systems.

  They were tamed and domesticated hundreds of years ago from the wasteland north of the canyon, alas they do not fare well south where it is colder. The do have a southern counterpart called sand fleas. But these miniscule beach critters pale in comparison.

  Sixteen zandleeuws pull caravans filled with supplies and rations for Valerius her legion.

  Legate Hephast approaches Valerius’s chariot. He pats her zandleeuw, “who’s a good lion! Yes, you are! You deserve a treat, don’t you Athana?”

  The burly brown-haired Legate pulls out a chunk of moss from his pocket and feeds it to the zandleeuw. The creatures sucks up the moss, it’s exoskeleton convulses as the food passes through, a myriad of colours shimmer over the surface.

  Valerius regards her uncle distantly, even though she wished she could jump in his arms like she did when she was younger.

  Her uncle grins hardily at her and says, “as discussed, I’ll flank the West side of the canyon, and legatus Theresia will flank the East. Once either of us gets word of our scouting party or we reach the fiftieth kilometre we will turn around and head back to intercept the enemy or support you depending on how the next few weeks develop. You will head straight towards the Oasis in pursuit of the prisoner, all the cohorts and high-ranking centurions agree. That is most likely where it would’ve fled. If it did decide to hide in the canyon - or gods be great - travelled south. We’ll catch the prisoner.”

  Hephast grumbles and places his hand on the chariot, “You are a rash young lady. This is a risky plan and the legion of soldiers you are taking with you will pay the blood price. The decision has been made. But I would’ve let it go and kept our legions here. We’re leaving our advantage behind.”

  Valerius grins, “Uncle, you forget yourself. You did the exact same thing when chasing after the previous champion of blood. My father bested them at the stronghold, and you gave chase after they fled back to their barren wasteland. The current one is weakened, disorientated, and has no army to speak of, it might not even be able to make one. I do not see the risk.”

  Valerius straightens her shoulders; she stands proud and tall with her bronze armour. The blue ribbon in her hair is neatly bound, and Valerius gently touches it before putting on her helm.

  Hephast looks up at Valerius, his gaze far away, “There are many details me and your father did not share in the telling of that battle. It is with good reason you are the champion of valour, and not I.”

  Hephast puts on his helmet and begins to walk away, with a hollow voice he gives her a few parting words, “Go for the kill Valerius. We’ve given it enough chances to let go of piety and its clearly shown it would rather die than repent.”

  Valerius solemnly stares at the reigns in her hands. Imagining them to be the shackles she drove into that - that possessed thing. For thirteen years she’s desperately searched for a way to sever its connection to Sanguinem, that heinous god. She bought the services of a druid, spend hours upon hours in the strongholds library searching for a solution.

  It was all for nought. Valerius tried to spare the monster for thirteen years. No more. It is time to end this.

  She looks back at her army. Hastati, principes, triarii, and her camp workers. A legion under her command. four thousand warriors that will follow her to the oasis, through the desert.

  She clenches her fist as she looks down at the reigns controlling her zandleeuw Athana. Her eyes glow as she calls forth piety from her soul. The strength compresses the leather with so much force it snaps and shoots out of her palm like a whip.

  What need for an army does she have with strength like this? She can move mountains; she can cause earthquakes. She can pulverise diamond.

  She will charge ahead when she sees the prisoner. Valerius can’t let her men get involved. They bleed too fast; they’d die like flies. Her initial idea was to leave with the scouts. The sooner the better. Every second counts. But her council advised patience.

  Clypeus would condone. She is his champion. She’s worked all her life for this. She was chosen. All these great legates, cohorts, centurions, and warriors. Yet she — a twelve-year-old girl — was chosen to be their gods' champion and only she got to manifest piety. She chose the strength of a god so none could oppose her.

  She’s unbeatable.

  Valerius blows her war horn, signalling her legion to march. She lets her eyes travel up the gate, where she sees Elanor waving her goodbye. Valerius blushes when Elanor blows her a kiss.

  How lucky she is, to be wed to such an intelligent, tough, courageous, wonderful, beautiful girl. She hopes she can be worthy of such high nobility.

  Valerius never realised how different men and women can be until she reached the capital. In the eyes of Clypeus every person is the same. Man, woman, child. We all die the same, we all fight the same.

  But in the capital we are divided.

  There was femineity, and masculinity. So many customs, rules, nuances. It was a spectrum of identities she was never aware of.

  It doesn’t apply to her. She’s not one of them. She’s a soldier.

  Valerius thinks to herself, That’s all I am to them. The metropolis controls the number of legionnaires I gets to retain and command for the protection of the realm. They control how many I can afford to retire, how many should die in battle by any given year. It’s disgusting. We are nothing but numbers to them. Hopefully Elanor can help my position in regard to the senate. There’s a storm brewing if they find out the truth- who am I kidding.

  When they do.

  She shakes her head. Sweat dripping down her body, she can smell the muff leather on the inside of her helm. She’s lucky all their bronze is cold-forged. It has this interesting property. When struck, bronze hardens. It loses it’s plasticity. In addition to that it does not heat up in sunlight.

  She focuses her mind back on the task at hand. Hephast and Theresia will march a day later, their legions consist of mostly men who were awoken the night before to retake the stronghold, and they were given horrific orders by Hephast.

  Valerius looks at the bridge created by the ingenious machinery of the ballistae. The bridge spans the canyon, a mere two hundred meters. Nowhere else is the canyon this narrow. From three hundred kilometres west, to three hundred kilometres east. Without the stronghold, this would be the easiest place to drop down into the canyon and climb up to the other side, yet even at this part, the canyon is still four hundred meters deep with twists and turns, and rocky obstacles. She cannot see the bottom of the canyon in the darkness, but she knows it’s riddled with corpses and skeletons of wildebeests.

  The first few days are uneventful, as the legion marches across the landscape, the arid desert begins to take on a new biome. Rocky terrain gradually turns into sandy stretches of land, which then turn into dunes.

  The desert stretched endlessly in front the legion as they continue their journey towards the oasis. The sun beats down relentlessly. When Valerius looks towards the horizon, she sees ripples of heat moving across the desert, distorting the view.

  The air is so dry it sucks moisture from her body with every breath. She’s been gradually shifting the sleeping time of the Legion. By the following day they will sleep during noon, and march at night. Even with their armour the sun is too hot during the day, and without the strongholds talus fields, tall trees, and underwater river there’s no good way to remain cool.

  These fresh soldiers from the south thought the stronghold was hot, now they get a taste of real heat. Some of them might suffer heat delirium. Some of them might die.

  Before departing Valerius held council with her cohorts and legati. They truly gave her a headache and argued like children.

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  Nevertheless she got their logistical preparations done. They were meticulous, she had worked with cohort Marcus to ensure there could be no shortage of water and rations. Caravans laden with supplies and rations trailed behind the army, pulled by massive zandleeuw’s whose mandibles clicked and whose claws swam through the sand.

  If any soldiers collapsed, became ill, was hurt. They could take place in the caravans whom will slowly empty out of supplies in the coming weeks.

  The journey through the desert was perilous, the shifting sands and treacherous terrain testing the endurance of both soldier and beast alike. Valerius’s stubborn determination guided them through the labyrinthine dunes, steering clear of hidden pitfalls and finding the most efficient path forward. Maps were useless here. The dunes shifted, the landscape changed, and even the oasis had been known to move.

  This was why expeditions beyond the canyon were rare. She had been trained for this since childhood, yet it still felt like a fool’s errand.

  She hated it. The responsibility.

  She missed the days when her only concern was perfecting her swordplay, strengthening her draw with the bow, pushing herself to the limit. Now, too often, she left the navigating to her cohorts, only stepping in to correct their mistakes when necessary—much to their frustration.

  On the third day, it happened again. The cohorts had charted a course that led dangerously close to a region known for its deceitful sands. They know the region shifts, so it’s better to chart a few days around the region once it’s clear what region they are approaching.

  In general it’s always the same order. Red rock, red sand, orange sand, yellow sand, white sand, and last but not least: The Oasis. But the region shifts, the wind blows, certain sands are heavier than others. Like oil and water. Stof stand is mostly found in the orange region. But orange is light, and tends to blow over the other regions as dunes build and break with the wind direction. Stof sand bubbles from trapped gas underground. It makes stof sand act like water. And its nearly impossible to see.

  Valerius corrected them, prompting a drawn-out argument. She was inclined to pull rank again. But she’d rather let them have their way and be proven right. Than have them undermine her later at a more crucial moment. Pick your battles, as they say.

  Four hours Later, as she crested a dune, she spotted the telltale shimmer of stof sand below—fine, unstable grains, that shifted as gas seeped between the grains. Anyone that steps on that gets swallowed whole.

  She led her zandleeuw around it, issuing swift orders for the warning to be relayed through the ranks. Unbeknownst to her along the line, the message was lost. A handful of soldiers, eager to shorten their march, cut straight across the treacherous ground.

  They sank almost instantly.

  The centurion responsible for these men blew his war horn, causing the legion to ground to a halt. He shook his head at these fresh legionnaires.

  Their comrades watched in growing horror. The handful of soldiers struggled, the faster they were consumed.

  When Valerius heard the horn she clenched her jaw, turning a sharp glare on her cohorts. She immediately knew what this was about.

  A few ropes and zandleeuws could pull the men free, but that would mean disconnecting the beasts from the carriages, wading into the centre of the trap, tying the ropes, then hauling the soldiers out.

  Which means losing precious hours.

  With no guaranteed success. Worse, the zandleeuws might get distracted, and start playing in the shifting sand, and turn a bad situation into a disaster.

  With a sigh, she dismounted and strode forward. Stof sand was fine and dry, clinging to human skin like a second layer. The zandleeuws loved it, their broods often nesting nearby so their young could roll and burrow in the silken grains.

  She looked down and saw them; half a dozen men, flailing as they were sucked under. Their comrades watched in growing horror. The more they struggled, the faster they drowned in the silken grains.

  Her heartbeat quickened as she grasped the hilt of her sword, planting it into the ground. Heat bloomed beneath her skin. Her eyes glowed like bronze suns. Prayers to Clypeus left her lips.

  And as always. The god of war answered.

  Piety surged through her, filling her muscles like molten metal. Her veins glowed bronze. Her body grew heavier—her bones denser, her flesh hardening as divine strength took hold. The air shimmered around her, rising in thick bronze waves. Her legs sink away up until her knees.

  She clenched her fists, leaned forward, and lunged.

  Her boots hit the sand like falling meteors. Each step left a deep crater. By the time she reached the edge of the pit, she was as heavy as a statue.

  She crashed into the stof sand like a meteor hitting a lake.

  The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward. Gas pockets erupted. Sand exploded skyward in a golden storm. The trapped soldiers were hurled from the pit, flung onto the crest of a dune. They hit the ground hard, coughing, clutching their chests, but they were alive.

  The stof sand churned violently, dragging Valerius down. She gritted her teeth, forcing her limbs to move. The weight that had saved them now threatened to bury her. The grains pulled at her like quicksand, sucking her deeper.

  With a growl, she pressed her feet into the shifting ground and pushed off with the full force of her divine strength. The sand cracked beneath her. A final surge of power launched her from the pit, sending her rolling onto solid ground.

  She lay still for a moment, catching her breath, then climbed to her feet and dusted herself off.

  "Medics," she ordered, jerking her chin toward the soldiers.

  Then her gaze drifted lower, to the valley below.

  Her breath caught. The displaced sand had revealed something beneath the surface; bodies. They stuck out like crumpled bushes.

  The legion murmured, their curiosity piqued, but Valerius waved them back into formation. She breathed out, calmed herself. Thanked Clypeus for answering her prayer, and let the piety flow out of her body, returning her to normal.

  She moved forward, studying the corpses.

  The scouts. The ones she had sent ahead.

  Stripped. Mutilated. Covered in necrosis.

  The monster had killed them and thrown them in here, assuming no one would find them. But it hadn’t done this alone. It couldn’t have carried all their gear. That meant it had help. That meant it had made contact with the wildebeests.

  Her fingers twitched toward her swords.

  She exhaled through her nose, pushing back the heat rising in her chest. She pulled off her helm and ran a hand through her hair. Her fingers brushed against something soft—Elanor’s ribbon, still tied where she had placed it.

  Valerius swallowed hard.

  She thought of Elanor in the morning light, golden strands of hair catching the first rays of dawn, turning to spun silk as they slipped between Valerius’ fingers. She thought of the laughter that tumbled from her lips, bright and unrestrained, like the chiming of silver bells in the breeze. She thought of her fire—how she stood in the great halls of the senate, her voice a clarion call, fierce and unyielding, burning with righteous fury for the forgotten and the voiceless. And she thought of the quiet moments, the stillness between heartbeats, when that same fire melted into warmth, into the gentle weight of Elanor curling against her, soft and unarmoured, pressing into her like she belonged nowhere else.

  She thought of their wedding. The way Elanor stood before her, draped in silken white and crowned with wildflowers, a garland of violet and gold ‘twined in her hair. The way her hands had trembled slightly as she placed the ring on Valerius' finger. The way her voice joined Valerius’s in union: ‘fore the gods and stars, I bind my heart to thine. In this life and the next, through all trials and triumphs, we are one. For I am thine, and thou art mine.

  She thought of Elanor’s eyes, alight with quiet joy as she traced delicate fingers over the petals of some new bloom, her voice a melody of knowledge and reverence as she spoke of roots and leaves, fragrances and meanings. Valerius had never cared for flowers before her, but now; now she would fill the stronghold with them. A riot of colour, of life, of Elanor. She would build her a glass dome, a sanctuary where the seasons bent to her whim, where roses and jasmine, orchids and wild violets thrived in endless bloom.

  No matter the cost.

  No matter the effort.

  Anything, so long as she could see Elanor’s eyes light up like that again.

  She shoved the thought aside and stared at the corpses, necrosis is the worst way to die, she hoped the monster killed them before afflicting them. She could’ve prevented this.

  I can’t believe this. If the champion of bloodlust has made contact with wildebeests there’s a real chance its already reached the Oasis. I should consult my cohorts and reevaluate the situation. They will advise me to retreat. They’ll say holding the stronghold is the wiser choice. They’ll say I should listen to my uncle. They’ll say I should wait for the senate to decide our course. They can all suck an egg. I have the means so stop this before it becomes a problem.

  she stares at her reflection while breathing rapidly in anger. Her muscular chest strains against her bronze armour. Her glowing eyes swallow her entire reflection, making her look inhuman. The price she paid for power.

  Those snobby old-timers talked me out of leading the scouts. I could’ve saved those men! I could’ve already had that monster in chains by now. No, they said; Valerius you can’t leave the stronghold in chaos. No, Valerius you must show restraint. No, Valerius, do not be rash. Valerius, show some discipline. Valerius, be tactful. Valerius, that’s a bad idea. ValeriusValeriusValerius!

  She breathes in deep, tilting her head towards the pristine blue sky. She needs to stay calm. Abide by her honour. Follow the rules, think of her father’s teachings.

  She hears the cohorts yell her name over and over again. They demand explanations.

  A vein pops on her head, she ignores their calls and unclips her war horn. She slowly brings it to her lips. The cohorts stop talking, murmuring. Some of them realise what she is about to do, they put their hands up in fear.

  A few of them scramble backwards.

  She blows her war horn three times as hard as she can. The sand near her trembles. The war horn cracks and falls apart. The cohorts drop to the ground clutching their ears, screaming, begging her to stop.

  Once Valerius is done she walks past them unbothered, “Let’s have a meeting after camp is set. I want our freshly enlisted centurions to be present.”

  “WHAT?” one of them shouts with tears in his eyes.

  “Right, my mistake.”

  Valerius waves over the medics.