When my skin is not my own and the heart is tainted, there is still one thing that will always belong to me. My soul! No more shall it weep in the darkest of nights but it shall become a beacon of light for all those who cannot see. I am a warrior...
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Lalzari's chest heaved, her breaths trapped as if by invisible hands squeezing her lungs. "My first battle," she whispered to herself, her heart racing faster than it ever had before, pounding like fresh batteries surging with energy. This moment, her first taste of warfare, would be the essence of her climb to power, a defining symbol of her self-preservation. Am I worthy of it? she wondered.
Above, the sky darkened as clouds rolled in from both sides, colliding and forming a stormy canopy over the battleground. The wind howled, its icy fingers slicing through the air like sharpened blades, cutting the exposed skin of both armies who now stood, motionless, in their positions. Ready. Waiting. Anticipation hung thick in the air, as tangible as the tension in Lalzari's gut. She repeated the strategy to herself in a desperate chant, trying to steady her nerves.
"Ten Sirs at the front, ten at the back. Ten up on the mountains, arrows at the ready, and ten in hiding. And I... I fight on the ground... behind the ten in front," Lalzari murmured under her breath, the words almost lost in the howl of the wind. Her fingers trembled, gripping her weapon tighter, her palms slick with sweat.
"I see them clearly now!" Lalzari's voice rang out, more to steel herself than to inform. Across the field, an army of horsemen emerged, their figures dark and imposing. Armed from head to toe in gleaming armor, they marched with a menacing rhythm, their heavy weapons catching the light, casting deadly glints with each murderous trot of their horses. The sight of them was enough to send a jolt of terror down Lalzari's spine. She broke out in a cold sweat, her mind spiraling into doubt.
"H-how... am I supposed to...?" she stammered, her voice barely audible against the roaring wind. Panic clawed at her chest. "No! I can do this. I can! I can!" she shouted inwardly, forcing herself to breathe, to focus.
Then her gaze shifted, catching sight of Husayrah. There she stood, at the frontline, her posture unshaken, her expression fierce, unbothered by the looming threat. Lalzari's breath caught in her throat, her earlier panic giving way to awe. "Here I am, fretting, worrying, trying to conserve strength for the fight, and there she stands, ready to kill or be killed, without an ounce of fear," Lalzari muttered, her eyes fixed on the fearless warrior before her.
Husayrah was not just ready, she was resolute, her figure as solid as the mountains that surrounded them. In that moment, Lalzari realised something profound: true power came not from being fearless, but from facing that fear head-on, unwavering in the face of death.
"NOW!!" Zunaid's voice erupted, a thunderous command that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. The Sirs surged forward with the ferocity of a storm, crashing into the cursed king's army with the force of colliding tidal waves. Chaos exploded around Lalzari, the cacophony of clashing metal and screams filling the air. Before she could draw another breath, a soldier hurled towards her like a speeding bullet, grabbing her by the shawl and dragging her through the chaos. She dangled helplessly from his horse, flailing like a human kite caught in a storm.
