MIDAS

Midas crouched onto the pebble floor, his blood finding its way between the many creeks of the dusty stone floor, as the boy curled up, fletching his teeth while his left hand firmly clutched onto his right, Alma approached him slowly. Instead of watching him suffer further, Alma made haste, fixating the boy's hand by grabbing his wrist, a stone slab punched inside of his bloody hand. 

The rune seemed to fit perfectly, seated in the middle of the back of the young hand; his fingers twitched slightly, the youth screams squeezing out of his shut mouth as Midas tried his best to endure the numbing pain. Alma laid his eyes onto six stained runes, carved into the stone implanted in the boy's hand; in the middle was a slot engraved into the rune, seemingly similar to Alma's own that was carved into his hand.

The boy's arm was tightening up every time Midas exclaimed a toned-down scream; Alma was unfazed by him for a while, scanning the runes of the stone tablet and looking to the walls surrounding the both of them as the man tried his best to compare the two sets of ancient markings. Cut off in his research, Alma snapped back into the situation as he heard crumbling sounds creep from the entrance into the room. Hastily looking towards the direction he came from, then back to the boy, he ripped off one of his bandages that covered his hands to cover the stone tablet, the cloth quickly being stained in red after tightly pressing down onto the incision.

Sets of feet, stepping down the tight mud tunnel, sounded from behind; Alma turned quickly, picking up his saber from the ground, as he let the boy curl in pain to himself. From the frame, two armored northerners emerged, groaning as they swung their blades at the masked man protecting the altar from foreign forces, as the enemy's blade was met with the forged metal of Almas's saber. Using the property of his saber being much easier to swing, he swiftly redirected the enemy's force to the side, his blade guiding it to the right, before cutting through the enemy's chainmail.

Instinctively, as the other tumbled to the side slightly, clutching his wound, Alma dashed towards the second, sparks flying as both of their weapons clashed against each other. The masked man, being able to react much quicker than his enemy, deeply digging into the unprotected side of the northerner's torso, butchering his hip. 

Midas watched with numbing sight as Alma swiftly changed his fighting partner again. The other slowly sliding off the wall, as blood escapes between his fingers, drifting to the ground while his clutch onto his handle loosened up, groaning in the stinging pain of being hit. His partner tumbled back, loosely blocking Almas's strikes, the force blocking his hits growing weaker with every move, until, instead of blocking again, the armored man decided to stab back, his blade barely touching the masked man's shoulder, cutting into his robe, before being lethally stabbed into his chest. Alma angled his blade to let it slip under his chest protection, crouching down for his weapon to hit perfectly.

"We are lucky—given their numbers, many of these soldiers are young, untrained—having no experience... Unused to the heat of the sand, they get tired easily on their long journeys, marching into the land, half dead before even unsheathing their swords..." His remark was hissed in disdain before he walked up to the other who leaned against the wall, cutting open his throat quickly, before grabbing the boy by his bandaged wrist, stained in blood, as Midas didn't dare to speak up, groaning while walking up the tunnel, trying to forget the pain.

Hearing the two of them run up the underground pathway, another jumped down from the opening above, the rubble that fell into the tunnel, blocking their way, acting as a rough ramp to climb down. Wildly unleashing a slash towards the masked man, Alma instinctively crouched, avoiding a stab to the head, instead slicing the enemy's unprotected underside of the arm, which held onto the sword. The northerner shouting, as his arm fell to the ground, before Alma sliced open his exposed throat.

"Only the bravest of them keep their helmet on, the iron boiling them alive... Their supply of water—their main way of success, that is... being much more limited." Alma reported, not looking at the boy while trying to teach him something the youth didn't understand fully. Dragging him out of the tunnel, they found themselves in a ravaged sleeping quarter of one of the many guards fighting to protect the fort. Stepping over their fallen enemy, dried mud crumbling under Midas' leather shoe, the masked man opened the door slightly, and while gripping onto his blade, he shoved open the wooden door by pressing his forearm against it.

"Who is tasked to raid me, I wonder... Only a few of their commanders would dare to attack from this front..." Alma peeked through the tightly opened door, Midas numbly catching his balance, still being grabbed on by the man's hand, he looked up to the stained metal that covered his face. Disturbed and overwhelmed by the sudden shift in the man's tone and act, he caught himself fixating his glance onto the dark holes of Alma's mask.

"There... my luck most definitely ran out." Almas's eye was poking through the door; unable to see what the man saw, by the way Alma formed his words, the youth quickly figured out that their enemy must be superior. Unable to move his right hand, looking up at the many red spots emerging from the white cloth, Midas wondered about the girl, his worry quickly cut by Alma clutching slightly tighter onto his wrist. "Is the girl able to speak? Did she speak? Did sh talk to you?" Alma quickly shifted to the boy.

"No... She only grinned at me, repeating any signs I gave her. I never even got to hear her voice once." Passively, Midas gave a quick answer, unsure of what Alma would follow up with. Keeping his look on the boy, Alma loosened his grip, freeing the boy's arm again.

"Pretend to be one of the prisoners; you don't know me... If they talk to you, don't reply. Simply look at them, make them believe you never had any ties to me. Succeed for me; go north with these people... Leave this fort behind, once you established it back in the north... find someone—my brother. His name is Ajan; he lives in Cle'phoria..." Without turning his glance to him, he voiced his words towards the boy. His unbandaged fingers slipping under his hood again, as Midas began to realize his intention behind his words, he froze; unable to keep Alma from heading out, he aimlessly watched his only friend run out of the door.

In panic, his jaw ached, tired from pressing the youth's teeth together, as Midas watched Alma head out from the door, his head foggy from the stress, the work in the quarry followed up by his sprint to the fort, then getting the stone rune punched into his flesh. All of the past happenings caught up to him, his tiredness making him dizzy. Softly touching his hand, poking his finger against the bandage, he felt nothing. His whole hand seemed completely numb, frozen, just like his eyes, which tightly watched Alma swing his blade against who could only be the Northerner's commander. 

Only the fire that spewed out of the windows from the central building lit up Almas's surroundings; the commander was left alone, his thin saber matching up Almas's broader but shorter blade. The orange light of the fire glistening against the metal of their blades for a short while, as the both of them held out their weapons. Alma knew his enemy, but not his name; he had no interest in doing so. Many of his peers had told him about a lightly armored man, a light blue silk loosely protecting his neck area, his eyes covered by strapped-on round glasses, aiding him to see more clearly. 

Both charged once more, their weapons pressed against each other, before setting out for their next slash, going in circles around each other in the middle of the plain. Voices sounding from under the holes that covered the ground, troops marching in between the halls of the underground layer.

The light rod that made up the commander's piercer swung around Alma; a few stitches were able to be blocked, but just as many pierced through him. Alma was unable to make contact with his swift rival, many scratches appearing on his arms and torso; his groaning became more present with every swing the masked man unleashed.

Blood running down his skin, he huffed, Almas's stance loosening in sturdiness as he numbly looked onto the dark ground, his eyes slowly wandering up to his northern enemy. As he raised his right arm, unleashing a dim glow from under his bandages, the commander dashed forward, his thin blade pushed against him, only to be pounced on in his stomach by a brick of earth, which was shot up by Alma's mana.

The robed man used the time frame of shock to swing at the commander, hitting his left eye; the cleaver-like blade cut deep into the northerner's cheek. Unphased and much angered, his enemy sped up; his silver necklace began to shine blue as a foreign force of water held up Almas's hand, rendering him completely defenseless.

Overwhelmed and tired, he watched the northerner exclaim, "Moe potraite...!" sounding his anger by unleashing a hefty barrage of strikes against Alma, piercing through the muscle fibers of his opened torso and both of his arms. The flowing streak of water holding him up in the air quickly vanishing behind the commander's back as he looked down at Alma in disgust, hissing to himself before finally stabbing right into Alma's heart. The thin metal penetrating easily through the thick leather of his clothing.

Alma held onto the saber before his body finally gave up, numbly looking at the young commander as he watched him slip his weapon out of his fist, sheathing it into its holster strapped to his belt, before simply turning away from him.

As the commander leaves, Midas storms out, crouching to hold onto Almas's coat with the only arm he could still feel with, his mouth opening wide to scream, his throat tightened by regret and tiredness. His grief not allowing him to shout, but simply crouch in pain over the man's old body, his sunken head holstering his twitching eye, he looked at the commander facing away from him, unreachable, given Almas's last preach he dedicated to the boy, Midas found himself forced to accept his death in silence, forced to go with the kind that invaded his only place to stay.

Sobbing dry, he foraged for the sun shard hidden under his cloth, exposing a slim part of the rune to insert it into the stone plate. Loosely fixing his bandaid, Midas simply couldn't help himself but fall over Almas's body, unable to speak or approach anyone anymore.