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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Balencia stood with her legs wide, rooted like ancient pillars anchoring the earth itself. Her fists clenched, and her veins pulsed with a faint glow, casting her like a firefly igniting the dark. Petite and delicate as she was, her radiance was fierce, mesmerising, like lightning held captive in flesh.
Two Armala warriors approached, their steps heavy, their gaze locked on her with an intensity like arrows cutting through air, honed and deadly.
"LEAVE!" one of them roared, his voice sharp as a blade, a weapon crafted to cleave iron, not merely air.
"The kingdom of Laham is not welcome here!" barked the other, his accent foreign yet strangely known, each word laced with a venom that suggested a history steeped in horror. Whatever Laham had done, it had etched a hatred so deep it seemed a reflex to expel any trace, even dust, that bore its name.
The men halted before her, their faces cast in the twilight of suspicion and recognition. Balencia noted their features—bronzed skin and angular cheekbones that whispered of places she’d once known. They were kin to Jamshar’s land, unmistakably.
One was called Laiq. His face was long and sharp, eyes a vivid teal that shimmered like the intricacies of geranium petals. Hair drawn into a high ponytail, cornrows cascaded from it like a frozen waterfall, each strand a line of defiance. The other, Sadaq, shared his features but wore a quieter intensity, his half-lidded gaze hiding the chocolate-brown depths of his eyes, unreadable and dark.
"Yes, I come from Laham," she began, her voice steady as thunder building on the horizon, "but I am not what you think. I am Balencia, daughter of the unknown, and..." She felt the name, the weight of her lover, rise unbidden to her lips, as if his spirit drifted through her, guiding her words. "I am the wife of Jamshar Iwaloye.”
The forest held its breath; even the trees seemed to draw back into silence. The two men exchanged glances, speaking without words. Their stance softened, as though Jamshar’s name had marked her with something more than allegiance—perhaps even kinship.
"Iwa... Iwaloye?" Sadaq murmured, opening his hands, examining them as though searching for the familiar in a stranger’s touch.
"We don’t care!" Laiq interjected, his voice still charged, but this time carrying the fierce tremor of protection rather than hostility. "Go back to your kingdom and leave our home!”
"Home?" Balencia’s tone turned icy, a challenge glinting in her eyes. "This isn’t truly yours, is it? You belong to Jamshar’s land, don’t you?"
They flinched, shadows flickering across their faces. They had heard the tales of the warrior gathering tribes into an ocean of rebellion. They had not expected her to arrive in the slender form of a Laham heir.
Sadaq cleared his throat, ignoring her challenge. “We will aid you... for a while,” he muttered, gesturing toward their humble huts with a reluctant nod.
