After nearly half a millennium, victory was in sight.
Kael could just make out the tell-tale signs of grey smoke staining the last remnants of the dusklit sky ahead, though he hardly needed it to know he was close. The wind was blowing in from the east, carrying smoke, yes, but also the unmistakable stench of sweat, charred flesh, and the distinct, metallic tang of blood. He couldn’t yet hear the screams of those unfortunates left to burn within the palisade that had become their pyre, but it was only a matter of time.
His sandals scuffed across the hardpan on the fringe of a great desert as he gazed toward the shifting shadows of a doomed civilization. The dry air burned his throat, and though his body had long since forgotten trivial human needs like food and water, he still wished for a waterskin to cool his tongue. He wondered if, after tonight, even such things as simple cravings would pass beyond memory. Hopefully not, for what was the purpose of immortality without the delightful temptations of flesh and wine?
What would it be like to be truly immortal? Not as he was now, a man who did not age or need fear death by any normal means, but a god-like being without peer. Could such a being stand against the very gods, those distant beings whose ancient power had once created the air of which he breathed? Kael did not know. He was undying, unaged, and untouchable by all except those weapons made by his people, but he had no magic of his own. He couldn’t bring forth budding life from the trees like the Faerrun, fly like the fabled dragons of old, or conjure great storms like the sorcerers in the far east. Kael was strong, he was swift, and he was cunning, yet he had only ever been a warrior.
Perhaps that would change tonight.
