Vladdir was running for his life. His knees buckled beneath him, sending him sprawling as his feet hit rock at the bottom of the embankment. Clutching his splintered wrist, he fought to keep his grief from erupting out of his mouth with the blood coughed all over his chest. He heard Taalen scuffling behind him and tried to stand, but his legs collapsed again, leaving him crumpled in the dust like some broken invalid. His ash-grey hair fell into his face, momentarily blinding him until he felt Taalen roughly grab his armour by the leather straps crossing his back and jerk him to his feet. The army commander didn't bother with the niceties, dragging Vladdir across the small pit of shale to an outcropping covered with brush and shoving him unceremoniously beneath the prickling branches.
      Taalen crept to the other side of the pit, pretending to peer over the edge as if he had no idea where the Aragoths were. It was a ploy to draw the attack from Vladdir, whose shame burned bitterly with the blood welling up from his lungs.
      Taalen will live, he told himself. He was born to this.
      Two Aragoths came silently to the edge of the pit. Their grey rockskin armour covered them to the neck in what looked like jagged pieces of slate, making them seem like the stone dead that sometimes rose out of the Desert sand. Barbed chains swung from the back of their weapons belts as they moved, yet made no sound. Both of these were dark, their skin mottled around the temples and jaw with the ink of smudged runes, their hair falling like tattered shrouds to their waists, and their eyes nearly consumed with the black irises given to them by their lord, Ilet. Vladdir was sure these creatures and their master had been spewed into existence by the Desert, as they had appeared suddenly and begun the war without demands or negotiation. All they seemed to want was to kill everything that moved.
      One of the Aragoths gestured towards Taalen like he was an oblivious garden pest; he still pretended not to see them. The other raised his spear and threw it at Taalen's back. Taalen immediately ducked and rolled over the shale, striking one Aragoth in the head with a thrown dagger, and the other in the chest with a crossbow bolt.
      The one hit by the dagger howled in pain and ripped the weapon from his skull, still standing. The bolt had been completely ineffective against the rockskin of the other, and this Aragoth arrogantly stepped down into the pit, unsheathing his sword. Taalen pulled a pair of duelling knives from his leg sheaths and scuttled into a combat pose. The Aragoth struck at him single-handedly. Taalen barely deflected the blow. One of his knives broke at the hilt, and the Aragoth's blade severed his thumb. Vladdir struggled against the cough building up in his chest and the urge to scream his frustration and fear. He knew if he gave his position away, Taalen would be so enraged he might kill Vladdir himself.
      The Aragoth still standing at the edge of the pit threw Taalen's dagger back at him, catching the commander in the ball of his shoulder. Taalen wrenched in pain and missed his parry, both arms now injured. His opponent grabbed the front of his armour, dragging him off balance and forcing him to kneel. The Aragoth lifted his sword so that the edge was angled against Taalen's neck.
      "Where is your king?" he asked.
      "In the tunnels," said Taalen.
      "We've flushed your tunnels with magma. Vladdir fled. Tell me where he is. Perhaps I will allow you to become bonded to Ilet."
      Taalen spat at him. The Aragoth slit his throat.
      "Useless," he said, wiping his sword against his leg before resheathing it. "Not worth bonding." He climbed back to his fellow, who was grinding the heel of his hand against his forehead, swearing vilely.   "Ilet will heal you."
      Vladdir lay silently shaking as they left, terrified that he still might be found, and angry with shame that Taalen hadn't run for dear life because of him. His legs were growing numb and cold as he absorbed the shock of how fast his soldier had been dispatched. How many more of his men would they hunt down and slaughter, or worse, bond?
      The Aragoths couldn't have wandered far. Vladdir attempted to combat his self-loathing by crawling out from his hiding spot and dragging himself towards Taalen, until he could brush his hand and weep against the still-warm hair. Half of him thought that this premature and unnecessary risk was making Taalen's sacrifice pointless, the other argued redemption by exposure to possible danger for the sake of this dead man, who was one of the last showing any loyalty towards the end. Without him, Vladdir was nothing but empty.
      The Desert's heat seeped into his brain as he lay there for long minutes, flushed in misery, filling his mind with searing white and fever, until words slowly coiled out of his discomfort: Why should you die as well? You can take Taalen's strength. You are entitled, as King. He raised his head and looked at his trembling fingers smeared with crimson. The blood was warm. He felt hungry. His mouth was already filled with the cloying flavour of copper and iron. Why not have a little taste of someone else? See how you like it?