Royal Defiance

	Your fingers glide along the dark rod binding the two blades, tracing the symbols along each edge and following them to the very tip of each blade. Dimmed golds and royal purples intermixed with obsidian black, in a blade that though worn by strong winds and the coarse flow of dust storms, would surely have once been razor sharp. The glaive’s intricacies unfold in front of you as you admire its craftsmanship, but even this focus, this admiration, is not enough. You take a deep breath, and lift it gingerly off of the table. You take a few steps back, into light in the middle of your workshop, and you hold it tight in both hands.

	You spin it carefully, and thrust it outward. Nothing. You lift it high above your head, as though in victory, and still nothing… and you feel a little bit silly for the attempt. You sigh, staring at it as though the rusted patterns of the metal might somehow reveal its secrets to you… and your eyes glance over the head of the blade, and you notice something. You’d noticed it before, but perhaps now it can give you some insight. A thick layer of dried blood, still clinging to the blade from hundreds of years ago—bright pink.

	The color dawns on you. You blink, and having a little eureka moment, grimly brace all six of your hands against the shaft of the weapon, turning it so that the bloodied end of the glaive presses against your gut. As the dulled blade presses against you, while you kneel in the light of your workshop…

	—

	They are coming. Their fleet is like rain, though black and red and baleful. Their hundreds, their thousands of vessels streak through the night sky, which blazes with the trading of blows between vessels. A rain of molten metal, of fire, of defeat.

	The wind blows strong, but the sand stays firmly packed. You stand in the desert, just a few steps out from your secluded tower, nestled into the dunes which dip and crest for miles like the waves of a violent sea. You are wreathed in opulent trappings, billowing golden and royal purple cloth, and ceremonial golden shackles adorning your many wrists signal a grim pact with the Feltakan royalty. But you know why they are here. Not just for the bases and the cities of this world, but for its leadership too. These creatures are quite fond of their concept of justice, and having heard of the fates of your colleagues, you have no intention of dying at their hands.

	You scurry back into your tower, ducking and slinking across the floor as you hear a ship pass far too close overhead, the roar of a Dreadnought blasting a brief sandstorm into the air with its passage. The red shine of its glowing eyes passes your massive windows, and you desperately avoid its gaze, body pressed to the ground in the dark. Once it passes, you scamper to the peak of your tower, in the knowledge that they grow closer. Just outside the window of your tower, you can see the Apocalypse at the door of your empire.

	“Yes, yes, hello!?” you practically scream into your communicator. “I need extraction, now! Send a transport to my dwelling, coordinates are being sent!”

	You stew in silence, each moment spent bringing you greater anxiety. You feel at the shackles around your wrists, you trace their beautiful designs with your fingers, you reassure yourself that the Feltakan military would never abandon their royalty… but reality comes calling.

	“You’re on your own,” responds a curt voice, blasé with your suffering. Rage immediately pours over, and spills out of your throat in the form of screaming.

	“You must not understand! I am ROYALTY! You will listen to me, I have command over you!” you admonish the Feltaka on the other end, teeth practically gnashing.

	“The royalty is no longer a priority,” they respond coolly, and the communicator is shut off. Your hands tremble around the communicator, which you drop to the ground. You look back out your window; the battle has come to a close, but the dark swarm of identifiable vessels hangs still in the air. The invaders have not been repelled.

	You glance, dejected, to the beautiful ceremonial weapon hanging on your wall. You hesitantly drag yourself over, having to use six of your arms just to heft the weapon; these things really weren’t made to be used, and it showed in their weight.

	In the night, you step out onto glimmering red sands and glare at the intruders. You are merely a speck in the desert, yet somehow you feel they can sense your defiance. You begin your trek into the desert, moving along the waves of the dunes in the hopes that they would provide you some cover, especially with the shifting of the pigments in your skin. You strip the wrappings off of your body, leaving them in a trail behind you, so that you perfectly blend in with the sand but for the dark spire you hold in your hands. You trudge, for what feels like hours but amounts to mere minutes, the cold of the desert sinking into your bones.

	At last, you find a divet in the sands, an almost perfect resting place. You slide down into it, and drive one end of the polearm below the sands at an angle, bracing it. One by one, you pry the shackles off of your wrists, and clamp each one around the shaft of the weapon instead. All eight of your hands grasp the weapon, as you shakily guide the sharp tip against your gut, catching one last glimpse of the fleet over the ridges of blowing sand.

	May you rest soundly here.

	—

	You gasp, your eyes opening. The blade rests in your lap, and you rest supine on the ground. You pick yourself up, shaky and woozy, being careful not to scrape the blade against the ground as it is still a little delicate. You lift the blade, and set it gently onto the table… and then slink out of your workshop, to go inform your customer what they have found, the grim weight of its story hanging a bit heavy on your shoulders. You hope you weren’t out for too long.