Malik charged forward, Yasmin to his right and the Vizier to his left. He made sure to keep his mount half a pace ahead of the Vizier, a silent declaration of exactly who was in command. He gripped his sword in his right hand, his left holding the horn of the creature he now knew was called a Wathib—a name earned by its long, bounding leaps and a maneuverability that put any horse from his world to shame.
He fought to mask his initial apprehension at riding the beast, refusing to give the Vizier any reason to gloat. Fortunately, his years of riding thoroughbreds through the sprawling, kilometer-long gardens of his palace served him well. He tilted the Wathib's horn slightly to the right; the creature banked smoothly, responding with an ease that surprised him.
As he corrected their course, the true horror of the battlefield rushed up to meet them. Choking clouds of dust billowed upward. His men were locked in a desperate, faltering struggle against the Sand Soldiers. The air was torn by screams, and the ground was littered with the broken corpses of both humans and Wathibs. A cold chill traced its way down his spine, but he drew a deep breath, burying his anxiety beneath a mask of absolute authority.
Malik raised his voice into a booming roar to inject resolve into his breaking lines. "Nebras is here, men! Charge and fear nothing! We will crush this army to the last!"
Hearing the voice of their hero—returned after a century of silence—the soldiers felt as if the heavens themselves had intervened. A fever of hope ignited in their veins. They raised their swords, spears, and axes, screaming battle cries as they plunged into the enemy lines, striking with the frenzied strength of madmen. Their power increased tenfold, not by any arcane Art, but by the sheer force of human will.
Hope was a terrifying weapon, one that foolish kings often underestimated. But Malik knew exactly how to shepherd men. He had dominated the military in his own kingdom through every means necessary, and he read the souls of soldiers like an open book. He knew what spurred them onward and what shattered their spirits. He knew the precise moments they would throw their lives away for their ruler, and the moments they would grow weary and turn to treason. These were delicate calculations; a single misstep could send a prince or a king to the gallows.
And the greatest catalyst for an army's fury was the presence of their commander in the blood and the mud beside them—let alone a messiah miraculously resurrected after a hundred years, risking his life on the front lines. A soldier would bleed ten times as much for a myth made flesh.
As they closed the final distance to the meat grinder of the melee, Malik raised his longsword higher. The rushing wind whipped against his face, making it difficult to speak, so he shouted to Yasmin over the din. "Lend me your power now!"
Yasmin raised her index finger, the tip igniting with a brilliant yellow light. She pointed it at Nebras's sword, and a concentrated beam of energy shot from her hand, striking the metal. Instantly, the blade flared with a pale yellow aura. It wasn't the blinding, sun-like gold he had witnessed a century ago, but it would be enough to cut through these abominations.
Malik lifted his gaze, looking over the sea of fighting bodies toward the distant hill he had targeted. "I need you to conserve the rest of your energy. I will require your Flame when we reach those colossal sand beasts at the rear."
Yasmin looked at him, her eyes wide with bewilderment. "And what is your plan to bring them down?"
Malik didn't turn to look at her. Instead, his features twisted into a dark, terrifying smile. "Just be ready when I call your name, and stay close to me. Do not stray for a second. Follow me now, step by step."