That low crackling of flame hissed like the whispering of the dark god, like some sickly death knell sounding for far too many of them. Joy had half an urge to claw at his ears, so that he need not hear the pitiful screams of the dying men as they lay amidst the rubble, unable to move as green fire from marai ate away at them. The flames spread out from the places closest to the ruins of the Gates, threatening to encroach on the shattered ground that the mass of the army stood upon.

It was strange, the guilt that clawed from inside his chest. He ought not to feel it—if they died, then they were merely weak. It was nothing to do with him. But yet even as he spoke them, he know those thoughts to be lies—he was just as responsible for their deaths as they were themselves. And perhaps if it had merely been a few, as they were before, then he would not have had such a reaction.

But it was hundreds of them, not a handful. Hundreds of charred corpses that had been screaming not moments of ago, hundreds of burnt bodies that were blown away into dust in the wind. The air was rank with the stench of piss and smoke, the ground covered with the gristle of smoking flesh and scattered bile. Here and there, he could see twitching limbs sticking out of the upturned rubble, the skin alight with dancing marai that sparked and shimmered before catching aflame, and a new chorus of screams suddenly rang out.

And that damned crackling, that crackling of fire clawed at his ears like a hundred voices whispering to him. Your fault. Your fault. These are your corpses.

He saw the demons as well, their bodies twisted in grotesque angles—those that had not been turned to dust by the skal’va. They were missing arms and legs, the limbs eaten away until the bone was showing, many of them still alive as their chests heaved to drag in another breath. Perhaps, had he been a Me’jai, he might have healed them. Perhaps, if he was smarter, they might still be alive. For the first time in a long age, Joy cursed himself for being foolhardy. Nearly half of his army lay dead before him, and he had not yet stepped across the border into Malifor.

“They will not wait…” Kha hissed next to him, slapping him out of him moment of self-pity, and he blinked before nodding swiftly.

“Have them pull back from the flames. Those that are stuck farther in cannot be saved, and they would not be worth the effort even if they could.” Cold. Calculating. That was what he knew, not these weak sensations of pity and guilt. Self-loathing would not be enough to drive them into the heart of Atal. He needed to be sharper, stronger.

Then, unwilling to watch the flames that danced before him, he turned to find others in the rubble, hoping to swallow the ball of pain that refused to go away in his throat.

“Enough…” Kha whispered softly next to him. “You are king… ruler… you must not kneel…”

Joy started at this, pulling back with a bubbling anger. How was he to ignore this, to ignore this rampant death? Even now, he saw as wounded soldiers struggled to pull each other out of the rubble, men screaming as their limbs were strained.

“A king must remain distant… lest the ants see him as fellow… not ruler…” Kha insisted, pulling Joy’s arm for him to come back. “Let them do as they will… there's still work to be done…”

“And leave these men to die?” he growled out, that bitter ball of guilt once more lodging itself in his chest. He wanted to dig them out, wanted to break the rubble with his strength, wanted to do something, anything.

“If they die here… then they would have died after you saved them…” Kha whispered, trying to calm him. “Do not show emotion… do not show guilt… let them see you as a monster… that will be easier for them to trust… to believe…”

His shoulders heaving, Joy dragged in a slow breath filled with soot from the clouds of ash. His thoughts racing, he struggled to slow his stomping heart before turning around, his back to the scene of disaster. “As you will.” he growled out, his voice rasping and threatening to break even as he steeled himself.

And so he forced himself to watch as one by one the legionaries extricated themselves from the rubble. Many more of those struggling forms stopped as the flames crept up on them, as the smoke and soot settled in their lungs and each breath brought in more dirt than air. I could have helped, that voice whispered each time an arm stopped moving, each time a body went still. Yet he forced himself to be calm, to be impassive as his men coughed and wept and bled.

The survivors hastily discarded their armor, the bits of metal now unbearably hot to the touch to the point that they blistered the skin. Those that were more able-bodied hurried to bring bandages over and treat the wounded, and Joy watched as Willem stood nearby, channeling water to fill numerous pails for the burned. Joy clenched his fists harder at the sight, his claws drawing blood from his own palms.

“It is good that you care…” Kha whispered next to him, noticing his struggle. “But a king must remain detached…”

“I do not wish to care.” Joy snarled out, although the next words caught in his throat. But when I look at their dying bodies, all I can see is Sister. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, lips calling him Brother even as she fed herself to magic. Pangs of loneliness and loss rippled through his chest, and he saw bits of her image in every corpse on the field.

He could not look any longer, and so a wave of gratitude filled him as he heard Mors call out to him. “How many?” Joy growled out gruffly, catching the soldier off guard as he swiveled to glare at the man.

“How many did we lose?”

Mors paused for a moment, turning to look out over the men. “Half the legion, at least. I’m not sure how many of—of the demons; they’re too scattered in the ruins to make out. But, from what I could see of the fighting, I’d imagine no more than twenty of the adults.”

One more, bubbling rage swelled up inside of him as Joy turned to face Kha. “How many more of these losses can we take? How many more of these dead can we stomach, if we must trek through desert and death just to face the dark god? We have yet to step foot on Malifori soil. We are invaders, and we have died in our homeland.”

“We will fight as much as we must.” Kha hissed sharply, his voice gaining a sudden edge. “We will die as much as we must. The dark god will not wait. Our lives are like armor, like arrows—merely another resource.” His thin arms gestured to the continent in the distance, his slitted eyes now glaring sharply. “With a hundred thousand men or a hundred, we still must face Atal. Weep if you must. But in the morning, we will still march.”

With that, the demon turned and walked off into the distance, going off to help the men. It seemed that while a king must remain aloof, there were no such restraints on his advisors.

“I have never seen him that way.” Mors muttered quietly, and Joy nodded in silent agreement. “In any case, we need to gather the rest of the Swords if we’re to manage logistics. From the Gates to Meshira is nearly twenty days’ march if we’re to go along the Sand Trails. I can’t imagine there’ll be much of us left if the skal’va fight us like that each day.”

Joy shook his head slowly. “No, their troops are finite, fortunately, else they would not have pulled back today. Most likely, they'll bite at our ankles and bleed us slowly before trying to crush us at Meshira.”

“Still,” Mors insisted, “twenty days’ march is long time for our men and our supplies. I don’t know if either will last.”

“Then it is a good thing we will be losing more men, so that the rest won’t starve.” Joy smiled bitterly, before letting out a sigh. He watched as men lay on the ground, bandages over arms and heads, gingerly pouring cold water over their burns. The air was rife with moans and screams. And this bunch must slay a god.

“Well, if we’re to go charging to our deaths, we’d best get started soon.” he snarled out.