Chapter 180: For Our Families

Sinbad’s talons raked across the Follower’s shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood through robes already torn in a dozen places from his earlier passes.

The hooded figure staggered but didn’t fall, hands still tracing their slow pattern through the air, Rukh threading outward toward the Ghoul despite the clear pain they were enduring.

Sinbad caught a glimpse of their face through the gap in the hood, hollow eyes sunken deep into their sockets, with skin stretched thin over cheekbones like they hadn’t eaten properly in years.

Whatever had bound this person to their duty, it clearly cost them more than simple loyalty ever should have.

’Stubborn.’

Sinbad banked hard, circling for another pass, his wings beating against air that felt heavier with every strike he threw.

Days of combat had worn down even his considerable stamina, his muscles burning in ways he’d learned to simply push past rather than acknowledge, the exhaustion of a body that had been running on borrowed strength for far too long.

He thought back, briefly, to the start of this entire campaign.

How fresh he’d felt then, how certain of victory, how easily he’d shrugged off minor wounds that now would have felt crippling given how depleted his reserves had become.

All of them began on a high.

Long live the Sultan!

It was a high like no other.

But then the Sultan disappeared.

They had to begin without him.

Well... whatever happened, at least he was here now.

In any case, there was no time to dwell on that.

He dove again.

The Follower finally looked up as he approached, revealing more of that hollow, starved expression beneath the hood, and for just a moment, Sinbad thought he saw something close to resignation in those sunken eyes.

Not fear, exactly, but an exhaustion matching his own, a creature pushed well past the point where continuing made any rational sense, held together by nothing but stubborn will.

Whatever twisted devotion kept them casting through pain like this, Sinbad didn’t have time to wonder about it.

He struck.

Talons found the throat this time and the Follower’s chanting cut off mid-syllable, their body crumpling to the ground in a heap of robes, the pattern they’d been weaving through the air unraveling instantly, threads of Rukh dissolving back into nothing.

One down.

Sinbad didn’t celebrate.

He didn’t have the energy to, honestly, chest heaving as he climbed back into the air, scanning the battlefield for the next target, wings already protesting every beat with sharp little spasms of overworked muscle.

Zafar had engaged his own Follower already, using ice alone, spreading it in jagged patterns across the ground as the hooded figure danced backward, desperately trying to maintain both distance and concentration at once.

Each step the Follower took left frost blooming beneath their sandals, the cold creeping up their robes.

"Need help?"

Sinbad called out, voice rasping with exhaustion, barely carrying over the chaos of the surrounding battle.

"Just finishing!"

Zafar shouted back, though the slight tremor in his voice suggested otherwise, a crack in his usual steady confidence that Sinbad had rarely heard from him even during the worst of their earlier campaigns.

Sinbad angled towards him anyway, even as the accumulated fatigue of days without proper rest finally caught up to him in full force.

His vision blurred at the edges, narrowing slightly, the world tilting at an angle that didn’t feel entirely natural, like gravity itself had decided to shift without warning.

He pushed through it.

That was what you did.

Push through, keep moving, worry about the cost later once the fight was actually over.

He’d learned that lesson from Malik himself, back when they were close, never truly apart.

Zafar’s Follower dodged another blast of ice, scrambling towards the shelter of a nearby rock formation, still weaving their protective pattern even while fleeing, hands trembling visibly from whatever strain maintaining the shield was placing on them.

Sinbad dove to intercept.

Only then, out of nowhere, lightning shot towards him.

The Crimson Owl saw the attack and tried to dodge.

He didn’t make it.

It struck him.

His wings gave out mid-flight, strength simply vanishing from muscles that had been running on fumes for the better part of an hour, every reserve of Rukh and raw physical endurance finally hitting its absolute limit all at once.

Sinbad crashed hard into the dirt several feet short of his target, his feathers scattering across the ground in a wide spray, the impact knocking whatever breath remained in his lungs clean out of him.

"Sinbad!"

Zafar’s voice carried genuine alarm now, breaking off his own assault to check on his fallen commander, abandoning the pursuit of his own target entirely in that single instant of concern.

That hesitation cost him.

The Follower, sensing the opening, redoubled their chanting, Rukh flaring bright around their raised hands, reinforcing the shield they were desperately trying to maintain despite their own obvious exhaustion.

Whatever strength they had left, they poured it entirely into that moment, into protecting the Ghoul rather than themselves.

Sinbad struggled to lift his head, his wings trembling uselessly against the ground; every attempt to push himself upright met with a wave of dizziness that threatened to pull him under completely.

’...not yet. Not yet, dammit.’

Despite his desperation, his body refused to listen.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Sinbad found himself completely unable to continue, his strength drained entirely, consciousness fading despite every attempt to hold on.

He thought, distantly, of his daughters and sons, his many little ones, and his wives.

He thought of Isha, the one who never stayed still, hoping she wasn’t watching this moment somewhere, hoping she wouldn’t have to see her father fail like this.

After all, besides his Sultan, they were who he did this for.

For his family.

All their families.

The last thing he registered before darkness claimed him was Zafar’s face, pale with worry, kneeling beside him in the dirt, one hand pressed against his feathered chest checking for a heartbeat.