The air choked all those who stood under the simmering sun, the cicada was chirping its chime, and bubbles of sweat swelled upon the warriors faces. They stood by their Sha, Farasha, rose-gold hair that petalled from his light-colored scalp, his bronze band like crown which clung to his forehead had a red stone in the center, sharp eyes with black pupils, a long narrow nose, and thin lips. He stood straight as they all looked at his curled-up glittering green shoes, reflecting the shine from his flexible metallic armor.
He steadied his breath. "Why do you all look so tense? We just won! As your Sha, I deserve smiles, not your pathetic cries. In war people die, you knew it was going to happen, it's literally ingrained in the orbs screwed into our shoulders!" Farasha clicked his finger against the sphere swirling with sand that nested itself at the heart of his shoulder.
One of the women, clad in green velvet robes, beads in her hands, and lacking any sphere akin to every other woman, brought him a body lying on a stretcher, accompanied by colorful jewels. "I'm sorry, my Sha." She stared into his eyes, in fear for her life, as she slowly stepped back.
Farasha lashed out his arm towards the weeping crowd and from the hole centered in the palm of his hand, metallic particles slithered out, forming a scythe, black stem and grip with a wavy pattern embroidered on the chine. "Where is he!" Farasha swam through the crowd, his face now flustered, as he searched; now sweat stabbing the cut on his face, until he saw a blanket with a few babies lying about. In it, he saw a girl whose body seemed to shine under the sun, and his pupils dilated when he saw her hands, as they too had holes. He took his scythe and placed it by her neck, the newborn reached out her hand and laughed a flutter of butterflies, cutting her finger as she tipped the blade.
Suddenly a man, wearing a patch of furry skin on his chest, bronze hair matching his gauntlets, his shoulders seeping with blood, mouth dry, valiant eyes sucked in, a metallic torch in his hand, imprinted the loose ground with his footprints. "Sha, I am here. I had gone to say farewell to my wife."
"So, Shalifar, you do not run from your fate, the sand in your shoulder is almost gone." Farasha approached the man, looked his in the eyes, as he quickly turned around. "How did my wife die?"
"It was due to my negligence, my Sha," Shalifar replied as he stood firm, his breath was not accelerated yet silent.
"You were my Zaar, the greatest warrior, and all you had to do was look after my wife, and yet you failed me! You failed me!" Farasha roared as he looked towards the crowd, his arm now shivering. Shalifar had now closed his eyes. Shalifar could hear a siren in the sky; the scythe slit the air slowly as he felt it slug its way towards him. He mumbled a few words, tears bombarded through his eyes, and he felt a sudden peace. Shalifar's body now stood, bloodied as his head was now but an object held up by his body. Farasha kicked the sphere in his chest as his body fell and the sand withered away. The Sha picked up the torch beside Shalifar's head and walked towards the inn, but then heard an eerie cry erupt from the crowd. It was the baby girl whose cut had now turned metallic.
Farasha picked her up, and noticed a heavy irk in his shoulder, and then noticed how the sand in his shoulder was accelerating and multiplying. "Countless men have disappointed me, now it's time a female becomes Zaar, and one risen by me!" He raises her and notices her blue eyes, and slips a smile from the corner of his lips.