warriors heart

The air hung heavy with unease as the dark squad slowly lowered their weapons, their movements stiff and hesitant. Confusion rippled through their ranks, evident in the furrowed brows and darting eyes of the soldiers. Some cast uncertain glances toward one another, silently questioning the situation. Their postures, once rigid with tension, slackened, as though the weight of their uncertainty had become unbearable.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of Kane's robe as he let it fall to the ground. He stood before the altar, his voice a low, rhythmic chant as he performed his incantations. The squad watched in uneasy stillness, their gazes drawn to him despite themselves. A tall soldier at the front shifted his weight from foot to foot, his jaw tightening as he suppressed a nervous swallow. A man with sharp, hawk-like eyes clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles pale against the dark fabric of hid gloves.

When Kane finished, the silence became almost deafening. His gaze swept over them, cold and piercing, as though he could see straight into their souls. "Do you have any idea why we're here?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with an edge that made the hair on the back of their necks stand on end.

They shook their heads slowly, one by one, their faces a mix of unease and quiet fear. A young recruit with a faint scar on his cheek avoided Kane's eyes entirely, staring instead at the floor as though it might offer him answers. The smallest of the group—a wiry figure with nervous, darting eyes—crossed his arms tightly over his chest, as if trying to shield himself from the weight of his words.

"You are my soldiers," Kane said, his tone unyielding. "My agents of destruction.That is why I named you the dark squad. You are my killing machines, and I want you to remain that way."

The soldiers stiffened at his declaration. Some bristled subtly, their lips thinning into tight lines or their shoulders tensing, but no one dared to speak. Kane's next words cut through the tension like a blade. "You disobeyed me. So, you cannot be trusted. To ensure you never disobey me again, you will cut off your hair."

The squad froze. A wave of shock rippled through the group, visible in the flickers of widened eyes, the faint twitch of a jaw, or the sharp intake of breath. Kane bent down and pulled out a bowl—a mythic object that seemed to shimmer unnaturally under the dim light. Its presence sent a chill through the wilderness, as if it carried a weight far greater than its size.

"Cut out all your hair," Kane commanded, holding out the bowl.

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their hesitation palpable. A soldier with a scarred face stepped forward first, his movements jerky and reluctant. His hand trembled as he reached for the knife Kane had placed on the altar. His expression was stoic, but his jaw clenched tightly, betraying the internal conflict raging within him.

One by one, the others followed. A man with piercing eyes and a defiant set to his mouth hesitated, his fingers hovering over the knife before he finally gripped it with visible reluctance. A young man with soft, boyish features and trembling hands swallowed hard as he cut the first strand of hair, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The sound of scissors slicing through hair filled the room, blending with the oppressive silence. Each soldier approached the bowl with deliberate, almost robotic steps, cutting out their hair into the shimmering depths. Some glared at Kane with barely concealed resentment, their gazes sharp and fiery. Others avoided his eyes entirely, their expressions shadowed with shame and fear.

Kane watched them, his lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile. His eyes glinted with a dark, predatory pride as he surveyed his squad. They were his creations, his tools, and now, with each strand of hair falling into the bowl, they were bound even tighter to his will.

Kane's tall frame was hunched over the bowl, his fingers trembling with a subtle mixture of anticipation and exhilaration. His lips moved in a low murmur, the foreign incantations rolling off his tongue like an ancient, forbidden melody.

The squad stood silent and still, their breaths shallow, each man watching Kane with a mixture of reverence, fear, and unease. Their shaven heads glinted under the light, the starkness of their appearance enhancing the eerie atmosphere. The smell of iron from the freshly cut hair lingered faintly, mingling with the earthy aroma of blood and smoke.

Kane's back was rigid, his broad shoulders squared as he finished his incantation in a voice that seemed like only him could here,The air grew thick and oppressive, as if unseen forces were coiling tightly around the space. When Kane finally turned to face them, his eyes—now pools of endless black—seemed to swallow the faint light. His expression was void of humanity, replaced by something ancient and unfathomable. The markings on his face, now glowing faintly, twisted and pulsed, as though alive.

The fifty men of the dark squad shifted uneasily, their stoic faces cracking ever so slightly. Some darted nervous glances at each other, while others clenched their fists tightly at their sides, their jaws set firm, but their trembling fingers betraying their inner turmoil. The room was silent except for the sound of Kane's deliberate steps as he approached each man with the bowl.

When Kane raised the bowl and cut his palm, his black blood trickling in thick, inky streams, the squad inhaled sharply as one. Their leader's blood seemed to carry a life of its own, its movements unnaturally serpentine as it coiled within the bowl. As Kane carried the bowl to each man, their expressions shifted subtly—a flicker of hesitation in their eyes, a quick dart of their tongues to moisten dry lips. They each extended their hands, a resigned resolve etched into their faces. The sound of knives slicing through flesh was soft yet piercing, each drop of blood mixing into the bowl like whispers joining a growing, dark chorus.

Kane's chants grew louder, his voice a commanding roar that seemed to pierce through their very souls. The air around them vibrated as though the fabric of reality was being ripped apart. The men swayed on their feet, their bodies growing heavy, their expressions slackening. Some furrowed their brows in confusion, as though fighting to comprehend the sensations overtaking them. Others let their eyes flutter shut, their faces briefly twisted in fear before surrendering to the force pulling them under.

As one by one they collapsed, their bodies fell with a muted thud to the cold stone floor. The expressions on their faces were eerily peaceful, though a faint trace of awe lingered in their slackened features. Kane stood over them, his expression unreadable, his glowing markings pulsating with a rhythmic intensity. The bowl in his hands trembled ever so slightly, the dark liquid within now emanating an unholy glow.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. Kane gazed down at his squad, the faintest shadow of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His chest rose and fell heavily, though not from exertion—it was the weight of power coursing through him, the culmination of his work. His gaze swept across the room, cold and calculating, before he turned back to the altar to complete the ritual.