17
Kirael
Kirael stood on a hill, looking down as the first fiery rays of morning began to illuminate the battle field. His sword was heavy in his hand, but it was no comfort to him.
Belial walked up beside him, adjusting his leather armor. He smelled of liquor, mixed with the faint musk of the w***e he’d lain with the night before. Tall, dark, and classically handsome, Belial never denied himself the pleasures of the human world.
Kirael could barely stand to look at him, the Fallen he’d fought beside since time immemorial.
Far across the dusty expanse, human fighters straggled into sight, their white turbans bright against the rubble-strewn ground. åAll around them, the bombed-out remnants of the city lay like fallen soldiers.
“You look like s**t,” Belial said, holding out his hand
