A Tower was falling from heaven.

Its shape was tearing through the dark clouds, raining debris upon the world below as it made its descent. Among that debris was Cross, who grinded his teeth together whilst watching his hopes and dreams fall apart before him.

He fell with the debris, leaving a trail of his own black ichor falling amongst the pouring rain around him. It was seeping from his broken armor, leaking from cracks and holes that had only recently been carved into his shell. His eye turned to the biggest of them, that damnable cross torn into his armor.

Seeing it brought him back to his senses, turned his dismay into rage as he struggled to bring his hands up. To steady his descent, to cover his wounds, anything to alleviate his scenario. Alas, he had grown far too weak from the blood loss to fight against the swell of wind around him. He’d have to hope he could deal with the wounds after landing, it wasn’t as though he was lacking in material to patch himself with.

All around him were pieces of the Tower, dark chunks of blackstone that the attackers had blasted apart during the battle. Their jagged forms twirled in the air with Cross as the ground sped up to greet them, taunting Cross with how close he was to aid.

Yet even as he fell, Cross could only wonder whether every pawn that died meaninglessly felt the same things he did at that very moment.

Spite and regret.

Those were the two feelings he carried upon impact, tearing a crater into grass and dirt as he was forced deeper by his sheer momentum. He wasn’t alone for long, as soon pieces of blackstone debris were slamming into his crater, kicking up dirt and burying him more than he already had been.

But even that wasn’t enough, as the rainwater came soon after. Struggling to rise amidst the mud and debris, Cross had to pause several times to scrape at the rain and dirt that had gotten smeared all over his eye.

He couldn’t blink it away fast enough, and several large pebbles wound up wedged under his eyelid. He jammed his gauntlet covered fingers under the eyelid to pick them out, flicking them into the crater around him as he was finally able to get to his feet.

He wobbled, his motor functions still deteriorating from the unstifled leaks. His vision had already become next to useless, the darkness of the crater and the storm clouds having made everything blend together for him.

Cross had to feel along the edge of the crater, pushing himself up before he was able to claw his way out.

A bright flash of light briefly illuminated everything, followed closely by a resonating boom of lightning. It showed him the top of the crater, and Cross wasted no time in fumbling for it as best as his weakened body could.

His hand latched around something hard and firm, prompting him to haul himself up out of the crater and onto the mud-slicked field above. It was only once he was pulling his legs out that he realized what he was holding onto, another chunk of Blackstone that had skidded to the crater’s edge from an impact nearby.

And it wasn’t the only one.

Even with his vision blurry and foul, Cross saw all around nothing but chunks of the Tower. What had once been a vast field of luscious green had been turned into a maze of rubble and mud with cross stuck in the thick of it.

But it didn’t matter to him, nothing did. Not the enemy, not the mission and not the Tower he’d lost sight of.

No, at that moment the only thing flittering about his mind was the ichor still leaking from his body. The fall may not have exacerbated the problem, but it had kept him from rectifying it. He could just barely cling to the Blackstone in his hands before driving his fist into it.

It cracked and broke on the third and forth strike, snapping in half and making it easier for him to rip smaller chunks from it. He ripped off his battered chest piece and tossed it aside so he could get to his shell.

The damage was far worst than he anticipated. Various cracks in his smooth shell had sprouted, splitting up the barely mended cross marring his chest. Yet once again, any panic was forced aside by anger at the sight of his namesake. Mustering his strength, he pressed the Blackstone pieces to his leaks and forced them against the cracks as hard as he could.

The ichor covered his hands, but soaked the Blackstone as well. As it drank of his black blood, it began softening to the touch. Soon Cross was stuffing those leaks piece by piece, the Blackstone forming to his shell and his faculties slowly but surely returning to him.

The sound of rain, the crack of thunder, all sounds that had become muted until that very moment. His body no longer felt the drain, his limbs regaining their mobility with every passing second. He pushed himself up once his vision began clearing, for there was only one thing he could focus on once he was no longer bleeding out.

The Mission.

A Pawn’s service to their Sovereign was unrivaled by anything in existence, no matter how hopeless their duties may be.

And Cross was fully aware of how hopeless things had gotten.

Evaluating the maze of rubble around him only highlighted just how much of the tower had been torn apart. At least half of it had to have come loose, and he could see massive parts of it looming in the distance just barely illuminated in the dark by lightning.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Making his way through the maze of blackstone debris, he tried to think of ways to accomplish their mission only to come up empty. Even if the upper portions of the Tower had survived the battle, there was no way it would be able to get back up into heaven. And their Cargo, he wasn’t even sure whether it was still in the Tower when it was blasted apart.

The sight of dead Pawns among the wreckage didn’t do much to encourage him.

Scattered amongst pools of ichor, the broken gray remains of pawns dotted the Blackstone Maze. The dark black luster of their shells had faded under their armor, drained until they were nothing more than gray statues. And while many still had their helmets intact, there were a number who looked as though they’d lost them just as Cross had.

Letting him see his face amongst the dead.

All pawns shared shared the same face, but it was the expressions among the dead that made them stand apart. Laughter, fear, and determination marred the features of the dead Pawns, but Cross couldn’t imagine himself wearing such a look when his time came. All except one slumped against a large chunk of Blackstone.

Its face was locked into a tight grimace, the large eye they all had was narrowed with annoyance as its hands were clutching the deep holes that had been punched through its chest.

Cross briefly wondered whether it was luck or the Sovereign’s will that he hadn’t joined them. But such thoughts faded once he spotted the trail of ichor that led to the annoyed Pawn’s weapon, a hastily made blade of Blackstone lying next to him. It didn’t stand out from the others because of its rough appearance, but because it had speckles of white dripping from it.

Cross picked up the Blackstone blade finding more droplets which led away from the dead Pawns. He followed it further through the ruins, occasionally trying to gauge his location but finding nothing but debris and craters around him. He slowed down once the trail was lost in the dark rainwater below, the white trail unrecognizable amongst the muck.

But he wasn’t left to stew in dissatisfaction for long, as a voice suddenly spoke up.

“Through your mercy I persist… an ever-loyal Pawn.” it spoke, just barely a whisper echoing in the back of his mind.

It was a familiar feeling, even newborn Pawns recognized it, but Cross wasn’t willing to answer. Instead, he took several steps forward and waited.

“No wound may cease my efforts, nor end my service.” It came again, quieter.

Cross narrowed his eye before backing up and turning a different direction before stepping forward.

“Grant me aid, dear mother, that I may fight again.” The voice continued, louder this time "To free the King's slaves, relieve them of pain."

Cross continued in that direction as the prayer went on. It was always hard to gauge the exact location of another Pawn’s voice when they used thought speak, but even foolhardy Pawns knew better than to risk it.

He continued through the maze, slowly and carefully making his way towards the voice. Past dead pawns and numerous piles of rubble until he saw it again, the trail of white fluids had grown thick in time, and soon he was jogging along it as his grip tightened on the Blackstone blade.

“May your Pawn spread your mercy even further, dear Mother.” it spoke again, growing louder with each step.

He narrowed his eye at the words before slowing down. Readying the blade in his hand as he turned the corner around a rather large chunk of Blackstone.

And there, on his knees in a pool of milky white water with his back towards Cross, was another Pawn.

A white one.

He was pawing at the water with slow, mechanical movements. He was trying to force his milky white blood back into the gashes covering his body, but Cross knew he was done for. They were surrounded by Blackstone, not Pearlglass.

The only thing he could’ve used was the finely engraved armor he wore, a stark contrast from the simple plating that Cross had. Unfortunately for him, that armor was in pieces all around him. What pieces he could reach seemed far too insufficient for the kind of patchwork remedy he needed.

But besides the armor and the wounds, he was a perfect pale replica of Cross.

“By your will our foes are forgiven, dear Mother.” He leaned back, but his position did nothing to stem the flow “May my efforts continue, by your grace. May the Noirite scourge be forced back, and your love flow free upon the stars.”

Useless calls to a pathetic sovereign, Cross already found his irritation returning in full force. The King never needed such flighty prayers from his servants, only recognition as the true cause for their existence.

Cross had never heard prayers to the Queen before, but he already found them too disgusting to tolerate. Every word the wounded enemy poured into his head made his grip on the blackstone blade tighten, and soon he resumed his approach.

The White Pawn’s prayers stopped, and he turned slowly. Broken pieces of his armor were scattered as he looked back. Soon, his large eyeball turned its gaze towards Cross. The black iris floating in that milky orb focused on him for a moment as the White Pawn’s weak smile faded.

Whether it was his first mission or not, Cross knew the look of dying hope when he saw it. Whatever the white pawn thought he was accomplishing by praying in thought speak, on some level he had to know it would draw the attention of an enemy.

Was it that the blood loss had made him delirious? Or did he just not care? Cross wouldn’t waste time wondering. As far as he knew, the auditory insults he had spewed into Cross’ mind were cause enough to warrant his death.

He must’ve known it was coming, he was in no position to defend himself or flee. And there was only one fate for beaten Pawns on the battlefield.

Despite that, his smile returned. Pale teeth and gums stretching wide and gleaming as Cross approached.

“Noirite.” He greeted, using his actual voice.

“Blanken.” Cross responded.

Two Pawns serving opposing Sovereigns. Natural enemies built to clash. There were probably countless examples of similar scenarios occurring across the entire realm of heaven. Cross would barely stand out amongst the scores of his comrades, fleets and forces beyond counting facing an enemy designed specifically for them. He would’ve liked to imagine that their failure wasn’t something to worry over given the mass scale of the Sovereign’s War.

But he didn’t, it just made him regret not being able to be a bigger part of it. Luckily, he had the best remedy for regret right before him.

A nearly dead Blanken to bleed.