From "A Dream of Storms" by William Kenney

t smiled and the air crackled about their heads. Its sorcery grew as the minutes passed. Tongues of black flame showed in its eyes but they were cold. A long dead cold.

No.

He noticed movement over the thing's shoulder. A flicker of light. It was one of the little girls. She ran toward them, torch in hand. Hagan tried to call out to her, to stop her. He could not get the words out. She touched the flame to the Inquitis' back and it went up like kindling. It released Hagan from its grip and howled in pain. The sound was unbearable to their mortal ears and all within earshot cupped their hands to their heads.

Hagan wrenched his blade free as the Inquitis staggered, enveloped by violent dancing fire. It was consumed by a flame with no light as if its very essence changed the laws of nature. It collapsed to its knees, its head still on level with Hagan's. Within the dark inferno, its eyes still held him as if it knew him. It showed its teeth once more and then its skull melted, joining the blackened remains that were its body.

From "Blood of Requiem" by Daniel Arenson

War.

War rolled over the world with fire and wings.

The Vir Requis marched. Men. Women. Children. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ashy, their bellies tight. As their cities burned behind them, they marched with cold eyes. All had come to fight this day: the young and the old, the strong and the wounded, the brave and the frightened. They were five thousand. They had no more places to hide.

The dying sun blazed red against them. The wind keened. Five thousand. The last of their race.

We will stand, we will fly, we will perish with fire and tooth, Benedictus thought, jaw clenched. Men will say: Requiem did not fade with a whimper, but fell with a thunder that shook the mountains.

And so he marched, and behind him his people followed, banners red and gold, thudding in the wind. Last stand of Requiem.

It was strange, he thought, that five thousand should move together so silently. Benedictus heard only thumping boots. No whispers. No sobs. No whimpers even from the children who marched, their eyes too large in their gaunt faces. The Vir Requis were silent today, silent for the million of their kin already dead, for this day when their race would perish, enter the realm of memory, then legend, then myth. Nothing but thudding boots, a keening wind, and a grumbling sky. Silence before the roar of fire.

Then Benedictus saw the enemy ahead.