The pre-monsoon weather that lingered during Kapila in Lohaan was always the worst. The air always felt hot and humid and sticky and blistering. At times it was so unforgiving that the throat would have trouble swallowing down food no matter how much water flowed down beforehand.

“I’m getting too old for this weather, Kalaan.” A gentle breeze brushed the elder’s face, taking the burdening heat along with it. It seemed even residing under the cover of the tree above them didn’t help escape the humidity that scorched their throats. “Every year it just hurts more and more. When will The Almighty give me a break? I’m almost in my 73rd year! I promised my grandkids I’d live to 100!”

The man next to him chuckled. “Well Zaffar, maybe you should’ve been more active in your youth. You’d always just sit there and build those abomin—

“Hey!” his friend snapped, waving his hand. “It’s not my fault my devices were so well made!”

Their eyes dug into one another like two lions belonging to two separate prides.

Zaffar blinked and turned to his hand grasping at the metal cup. “I spilt it! Damnit!”

Kalaan chuckled. “We’re so old,” he said, looking at his wrinkled hands. “We hate the weather and yet we’re drinking hot tea.”

“To hell with that! I’m still just as young as I’ve always been!”

“Is that so? What about last week when you broke yo—

“Look, I was getting my grandkid to massage my back and he snapped it instead.” The man threw a few curses. “He’s always been the cheeky one. I should’ve had my daughter beat him to death, but she said I deserved it. Is that the daughter I raised? Bloody hell.”

Kalaan saw the expressions Zaffar’s face changing like a peacocks feathers, changing and morphing —as if settling on one— and finally landing on a frown. “Kids these days.”

“Really? All those faces and only a frown?”

“Shut up.”

He turned his gaze. “They’re coming.”

Kalaan joined him, watching as a uniform column of indigo and red men marched from Gahkhar’s residence.

“It’s time, isn’t it Zaffar?”

His friend nodded. “I hope the Gahkhar kid is wise. I don’t want more sectarian bloodshed. It’s only gotten worse for all of us.”

“Have you heard of the new poem that’s been making rounds in the city?” Kalaan asked. Neither of them took their eyes off the men, watching as they marched in a procession towards the main square of the city —the famous Red Square, where many martyrs had been put to death by the Simbaq’s a good century ago and by the Suhliqs just two decades before.

Today would bring the first royal decree since Lord Gahkhar arrived.

“Is it that recent one?” replied his friend. “You’ve always liked literature, though I don’t see the point in reading unless it’s the words of the Almighty.”

Kalaan frowned. “It’s not my fault I’m more cultured than you.” He then glanced upwards, watching as birds of different stripes settled on the branches, as if interested in the petty affairs of the ever-gathering crowd. “I like it, it’s different from all the old ones from the saints and priests. I don’t know who wrote it, but they are Lohaani. That much I can feel from the lyrics.”

“Really?” said the other. “Well, now you’ve got me curious. What is this poem?”

The man chuckled. “It’s called ‘Rebirth,’ but the person in it hasn’t attained enlightenment.”

“Rebirth?” Zaffar took a sip of his tea. He then let out a heavy breath, as if rejecting the scorching heat of the water. “Forgive me if I’m wrong Kalaan, but shouldn’t being reborn imply they’ve become enlightened?”

“Well… it should, but the poet makes it a point that those who follow the path of righteousnesses have only started in their journey,” said the man. “I never expected someone to use the violence we see everyday as the basis for a poem. It’s rare. Rare and beautiful, I’ve even memorized it by heart.”

“It’s that well done?” His friend asked.

“Of course,” replied the man. “You sound overly skeptical.”

He took a sip of tea from the metal cup in his hands and closed his eyes.

I have learned so much from

The Truth

That I can no longer call myself

A Sudhist

A Haraan

A Kashaari

An Asthathaman

The Truth has shared with me

Itself

Shattering within me

All prejudice and bias

All hatred and deceit

All ignorance and conceit

And now I stand

Liberated.

Free from my despair,

I find myself

Leaving the fragments of my ignorance aside

And move onwards

Undeterred.

Searching.

My eyes widened with humanity

My heart pounding with sadness

As I walk the lone road of redemption

And see with these eyes

The many times I’ve hurt

My fellow brethren.

“The poem,” Zaffar began, leaning forward. His expression seemed a bit solemn, perhaps a little on the saddened side. “I understand what it’s saying all too well.”

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A silence overcame them, watching as Gahkhar’s men entered the perimeter of the square. The warriors formed a tightly-knit barricade around it, holding their talwaars — of a Sudhist variant— upright, like it were a tradition they had long accepted as their own.

“Somethings different about those boys,” said Zaffar. “It’s like they’ve…. been disciplined, or molded in a way.”

Kalaan didn’t respond. Instead, he examined the exact movements of the warriors who he had assumed were far more undisciplined. After all they were probably village boys, how the hell did they beat discipline into village ruffians?

But what he saw surprised him.

“Those aren’t just some village boys Zaffar.” Again he took a sip from his metal cup.

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve seen hell even before joining the warband. Look at their eyes.”

“Really? Let’s see… No, why are they turning away so quickly. AH! There we g—

Quickly his voice fell disquiet.

“You’re right. They have seen hell.”

Kalaan watched on as the warriors pushed the crowd back some more. “Remember the riots from a week back?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why it had begun. I live in the guild quarters after all. I just know it ended with Sudhists and Kashaaris beating the hell out of my people.”

“Well, that’s what happened in the end,” he began. “It started when a Haraan family was killed in broad daylight by a mob of men, apparently for speaking in the Afraari tongue. It turned out they were innocent. The Haraans then marched with weapons into the refugee quarters —where the perpetrators were hiding— so that they could exact revenge. A full-on brawl erupted afterwards and it only ended when Gahkhar’s warriors entered and dragged the men out, on top of some beatings.”

Zaffar sighed. “Why weren’t the guardsmen there? Is a mob of men entering a Haraan quarter not suspicious?”

More sweat dripped from Kalaan’s hair. How much longer would the men make the two elders wait? It was starting to get taxing.

“There might have been some dealing between the guards and the men to begin with,” Kalaan said ominously, trying his best to ignore the worsening heat. “At least, that’s what the rumors have been saying.”

“Curse this land.” Zaffar spit on the ground. “Why can’t our wounds heal. I only want to live in peace, not in constant fear!”

“Old wounds can’t fully heal friend. They remain as scars. The memory of Afraari rule still unsettles my nerves. So many people died in this very square. And so many of them young. I admire their struggle earnestly. They could have served in Gahkhar’s army, or go out and find love. Instead they all died for resisting Afraari laws.”

A chill ran along his shoulders. “I watched every one of them, friend. I watched them all in this exact spot. You weren’t there because you have troubles seeing people hurt, but I watched. I watched every one of those boys die before my eyes. Either because they didn’t want to be a punching bag, or because they wanted to weaken those Suhliq bastards, or because they tried teaching others the sacred Sudhist martial traditions, dating back to the blessed Fifth.” Sweat dripped down his face. “I still remember the one boy who sat cross-legged. He never shed a single tear. You know what they did to him? The Afraaris ripped his scalp off.”

A chill gripped his arms. “When they saw he wasn’t screaming enough pleas for mercy, they bathed him in hot sand. Yet he still didn’t scream. The only ones who did were his parents and by the end of it the only thing you could see was the blood soaking up the sand.”

He wiped his eyes, not knowing if they were sweat or tears. “Friend. We are old, we are not important anymore. But look at the souls of the boys that reside in the Red Square, who had more courage than what any of us could muster in a lifetime.” He gripped his hands. “It hurts. It really does. When Lord Gahkhar took the city that night, I just wanted to go out and scream: ‘kill these Haraan bastards.’ And that’s why this poem is so… so strong. It’s telling us to all look in the mirror and acknowledge the long road that lies ahead towards reconciliation. Nobody wants to kill, but in order to firmly overcome that primal desire, we must be able to forgive. That’s even why, instead of saying God, or the Sudhist ‘Creator’ or the your ‘Almighty,’ the poet replaced it with a reference to ‘The Truth.’ It’s meant to be a reflection for everyone, not just the Sudhists, Kashaaris or Haraans.”

Kalaan raised his head. A Sudhist priest, clad in indigo, made his way to the center of the raised square. He gave a greeting to the crowd, two hands firmly joined together for a few fleeting seconds, before beginning the Sudhist ritual that came before a Gahkhar proclamation. He’d already heard it a good few many times already and again today it repeated once more.

“It’s been a while since I heard those same words.”

“Yes it has.” Zaffar’s words sounded like a reprieve for a moment. “The past twenty years have truly taken a toll on us,” said Zaffar in a hushed voice, not to disturb the priest. “So many have died. Do you remember the chaos when the Horidnozai invaded Lohaan? They wanted to hang every innocent Sudhist and even paid bounties for their scalps, knowing that they considered their hair sacred. They forced the women to work the stone mills while their hungry babies cried beside them. And they did. To comfort the children they simply sang lullabies.”

The two sat there in silence.

“The Suhliqs wanted my family to speak their tongue.” He scoffed. “Like hell I’ll learn the tongue of those who kill my fellow brothers. Yet it sickens me. Here I am, a Haraan, watching as people of my own faith strangle my neighbors necks.”

The priest again clasped his hands, signaling the end of his prayers, before getting off of the square. Always the priests left the square eastwards, where the Sun rose, to signal the journey one strode towards righteousness.

A never ending journey.

What would it have been like if the last Lothaari Raja lived? If he didn’t make that one decision. He lowered his head. He didn’t know the answer. Perhaps the last war was doomed to happen, or it could’ve been avoided at the cost of Lohaan’s honor. But could the young Raja see this coming? His one decision cost Lohaan her head and now the body lay on the ground, the dried dirt soaking up the running blood of the last 20 years.

“Attention! Citizens of Gahkhpur!”

Again Kalaan looked up.

Standing at the center of the Red Square was a tall man, wearing the Gahkhar indigo and red colors. His figure was imposing, consisting of broad shoulders that revealed the muscles under the seemingly restricted cloth. He fashioned an indigo turban and a peacock feather rested at the front, an undying symbol a Sudhist lord would give his chief messengers.

“I am the messenger for Lord Bhagat Gahkhar the Liberator! Grandson of Gurman Gahkhar! Son of Ishaan Gahkhar!” said the man, the words a common practice of the aristocracy. He then continued on, reading from a document unfurled between his hands. “Today, in response to the violence that has rocked the land two weeks prior, Lord Gahkhar has decreed that every citizen within his domain is treated without regard for his wealth, status, caste, creed or faith. For too long have our own peoples fought amongst themselves. This violence will please no group and will only further a cycle of violence that may have no end in sight. It may also give our enemies a chance, to use this chaos to strike.”

The man gazed at the crowds for a moment, perhaps judging the expressions on everyone’s face. Kalaan also turned his gaze, watching the slow nods the people gave back. “Lord Gahkhar, on his word as the arbiter of justice, shall set a legal code and establish courts of law immediately within the next few years. This court system, among other roles, shall arbitrate cases between two parties and be used by Lord Gahkhar, or the state, as a means of punishing perpetrators who are accused of committing crimes. No group of persons are exempt from this system. Until that day comes, Lord Gahkhar shall remain as the primary arbiter of justice and all men presently in detention shall remain in their cells. Any crimes must be reported to the guardsmen to be investigated by Lord Gahkhar’s warriors. Any circumventing of the relevant avenues of justice will be met with imprisonment. Likewise, inaction on the part of the guardsmen and the warriors shall be met with immediate imprisonment and the cessation of any benefits.”

Some sections of the crowd murmured at the last few sentences, but the messenger didn’t seem to care at all. Rather, he gave a servant the proclamation and joined his two hands together. “Praise be to Lord Gahkhar!”

“Praise be to Lord Gahkhar!” shouted most of the crowd back. In an instant the guards filed back into columns and, guarding both flanks of the messenger, marched back towards the Gahkhar residence.

“That was bold. I was assuming something else entirely, but it seems Lord Gahkhar plans to chart a better course,” whispered Zaffar, watching as the crowds dispersed. Kalaan raised his brow. Only moments before he spoke of Gahkahr as nothing but a child. “He knows the people want order and stability above anything, so this court system will bring just that.”

“Yes, even going as far as saying that he’ll use the courts too, would at least mean that he won’t be arresting people or carrying unjust detentions. That’s a complete shift from the Suhliqs or even some of the Sudhist lords on the interior. And it makes sense too. We need a secular system. If one group murders the other, then under which religious court should the perpetrators he held under?”

The song of summer rang just behind, the voice a shrill one. Perhaps it was a female cicada laying her eggs, but Kalaan felt it held an even deeper meaning that even he in all his scholarship couldn’t understand. At least not at the moment. He drank the tea with miniscule sips, eventually finishing the beast that had kept his hand boiling for the good hour and a half.

Zaffar did the same, then landing his cup on the side. “Well, I should probably get ba—

“Father!”

Zaffar turned. His son approached them at top speed, his clothing blackened from the work in the shop.

He stopped in front of his father. “Fa… ther!” He then clasped his hands to greet Kalaan. “And mister… My apologies for the tardiness.”

“No no, you seem quite busy.”

The man then turned back to Zafaar.

“It’s finished.”

Zaffar raised a brow. “Truly?”

“Yes,” he said excitedly. “I think. I followed the blueprints he gave, everything. I think it’s done.”

Zaffar got up. “Well then, it’s time to inspect it then.” He faced his friend. “Would you care to join?”

“But father!” protested his son. “We can’t! We signed that document!”

“What document?” asked Kalaan, confused. Who would make people sign documents? And what purpose did those documents have for laymen like them?

“Ah, yes that’s true.” His expression seemed regretful. “You’ll see it in time my friend. For now, I can’t show it. Not even a single scrap of metal.”

It’s that serious? Just who made them sign the document? Kalaan smiled. “I see, that’s too bad,” he said, getting back up. “But I wouldn’t be able to come even if I could! I’ve got something to do myself. Farewell then.”

He gave his body a good stretch. On some hot days, it was best not to go to hotter areas like the crafting district and their blistering blacksmithing. That was, of course, if one wished to maintain their sanity in the pre-monsoon nightmare.