“Let it be known henceforth that blasphemy—defined as the worship of any Elevated not assigned by the Ministry of Faith—shall be punishable by death. Upon formal conversion, each citizen is granted a single grace period of precisely 48 hours, after which absolute and unwavering devotion to one’s assigned Elevated must be demonstrated. This edict shall be enforced without exception or consideration of rank, origin, or the particular nature of one’s designated object of worship.”
– Edict 2.35, Ministry of Orthodoxy, Lhasa, Year 307 of the Age of the Tetrarchy
It was night. It was day. Hardly mattered.
Asleep or awake. Now those were categories he could get behind.
He often had idle thoughts when he wrote these letters. Could not be avoided. Something about the monotony of reports that seemed to serve as a catalyst for free-ranging thoughts. The scratching of pen on paper reduced to a distant drone beneath the whims of his mind.
The wooden floor beneath him creaked subtly as he stamped the letter with his sigil. Stamps. He shook his head. Not everything that came out of the Ministry of Innovation was an improvement. It was not too long ago that he would press good old seals into molten wax. More gravitas, in his opinion. Not that anyone cared to ask. You cannot stop progress, they say. I say, he thought, they don’t even try.
Around him lay stacks of books, the occasional letter, and an assortment of tastefully arranged uniforms. A rainbow of textiles in an otherwise drab cabin. Conspicuously absent from his desk—from his entire room in fact—were candles.
Finishing the last of his letters, he rose from his chair and collected the whole bundle. He smoothed his vest absentmindedly and made his way out of his cabin.
Outside, pungent saltiness filled the air. Above the ship swirled a cloud of black birds. Damned creatures seemed to follow him everywhere. Word was that the crew had sighted a pod of dolphins earlier. A rare spectacle in the Strait, or so he was told. Or had that already been the day before? So hard to tell sometimes.
On his way to the messenger birds, his path crossed with a man of average height and dark skin. Though maybe looking a touch paler than usual. A great deal paler, now that he had a closer look. Ah yes, Ravena’s little pet. He had known him as a name on an organizational chart before this expedition. Now he was more than just a name. Curious how these things go.
“Omvar, a pleasure,” he said with a flourish, “How are you finding the sea air?”
Omvar awoke. Not for the first time that night. Would not be the last time either, if the previous night was any indication. He rubbed his bleary eyes and cautiously sat up, the ship swaying deceptively gently beneath him. Bastard ship. Glancing through the small porthole, he saw that it was still light-dark outside, the moon and stars competing with the ambient glow shrouding the ship. Loud snores echoed from the adjacent room. I’d bet my job that’s Orhan, he thought.
Time had blurred into a vague concept on this journey; his grumbling stomach was the only pressing reality that remained. And it had become an uncomfortably familiar feeling on this trip.
Resigned, Omvar ran a hand through his disheveled hair, levered himself from his bunk, and, somewhat unsteadily, navigated his way to the deck. The crisp night air hit him like a wall as he stepped outside. He briefly had to collect himself. Blinking against the ambient light, he noticed the crew bustling around, propelling them all through the strait.
Normal people—sane people—avoided the Strait of Alghenon at night. While it was more like a huge river than the open sea, they would not be the first ship to satisfy the hunger of the strait. Though Omvar had to admit—grudgingly—that normal people also could not manipulate light at will, which did tend to mitigate the greatest risk of night-time navigation: crashing into something. So, the sailors worked in shifts, though he pitied the poor souls who would have to re-adjust their day-night cycle after this voyage.
His attention was suddenly pulled away from the crew. Somewhere in front of him, the sun was approaching, interrupting Omvar’s forced stroll to the bow of the ship.
No, wait.
He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. No sun. Just an orb of warm, yellow light. And, in its middle, a silhouette. Oh no, he groaned inwardly.
“Omvar, a pleasure,” Leftos said, “How are you finding the sea air?”
“Hmm,” Omvar replied eloquently.
Leftos, ever the cursed picture of perfection, donned a pristine white uniform, with scarlet threads at the seams. As Omvar watched, the delegate’s hands, encased in matching white gloves, were occupied with brushing back his shoulder-length brown hair.
Leftos chuckled. “Can’t sleep either?”
Shaking his head, Omvar responded, “No, the sea isn’t treating me kindly.”
“Ah, I see,” Leftos replied, nodding sympathetically. “I’ve got just the thing for that.” He raised his hand, causing the light orb to glow brighter, illuminating Omvar’s face with a ghostly pallor. “Light has always been a balm for my seasickness.”
Omvar squinted, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. Well, the even greater brightness. “I don’t think that’ll work for me, thanks,” he managed.
“I see.” Looking slightly deflated, Leftos dimmed the light again. “Well, I need to dispatch these reports to Kel. You should try and get some rest, we’ll reach Algis in a few hours.”
With a graceful half-bow, Leftos took his leave and strode off. Omvar watched as a sailor scrambled to avoid colliding with the Kelian Delegate, nearly groveling in his haste to apologize.
To most of their crew, meeting Leftos was being as close to a god as one could come without invoking the wrath of the Ministry, walking the fine line between reverence and heresy. A Tetrarchy Delegate. What was that saying again? ‘The Tetrarchy did not need to send an army, it sent a Delegate.’ Omvar had even caught the other Elevated with looks of wonder on their faces. Yet not too reverent of course, not with people from the Ministry (and potential accusations of blasphemy) aboard.
To be fair, for all intents and purposes Leftos was a god. The only thing keeping Omvar from joining the ranks of the fawning masses was that he made people like Leftos. At some level of bureaucracy, assets such as Leftos were utterly dependent on his cooperation. So where does that leave me, he thought, in the grand scheme of things?
A sudden lurch of the ship interrupted his musings and reminded Omvar what he had been originally doing, before his encounter with the Delegate. He continued his hourly pilgrimage to the bow.
Time passed and the ethereal glow of Leftos’ dome of light gradually succumbed to the encroaching sunlight from the east. After he dealt with his unsettled stomach, Omvar had chosen to remain on deck, not quite ready yet to dare his bunk again. Only now, with the arrival of dawn painting the sky in hues of molten brass, did he fully realize that they had already left the strait. Around him stretched wide, sparkling ocean. Only the coastline of the Belt on one side and the distant outline of Algis on the horizon gave Omvar some frame of reference.
“The south.” Rashaad materialized beside him, his somber demeanor in stark contrast to the glittering ocean. “It’s an ill-omened place. Nothing good ever comes from it.”
Intrigued, Omvar turned to him, offering a light-hearted reply. “Well, if you’re not a fan of spiced food, I suppose you might be right.” Rashaad returned a flat look, clearly unamused and not bothering to engage further. Traveling on a ship did not exactly bring out Omvar’s best side, as he learned rapidly.
After a moment of silence to make his point, the Elevated beside him resumed. “Leftos sent me. He says to prepare for a trek through the jungle. We’ll camp at the ruins tonight. Tomorrow, you can begin your work.”
“I cannot wait,” Omvar retorted drily. Unfazed, or perhaps oblivious to Omvar’s sarcasm, Rashaad nodded in agreement before vanishing once again. Omvar followed his departure a moment longer, before he turned back to the ocean.
Not one of Omvar’s charges, that one. Though of course he knew which of his colleagues administered Rashaad. Not that they were supposed—or even permitted—to discuss such matters. But, as Avila so aptly put it, Rumors are like grains of sand, annoying and impossible to avoid. Admittedly, he was somewhat eager to witness Rashaad’s powers in action. Perhaps the opportunity would arise.
Omvar’s short hair whipped wildly in the sea breeze as he watched the ship cut through the ocean, steadily approaching the dark speck on the horizon. It was hard to make out at first, but as they got closer, a small island emerged, blanketed in dense jungle. Vines and trees growing so closely intertwined that they formed an almost solid canopy over the ground.
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They approached Algis from the north. The report had indicated that Fort Algis rose on the island’s opposite side, a military bridgehead safeguarding the strait from southern attacks. It would have been easier to dock there, but Leftos had insisted that the beach here provided a more manageable route to the ruins. It certainly doesn’t hurt, Omvar thought, that the soldiers at the fort stay ignorant of our mission. Plans within plans. What are we really doing here?
They anchored the ship and switched to small rowboats. Omvar’s hand involuntarily gripped the boat’s edge, knuckles whitening, as the swaying intensified. He swore to himself that, after this whole trip, he would never set foot on a ship again. Omvar suddenly missed his office with a ferocious intensity.
Orhan, ever the heavy sleeper, had dozed until the very last moment and was still yawning expansively as they disembarked, their boots grating on the bone-white sand. “Hey, wake up, Orhan,” Omvar said, playfully nudging his friend. “We’re here.”
“Very funny. Tell me, friend, now that you mention it. I seem to recall that a certain someone had a hard time sleeping on the ship. And this same someone seemed to have had an urgent and frequent need to—”
“All right, all right,” Omvar hastily whispered, gesturing for Orhan to quiet down. Despite the gentle ribbing, he could not deny the relief of solid ground under his feet. Whoever had invented ships had made a grave mistake.
“No need for secrecy, we’re all friends here,” came Leftos sonorous voice from the front. That Delegate was decidedly too amused for his own sake. Shooting a dark glance at Orhan, Omvar fell in line with the rest of the group.
They made their way through the lush jungle, guided by Leftos, who had confidently proclaimed this as the least strenuous path to the ruins. Omvar silently questioned that. Referring to their route as a path seemed exceedingly charitable to begin with; it was more of a marginally less dense thicket that the soldiers had to hack their way through.
As they entered the verdant maze for good, the jungle came alive with sounds and movement. Omvar spotted toucans amongst the trees, beaks as colorful as the surrounding heliconias, specks of orange and red amongst the green depths. The sight invoked a sense of nervous excitement in him. This was very different from Kel and the Ministry. The deeper they ventured, the thicker the air became with oppressive humidity. Even the light itself grew dimmer, were it not for Leftos, who seemed to exude a soft glow, staving off the encroaching shadows.
Dense vegetation draped over their path. Machetes in hand, the Suns of Kel accompanying them hacked at vines and palm fronds. As tireless as their movements seemed, sweat poured down their weary faces; their clothes clinging to them like a second skin. Beside him, Orhan was panting heavily, clearly not used to this type of physical exertion. Omvar was faring only slightly better, if he was honest with himself. Only buoyed by the energy of youth. Compared to Orhan, in any case. The man was practically ancient.
Omvar, trailing directly behind Leftos, noticed the delegate had opted for a different outfit today—a mint-green doublet adorned with a sprawling, stitched rose. The design trailed over his shoulder and down his back. Did he try to match his clothing to the jungle? Omvar rolled his eyes and wondered what Maht’s spotters had seen in that man.
Suddenly, the rose seemed to change color. Or, rather, intensified its already deeply carmine hue. Could that insufferable man now even change the colors on his clothing?
But then he noticed that some of the surrounding foliage—by the Belt, even his own tunic—was also flecked with crimson. It finally occurred to him to turn around.
Three things happened in that moment.
First, a soldier toward the rear collapsed onto the jungle floor, reduced to a barely recognizable lump of meat, with the occasional bit of black armor peeking out. Second, Omvar’s gaze met a pair of amber eyes, as large as small pomegranates, with slit pupils. Third, another half-dozen mottled gray-brown shapes, feathered and somewhat taller than a man, sprang from the jungle with ear-splitting shrieks.
Then, too many things happened at once.
Belatedly, the remaining Suns raised their weapons in the face of the onslaught. In mere instants, razor-sharp talons tore through armor, teeth sunk into flesh. The piercing screeches of the creatures were soon joined by the terrified screams of their prey, echoing through the dense jungle.
A wave of blinding light—shimmering in the air—rolled over a petrified Omvar. Leftos. The beasts immediately stalled their attack, dark shapes recoiling amongst ear drum-shattering roars of rage. The sliver of Omvar’s mind that was still untouched by terror realized that, while useful, this white-hot incandescence was something of a double-edged sword— if they could not see them, their soldiers also would not be able to target the reptilian creatures.
Then he heard a surprised cry from Orhan, interrupting his thoughts. Immediately followed by a whipping sound. Something thick shot past Omvar, crashing into one of the monsters with a reverberating thump. If his squinted eyes interpreted the dark shapes right, Rashaad had conjured a thicket of brambles that ensnared the creature, its enraged screeches rising above the din of battle. As expected from the Thorn of Akhantar. Omvar grimaced.
Another one of the reptiles coiled to strike, eyeing Rashaad. Only to discover that it was rooted to the spot by entangling vines protruding from the wet jungle floor. If its misshapen visage could have expressed surprise it likely would have, as it crashed face-first on the ground. In the same moment, Leftos dissipated his sea of light and, with a flourish, engulfed the farthest creature in an intense ball of luminance, too brilliant to directly look at.
The soldiers took their cue and swiftly closed in on the ensnared reptiles, careful to stay out of the reach of their talons. Out of the corner of his eye, Omvar glimpsed one of the younger Akhantari Elevated land a crushing blow on the skull of a lizard, splitting it like an overripe melon. More crimson, trying to conquer the jungles of Algis.
The remaining three creatures, their eyes glowing faintly with something eerily like intelligence, paused. Could it be? The reptiles seemed to be conferring, assessing their adversaries. A moment later, they launched themselves into a coordinated charge.
One raced toward Leftos, the others veered toward Rashaad, bringing them alarmingly close to Omvar. Yet his legs still refused to obey his desperate commands to move, as if Rashaad’s roots were entwined around his feet. He could only watch helplessly, as the two giant predators barreled toward him.
“Shield your eyes—now!” Leftos commanded, palpable urgency lining his voice. The soldiers did not hesitate; their trust in the Delegate seemed absolute. Omvar faltered. He wants us to turn our backs to these abominations?!
“Now!!”
Omvar abandoned his, rather plentiful, doubts and not only averted his gaze but shut his eyes tightly for good measure. Immediately, his imagination ran rampant, envisioning the searing pain of sharp teeth sinking into his back, his calves, his neck.
Snap, snap, snap.
Each crisp sound came with a burst of bright light that penetrated even through Omvar’s closed lids, like lightning flashing across a stormy sky.
As he reached the limits of his endurance, he risked a glance, his eyes flickering open despite his dread. The beasts stumbled about aimlessly, eyes milky and vacant. One of them, in a burst of frustration, slashed wildly through the air, inadvertently slashing the throat of its comrade. With a triumphant snarl, it hurled itself onto the fallen creature, tearing into it with blind fervor.
Omvar almost pitied them. Rashaad and the others moved in to dispatch the remaining creatures. Constricting roots strangled one, another was brought down by a crossbow bolt piercing one of its sightless eyes. Dead center. Omvar, impressed by the shot, searched for the marksman and spotted the last of the Akhantari Elevated, Jahan, a crossbow in each hand.
Finally, the last of the screeching reptiles collapsed with a resonating thud, impaled by multiple standard-issue Kelian swords. The ensuing silence was pierced only by the groans of the wounded and the distant hum of the jungle. Even the toucans had fallen silent for a moment. Omvar felt his clenched muscles begin to relax, his grip on his own dagger—still tucked in his belt—loosening, as if it too could exhale.
Predictably, Orhan was the first to speak, pen and notes in hand. “Now what was that? I’ve never heard of such creatures before!”
“Some kind of monster from the south.” With a dismissive shake of his head, Leftos adjusted his gloves. “What more is there to know?” As Orhan began to approach one of the fallen creatures, clearly curious to inspect them more closely, he continued sharply. “Our mission—historian—is to explore the ruins ahead, not to dissect some freakish chicken lizard. We need to build litters for the wounded and bury the dead. I suggest you start your work there.”
With a last longing look toward the beasts, Orhan sighed disappointedly and set about gathering wood for the litters. Omvar joined him, hands still trembling slightly. Healing would be a useful Elevated power now. Too bad that was a rare gift, often only achieved through creative reinterpretation of the actual power. His father, that old crook, had once told him of an Elevated who had accelerated the healing process, sealing gaping wounds before the eyes of astonished onlookers. Those powers can also be useful for things besides killing sometimes. Omvar let his gaze wander over the blood-spattered scene. Sometimes.
“Wait…” His brow furrowed as he looked at Rashaad, a thought slowly coalescing. “If you could do that,” and he gestured toward the roots, which were even now receding into the ground, “then why did you let these poor guys hack their way through the entire jungle?”
Rashaad met his gaze, eyes revealing a calculated indifference as his veiled lips moved subtly—it reminded Omvar of some kind of mantra. “You could wash your own clothes, bureaucrat. You could cook your own food,” the tall man finally retorted, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
Omvar grunted, unconvinced. Probably neither the time nor place, though, to argue about fairness and equality on the edge of the world, surrounded by carnage.
As Rashaad turned away, Orhan leaned in and murmured, “Quite the philosopher we have here, don’t you think? Perhaps I should collaborate with him on my next article.” Omvar gave him a smirk and resumed his search for sticks.
After what felt like endless hours of trudging through the dense jungle—now further slowed down by their wounded—the ruins finally came into view. Ancient stone structures, draped in vines and moss, grew from the forest floor. Omvar stood atop a small incline, overlooking the cluster of edifices nestled in the base of the gentle valley. Above them, the surrounding silk cotton trees nearly managed to swaddle the entire opening with a green blanket. The air was redolent with the sickly-sweet scent of decay, sending a shudder through him.
Orhan’s eyes sparkled as he sidled next to Omvar, drinking in the long-lost architecture as if it were a sacred text. “This is incredible,” he whispered.
Omvar turned to Leftos and asked. “Remind me, how were these ruins originally discovered?”
Leftos reluctantly pulled his gaze from the ruins to consider Omvar for a moment. “We have our ways.” Leaving a frustrated Omvar in his wake, he strode toward Rashaad and started to deliver instructions. Undoubtedly, these orders would happily trickle down the chain of command in a second. Omvar slumped down next to a mossy boulder to rest his weary feet.
As predicted, moments later the young Elevated approached. Jahan, if Omvar remembered correctly. “Orders in,” he said, “we’re setting up camp. You’re with the historian on cooking—might as well bond over burnt meat.”
Snapping to attention, Omvar searched for Rashaad’s face. Of course, his mouth was concealed behind the veil, but he could swear that the bastard was smirking. Perhaps something of a philosopher after all.