Neddin lies down on the fur mat in the master bedroom on the second floor. The room has no windows, he knows how vulnerable are those leaders with a taste for the night scenery. Several times he has taken advantage of such a whim to eliminate unruly chieftains. All in the name of La Cuna, because he was taught since childhood that peace is maintained and polished with a strict hand on the people, and with pain, also from the people.

He always felt like telling the wrinkled wise guys in the temple that their prayers are useless, and that it is he, and his lineage, that keeps La Cuna safe. But the mythology needs to be maintained. In crisis situations, sometimes steadfast traditions are what help people stay in the right lane. Their lane. The lane of more than 200 years ago, which high-flown discourse multiplies to 1000.

(If only I could manipulate the weather and bend nature in the same way) He thinks with his eyes glued to the ceiling.

Such musings were typical. Those who lacked power were far from understanding the dilemmas of the rulers. To make matters worse, when everything began to go wrong (not their fault, but due to the tricks of external agents such as nature itself), the people, instead of lowering their heads and enduring as the lessons commanded, sang praises to heaven asking for a Messiah and mortifying themselves.

(All they have to do is endure. Is it so difficult? There is no evil that lasts a hundred years)

With that thought of reproach to the nonconformist worms, he closes his eyes to fall asleep. In that indefinite period in which the mind leaves the darkness to weave dreamlike scenarios, the nightmare begins.

Legions cry out under a red storm. Violent swirling clouds compete to devour each other, spitting lightning bolts that illuminate an army of blue and gold. Infantry clamor words that overflowing passion turns to noise. The innumerable worship a box built of bone and metal. Tossed to one side of the lectern of corpses and scrap metal are the tattered coats of arms of the Elon's Principality and the Earth Nations Alliance, near a stone epitaph that dictates:

HERE LIES THE DIVINE WAR

Among the rows of skulls used as mortar for the box, he recognizes some sockets that speak to him from the depths of the blackness, shouting a silent warning. In that empty gaze Neddin recognizes the nuance of his own essence.

(My gaze! My head! My death sentence!)

Weightless as he is, floating on that fight-hungry stage, Neddin raises frightened eyes to the man standing atop the tower of glory and death. Chester Lancaster bare-chested to show the scars; his raised hand wielding a sword; a black patch over his left eye; his body wrapped in billowing white cloths that bring him the aura of a Greek hero; his crown born of a gold that was melted together with the chains of dead slavers; And the combat readiness imbued in the command he releases to his Yehad.

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"Freedom hurts!" roars the lion. "But that pain is worth enduring!"

The soldiers and machines stand at attention. The speaker intensifies his speech.

"There is no paradise out there! There are plenty of them! But nothing comes for free. It's time to put on your pants and bleed, and fight, and take what's ours! But I'll tell you something, my troops. I'm already in paradise, I live without kneeling before anyone! What more heaven than that?!"

The mass explodes into cheers, but Chester's voice continues above the tumult.

"Their destinies are mine! My destiny is yours!"

The Lancasterian stretches out his hands as if seeking to embrace the world.

"Justice! Wisdom! Honor! Glory! Blood! Free beyond this earth...!"

He points to the sky with the metal-crowned blade.

"And beyond the stars!"

The storm grows, and after the flicker of lightning, Neddin glimpses behind the Lancaster Nadjela, the eldest of his daughters, more mature and temperate, smiling happily, with four little blue-haired bastards clinging to her arms and ankles. But what filled Neddin with terror is not the sight of his offspring turned into a devil's whore, but a more ethereal, ghostly figure, covered in translucent black, returning his gaze from further back: the mother consort Nadjela, just as beautiful as the day he exiled her.

"I didn't mean to!"

Neddin shouts at her.

"Send Tashala and Bironte to fetch you! I would convince the people that heaven forgave you and healed you!"

He clenches his trembling hands.

"But it was too late.... I was warned that the slavers had you in their chains. I couldn't risk my people and fight them! It would destroy our peace!"

His voice breaks, but it doesn't seem to reach anyone.

"I only wanted you to think about your mistake, to understand that what I am doing is for the future of us all, and then to return devotedly to my arms!"

The only look that repaired in his existence is his wife. Neddin wished to find any feeling in those eyes, even hatred would be enough to warm his insides, but there is only an icy indifference that neither accepts nor expects anything from him.

Neddin wakes up. He sits on the mat, drenched in cold sweat above the waist and something warm underneath. His heart thumps from within, and the blood in his mouth hints that he chewed his tongue.

"Zell, where's Zell?!" he cries in desperation.

The falcon's champion appears a few seconds later, maintaining a stoic countenance even in the face of the deep stench of ammonia that pollutes the bedroom. He finds Neddin changing into more noble garments and donning his long feathered crown.

Neddin took little interest in the reasons for Zell's early arrival, he had more pressing matters than the bedtime tastes of his most loyal man. He faces the champion, and with all the poise that anger towards Chester conferred upon him, he commands using cutting phrases to avoid any hesitation.

"We must act. Tonight. Without delay"