The garden hung two miles above the ground. One needed to use the private elevator—or magic—to reach it. Once there, one could easily lose oneself in the vastness of this artificial Eden. There were mazes of trees, lush fields of flowers, multiple sculptures and fountains... And at the very center of this massive floating piece of land stood the mansion. Ancient, majestic, imposing.

It was there that Rakash took me to dine.

I had been there for two hours, and he had yet to tell me why he had summoned me.

The man disliked that I’d been late, yet showed no particular hurry in coming to the point.

I suspected he did this on purpose. He was known, after all, for his propensity for theatrics.

Part of that was visibly displayed all around me as I walked down the golden tiles of a lavishly furnished hall. The six feet tall walls were made of shining emeralds, the translucent ceiling letting in the rays of the sun.

I will not comment further on the sumptuousness of his residence, or the eccentricities of the meal which followed, for I sense this would do us a disservice and only help feed his own bloated ego.

Suffice it to say we were well fed.

I say ‘we’ for I discovered during this meal that others had been similarly convened. And they, too, had little idea for what purpose.

Had he been waiting for all of us to arrive before he explained himself?

Or was he toying with us?

I expected both to be true.

Nor was I wrong.

As evening wore off, I noticed servants remained standing behind some of the guests. I thought little of it at first. I only realized something was wrong when our host motioned for our glasses to be filled, yet those who stood remained in place, as unmoving as statues.

I glanced at Rakash and saw he was looking at me, twiddling his pendant, with a wicked grin on his face. As if he had been waiting for me to see, to understand. That moment, when our eyes met, was like a signal.

He gave a short nod, and all of a sudden the twelve standing servants—I was later able to confirm the count—took a step forward and slit the throats of those guests they had stood behind. The victims’ faces fell into their plates as blood gushed out of their wounds.

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Of those of us who still lived, three jumped out of their seats in panic. These were ruthlessly provided the same cold fate.

I and five others, alone, survived. We sat through the whole ordeal, looking around with more curiosity and confusion than fear.

I then surmised this was the reason he had spared us.

Nor was I wrong.

***

Legends abound about Ahuaxa. And as legends go, most of them contradict each other.

Some argued it was buried deep under the sands of the Sahuac Desert; others thought it an island that sunk to the depths of the sea after some catastrophic natural phenomenon; while the majority claimed the city still thrived, to this day, its streets crowded with gods.

That was preposterous, of course. Michael had always steered away from religious beliefs. He was convinced, deep inside, that there were no such things as gods walking the earth. After all, if this was true, then why did no one know the city’s location? Why did no one speak of it? Would there not be ongoing commerce, or exchanges of some sort?

His preferred theory was that Ahuaxa’s citizens had left—either en masse, or little by little over the course of many generations—until only empty streets remained. Over the years, nature spread over its walls and structures, hiding the fabled city from sight and memory.

As for its location, he still believed the jungle near Annarset to be the most likely candidate.

A voice interrupted his thoughts, rising from behind him.

“Wassab!”

He had decided to take a walk to clear his thoughts and enjoy the cool evening breeze—a pleasant change from the searing heat which bathed the city by day—and was headed toward the seafront.

When he turned to find the source of the call, he saw a young boy running in his direction, waving his hands.

“Wassab!”

The boy’s face looked familiar, though he could not quite place it.

“Yes?” he asked.

“My father would like to talk to you.”

“And who would your father be?”

“His name is Asanroh. He waits for you.”

The boy grabbed his hand and pulled him in the direction he had come from. There was urgency in the child’s tone, so he complied despite his confusion.

“What is this about?”

“He will explain everything,” said the boy.

They hurried through streets and alleys—that grew smaller and darker as they advanced. Michael became increasingly wary and concerned.

A thought crossed his mind, but it fled before it could fully form. He tried to focus on it, to make it come back... it seemed important.

And it came back to him in a flash. A memory.

He knew now where he had seen the boy.

At a protest, by fanatics who wanted to throw all foreigners off the planet.

He froze and pulled his hand away.

“Hurry, wassab!” said the boy, looking back at him.

“No. I’m not following you. I have things to do.”

He started to backtrack, but noticed shadowy figures standing behind him.

When he glanced at the boy, he saw him running off into an alley.

Two angry-looking men came to stand before him.

“You will stop your search for the city of the gods.”

A circle had formed now all around him—at least a dozen men, all with menacing faces.

“Do you understand?” insisted the one who had spoken.

“It is not my decision to make,” he said slowly as he calculated his odds. They did not look so good.

“You will make it nonetheless.”

The stranger nodded, and the circle closed in on Michael.