The boy's breath came in bursts as he scurried down the wide hallway. His heart raced as he glanced over his shoulder, hearing footsteps grow louder behind him. Instead of running down the middle, where the thick, colored carpet muffled his steps, he shuffled across the cool, marbled floor. The thrilling rush of being somewhere forbidden transformed every creak and whisper into a drumbeat in his ears, like distant thunder growing closer. His pulse quickened; his eyes darted from shadow to shadow, desperately searching for a place to hide.
Without a second thought, his eyes caught sight of a door slightly ajar, and he hurried inside, unaware that he had closed it with a quiet slam.
His mother had never allowed him to enter this room, for he was still just a boy, even though he was bright and mischievous.
His father, however, wanted him inside. One day, the boy would become a man and inherit his father's position; it was paramount that he learn responsibility.
As he stepped inside, the room was suddenly flooded with sharp white light. His gaze was immediately drawn to the imposing mural at the far end of the room. The mural dominated the space, stretching from wall to wall—a breathtaking depiction of humanity's history.
It captured moments of glory and downfall, etched in wars fought and revolutions sparked, revealing the rise of human achievement alongside the collapse brought by failure. At the center, a massive mushroom cloud towered above all, casting a shadow over the left side of the mural while illuminating the right side.
This was the turning point, a millennium ago,
when the folly of humanity almost chose its own downfall. Without their indomitable will to endure, that fate might have been inevitable. He was taught about humanity's struggles in the suffocating darkness of bunkers and the harsh realities faced on the surface, but seeing the mural—the raw, visceral power that nuclear weapons revealed—was, for reasons he couldn't fully grasp, breathtaking.
Enthralled, he drew closer as if in a trance; the grand table adorned with exquisite artifacts seemed invincible. In his moment of distraction, he bumped into a chair and the handle knocked a glass off the table. As it shattered on the floor, the sharp sound jolted him back to reality.
He heard a voice drawing close, calling,
"Idris, where are you?" Panic surged through him. He dashed to the cabinet at the side of the room, leaving the shattered glass behind. He squeezed into the dark recess of the cabinet, praying he wouldn't be found.
The squeaking door echoed as footsteps followed.
"Dammit! Idris, you know we are not allowed to be in here!" the voice exclaimed angrily. "If you don't come out, I will leave and tell them where you are".
Idris hesitated but finally opened the cabinet door. "This room is amazing! Did you see the mural?"
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"Forget the mural! You broke the damn glass, and now they'll have to figure out who came in here" Asim replied, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Quickly, pick up the shards; it's almost sundown for prayer".
As they knelt down to collect the pieces, Idris's eyes wandered toward the mural. It was like an enchantment that wouldn't let go.
"Stop looking at the mural and clean up!" Asim said, irritation evident in his tone, though he too was captivated by the depictions, which seemed to convey a different message to him.
"I got them all! Happy now?" Idris joked, tossing the shards into the trash in one swift motion.
"Let's get out now and promise me we won't play in here again, Idris".
The lights turned off, plunging the room and the mural into darkness.
---
The soft whisper of his robe was the only sound in the room. His garment was a seamless blend of function and form, the metallic fabric catching the light with every subtle movement. The long and intricately woven coat, tailored to perfection, matched his form, its deep golden veins like flames, lighting the coat on fire.
His dark, curly hair, cut just above the neck, framed his face along with his beard, like the mane of a lion. It gave him an edge, a reminder of something untamed and wild beneath the elegant exterior. His gaze was piercing, hazel eyes sharp with intelligence and pride, as though he could command the entire room with a single glance. No crown rested on his head, for his position gave none, and none was needed. His presence alone was enough to suggest power.
The 16th leader of Noor Federation, Elijah of the House of Malinur, walked towards his bed, weary of mind yet without a need for sleep.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice bresking the quiet.
A sound came from the open balcony, faint but distinct.
"You know I need to finish this for Idris" she replied, her tone expectant. "Are you coming?"
"Yes, I will be there in a moment. I just need to take this coat off," he replied, unbuttoning the heavy garment. "It's so big and hot. Couldn't the tailors have considered where we live?" He added a hint of annoyance to his voice.
"You always say the same thing when you take it off. In the morning, it's something entirely different when you put it on," she teased, a playful smile on her lips. "Maybe what you really need is to step outside and enjoy the breeze."
As she finished her sentence, he appeared through the passage to the balcony. He gazed at her with the same admiration that had captivated him since their first meeting. For this woman was Mary of the House of Rayanor, the most beautiful daughter of the late General Lucas Rayanor, whose family had been steadfast allies—friends, and sometimes family—since the exodus underground. His gaze remained fixed on her, soothing him and making her feel desirable. He moved toward her, his heart racing slightly, and leaned in for a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Come, sit down," she said, still immersed in her sewing. In two months, Idris would attend his first council meeting, alongside the continuation of his studies and training. Though he was only nine years old, the leader of the Noor Federation must possess discipline, knowledge, and experience from a young age.
Thus, it was a tradition for someone close and beloved to embroider the insignia of their house onto the garments worn by council members.
Elijah let himself fall backward into the reclining chair, sighing heavily.
"Any news?" she asked.
"No one has returned from their mission." Elijah was yet again lost in deep contemplation. "With the launch of the expedition to Eldra-0 just six months away, the silence from the Northern Empire and its surrounding countries is deafening."
"Wouldn't it be wise to delay the expedition?" she asked, momentarily pausing her sewing. "How many have you sent? Ten or twenty? Yet no one has returned; that must mean they have been dealt with, and our enemies are planning something. Mold is clearly festering in our council"
"We cannot delay the expedition; you know this. It has been the goal of our Federation for 150 years. Delaying it now will raise more questions than we can answer." He paused. "I ask you to not speak of this for now. Instead, let us unwind and enjoy our time together"
A cool breeze played through his hair, stirring it gently as the fading light lingered in the air. His gaze drifted slowly, reluctantly, toward the horizon, where the sun was sinking. He longed for something different. The wind seemed to whisper promises of distant, unseen worlds as the night sky emerged.