Zel walked through the outer chamber and toward the entrance of the meeting hall. As he went emotionless through the gaping men and women, he looked down to his faded leather boots, the perfect image of a Golden Prophet. The chamber was not elegant and had only the pragmatic angularity that far too often plagued the hasty style of Cawns. Simple or not, the area had an intimidating aura that had little to do with the armed men guarding the doors as Zel approached.

“Who are you?” a stern guard in a black overcoat asked calmly, with a touch of a scowl. The guard didn’t recognize the somewhat short but very muscular man. And he didn’t like Zel’s worn and pale brown clothes. They made him look like a Haman.

Zel was used to not being liked; he was on Grichia after all. This planet hated Prophets more than any other. In his near forty years of existence, Zel never knew why.

Zel ignored the man and, without blinking or changing his pace, placed a hand on the durable door to the meeting hall. It rose only seven feet tall in a chamber with benches all around. The square shape made Zel think of a cooking box.

The guard put a hand on Zel’s arm. “No entrance, buddy. You’re not allowed in there till…” The guard stopped when he noticed his companions’ eyes going wide with either shock or amazement, some even in confusion.

Whatever the expression, they all looked at the hilt of Zel’s sword, sheathed on the Prophet’s back. The guard pulled his pistol and aimed at Zel’s head. Zel remained calm. He was no Red, and had nothing to prove to these people. “If you think you’re going to get in there with that thing, I’ll shoot you where you stand!” the guard threatened.

Inside, Zel felt no more anger than he did fear. These things wore off like pain did, and you got used to them, with experience. “Shoot then,” Zel said, and pushed open the door.

The guards, too surprised to respond quickly, rushed in after him. Zel didn’t alter his pace. He saw his goal stand up to face the unlikely intruders. “Back down, man, back down!” the guard said, worried he’d let an unstoppable killer into his leader’s chamber. “Take another step and you’ll die!”

Zel took another step, then two more.

“I’m warning—” the guard tried to say.

“Who is this man? Surely he is no assassin else he’d have killed me before I laid eyes on him. Mandrin, stand down and let him speak,” said Zel’s goal, the pale man in the blue business suit. His tall and thin frame made the suit look like it was tacked on, hiding other, simpler clothes beneath.

The guard, Mandrin, backed away only a step, and gave Zel a glare that told him he’d be watching closely.

Zel stopped in front of the broad table where his goal and five other men, advisors and partners undoubtedly, stood. The advisors looked nervous, but Zel’s goal had a smile that could slay a Grundarin. And the somewhat darker woman at his side, wearing a cloth shirt and pants with black hair hanging straight and down to her waist, gave Zel a fiery glare. Zel composed himself, and waited.

“Do not delay in your words, creature. Speak quickly and tell me of what heritage you claim,” Zel’s goal said. Zel knew his goal was a great orator, that was how he’d won the support of thousands. But Zel was no White. He had no means of fine language. So Zel remained calm and remained blunt.

“You’re in danger,” Zel said, his face not altering in the slightest at the increased tension in the guards’ trigger fingers.

Zel’s goal laughed. “Is that what you’ve come here to say? Tell me, did Segrich send a costume-clad fool to amuse me? Or is he trying to be creatively threatening?” Zel’s goal said.

“Be careful, now. The High Vichy has tried stranger means of killing you,” an advisor stated as the woman at the table seemed to ready herself for an attack.

“And has disavowed all knowledge of said attempts, Joff Mil Hawn,” Zel’s goal said with another laugh.

“This is why I’m here,” Zel said, and slowly unsheathed his sword. Although being the most stylized building this group had, the room was very pragmatic. The domed ceiling Zel stood beneath had a single pillar to hold it up. Even with these simple surroundings, Zel’s sword glistened its golden shine wondrously around the chamber as it moved. The table circling the pillar now had some of the advisors ducking behind it, thinking Zel was going to attack.

Every guard in the room leveled a gun at Zel as he calmly extended his arm. He placed the tip of his blade on his off-hand arm and extended his hand palm up. Had his goal known enough about Prophets, he’d have known this sign. Instead, Zel had to explain.

“Il Van Korrich, I offer you my protection,” Zel said to his goal.

Korrich’s smile fell off as he saw Zel’s sword. He knew enough of Prophets to recognize the color. The blade was long and edged on both ends, coming to a seemingly dull point at the tip. It looked more a defensive weapon to the untrained eye.

“He’s a Prophet!” the woman shouted as the strikers on guns were primed. “What are you doing here!”

Zel gathered his feelings and crushed them. It was time for patience. He needed to let these people shout at him and get it out. Only then could he show they needed his help.

“Shoot him now!” Maella Han Jolia, a female advisor, yelled from behind the pillar.

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“Quickly before he attacks!” Joff shouted.

“No!” Korrich said. “I have said before in messages across all of Grichia that any man who walks through my doors is safe. We’ve let assassins go before and this man appears to be no assassin.”

“But he’s a Prophet, Il,” the woman said. “The meddling bloodsuckers cause nothing but trouble.

“True, but I still have my promise to keep. What is your name, Prophet?” Korrich asked, now facing the still-kneeling Zel. The last word came out of Korrich’s mouth as a sneer.

“Zel. I’m here to protect you so you can stop the killing and the injustice,” Zel said.

“And I do so appreciate the kind offer of the Gold Prophets. But I have no need of any off-world aid. So go,” Korrich said, and waved Zel off with a flick of his hand.

“I came on my own,” Zel said.

“No orders to aid me then?” Korrich chuckled.

“The Prophets are in a crisis, just like you are. And we could both be destroyed. But helping you is worth the risk,” Zel said, trying to stay as bland as possible. He regretted not phrasing it lighter.

“My race could be destroyed?” Korrich laughed. “I do not know the status of the Prophets, mind you, but I can tell you we are quite safe here. And yet you think I’m in risk of being wiped out?”

“I am here.”

Korrich waved Zel off as if to be rid of him, and walked around the pillar, swinging his arms carelessly. “My group and I are in no danger. I’ll grant you we have had difficulties in the past with the treatment of us as a minor race.” Korrich thought about this for a few seconds. Then he punched the pillar. “But we are growing past that.” Korrich stopped his happy walk and came face to face with Zel. He glared angrily at the Prophet. “And we don’t need any help from meddling Prophets!” Korrich turned and walked back to the table as if willing Zel to no longer exist.

Zel stood patiently as the guards seemed to relax. “Democracy is the weapon that will win this conflict of interest, lads and lasses,” Korrich said, renewing their previous discussion. “We must convince the people that our lineage has a right to peace and prosperity as well as any Grichian.”

“How will you break centuries of actions with words, Korrich?” Zel asked, still not moving.

Korrich tensed his hands as if wanting to rip something apart. He turned back to Zel.

“Words that those in power won’t even hear and who think your blood is a disease,” Zel added.

For a few moments, Korrich stared at the Prophet, not hiding his contempt. “Why are you here, fool? Get out or so help me I’ll kill you myself!” the woman standing next to Korrich said.

“Forgive my wife,” Korrich said with a laugh. Zel felt no fear. “But she hates your kind worse than I. And I despise Prophets.” Without warning, Korrich pulled a pistol out from his vest pocket and fired at Zel. The shot went through Zel’s leg, but he barely even grunted. It was not the first time he’d been shot. “I’m told you Prophets can take a beating and keep moving, especially the Golds. So I don’t think you’ll mind the injury much. However, if you persist, I will not hesitate to shoot you again.”

Zel didn’t even bother to wipe the blood from his leg. His sword was still braced against his arm, and he hadn’t moved since giving his oath. He relaxed his body and flowed energy to his leg from his dimly glowing sword. The wound was already healing over.

“Shoot then. But you need me,” Zel said as he relaxed his body for the impact. It was always easier to recuperate if the body was calm. ‘Face pain with serenity’ was one of the foolishly worded but wise sayings of Golds.

The next shot hit Zel in the ribs with a deafening clap.

“I say again. Get out of my house!” Korrich shouted.

His advisors cringed at the sight of the bleeding Prophet. They weren’t displeased he was being shot, only a little sickened at the sight of blood.

“That was two shots, and your gun only holds eight,” Zel said as he steadied his breathing and concentrated on healing his bleeding chest. He stayed on his feet.

Zel barely felt the shot rip through his right arm. His sword swayed a little with the pain of holding it with a half-ruined limb, but he kept it in place.

“Put that sword away,” Korrich demanded.

“Three,” Zel stated.

Korrich fired again and Zel nearly dropped the sword. As he saw his blood flow on the floor, he pushed aside the pain to keep the sword in place.

“Why do you persist? Why do you stay in that ridiculous pose?” Korrich asked, and casually leaned against the table, gun still leveled on the Prophet.

“Because of a woman I met once. She had ruined hands. She asked me to help her,” Zel said, and took a quick, deep breath. “Four.”

The next one went into his left arm, and he didn’t even waver.

“Just kill him already,” Korrich’s wife said, almost desperately.

“Five,” Zel said, and hoped to find that sadly complacent woman’s daughter.

“You standing there getting shot won’t help anything. The Prophets can do nothing on this planet but make things worse,” Korrich said as he shot Zel in the knee.

Zel staggered as his ruined leg could no longer hold him up.

He shook his head and shifted weight to his other leg as he got back into his oath position. “The cycle has to stop. The killing and intolerance must end. And you can do that. All I want is to help you do it,” Zel said. His leg was a fire of pain, but he pushed it aside. He did not give up the fighting and all he’d worked for to be shoved aside so easily. “Six.” Zel’s sword glowed golden as the sun as he drew power to heal himself from it, feeling weak.

Korrich walked up to Zel.

“Shut him up, Korrich,” Korrich’s wife said.

“So I’m more important than a Prophet? I’m the savior, and not the self-righteous, hypocritical Sevens Prophets?” Korrich asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Zel said. “Please, let me help you.”

“Please?” Korrich said, and thought for a few seconds, tapping the gun against his cheek as he considered what to do. Without warning, he fired his gun point blank at Zel’s chest. As Zel fell backward, he could tell the shot barely missed his heart.

Zel lay on the floor bleeding, putting all his energy into healing. He would not die this way. He would not cry out in pain.

“Humility is a new trick for a Prophet. And you are persistent, I have to give you that. But you cannot possibly think you’ll be of any help,” Korrich said, wiping some spattered blood off the barrel of his small, square pistol. “The races have been in conflict with each other since time began. All I’m attempting to do is save my own. What makes you think I can have any effect on the overall society of this planet?”

“Because,” Zel said, breathing hard through blood and wariness, “if people see each other as equals, not other races, war can stop. And that is your message, a message… of change.” Zel grunted as he felt strong enough to sit up. “And people listen to you. But people hate you too, because they fear this change.” Zel stood up, panting not in defiance but in determination. “I have to let you bring this peace to your planet. Seven.”

Korrich glared angrily at Zel as he raised the gun to the Prophet’s forehead. Zel could feel the cold metal against his skull as Korrich’s hand began to tremble.

Suddenly, Korrich pulled his hand back and turned the safe-catch on the gun. “I believe I will save this shot for a time when it is better needed. Who knows if I will desire to kill you sometime,” Korrich said, and extended his hand. “I accept your protection. But don’t expect any love from us, Prophet.”