Omrai knew from the coming aura of frustration that Shifra, his eldest daughter, was about to knock on his door. He had just placed his journal and a coinpurse into his saddlebag. He shoved them in deeper, breathing deeply through his nose. He didn’t have time for another argument.

But what excuse could he make to avoid his daughter, just as he was about to leave on a military campaign?

“Come in,” he said to the door.

The massive oaken door swung slowly on well-oiled hinges. His eldest daughter stood in the doorway. She wore trousers with stripes of blue, green and white, the colors of their tribe. Her shirt was of the modern fashion, flaring at the sleeves and the waist. Her long hair was pulled out of her face in a tight tail. Before she spoke, he could see it in her eyes. The drive, but also the worry and exasperation. Her hands were behind her back, undoubtedly held in tight fists, from the tenseness in her arms.

“I wanted to talk to you about something… before you left.”

Omrai took a steadying breath, bracing for the argument that would come. “I don’t have a lot of time.” He turned back to his packing, hoping she would relent.

She did not.

“I wanted to discuss with you my current… educational situation.”

He could tell that, despite all the frustration she felt, she was trying to be calm. He took a break from his pack and turned again to her. “If you’re asking if you can drop your arms course, then you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I’ve made enough progress,” Shifra said, “I’m not going to be a warrior.”

“Even if you seek a political career, I will not have you untrained and defenseless. An Abaddon knows how to fight.”

“Yishai’s not a warrior,” Shifra said, “he’s a politician. Neither is grandmother.”

“Your grandmother married into the Abaddon family, and High Judge Abaddon knew how to fight. He doesn’t any longer due to his injuries. Besides, you’re getting enough political education.”

“There’s another teacher I want to learn from,” Shifra said, her tone growing sharper.

Omrai cast his daughter a critical glance. “Who?”

Shifra took a deep breath. “Senator Thersha.”

Omrai frowned. “He leads those new reformers, doesn’t he?”

Shifra went quiet. Her brow tightening into a deep scowl and frown. “You and Yishai were reformers, why can’t I be?”

“Because what we have now works,” Omrai said. He shook his head at her. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’m leaving. Didn’t your mother tell you?”

Shifra nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to wait until you get back.”

“We are under attack Shifra,”

“We’re always under attack.”

Omrai grabbed the corner-post of his bed with a loud snap. Shifra jumped. His knuckles whitened and the wood creaked. “Would you have me roll over as our enemies invade?”

“Have you ever tried talking or is it always straight to the musket?”

His grip tightened further, his scarred and calloused hand compressing the wood. These new reformers were influencing Shifra in all the wrong ways. She would never have spoken to him this way before. Why did they always have to fight? “You are little more than a child.”

“I wouldn’t call twenty-three a child,” Shifra said, her hesitation fully evaporated now.

“And yet still you understand so little!” Omrai’s voice grew louder, and he stood taller. “Do you think that I enjoy killing?

Shifra’s critical eyes said plenty.

“You must,” Omrai said sharply. “If I could avoid a war, I would. You know nothing of our new invader. This is very different from past wars.”

“I just want to learn better ways to resolve them,” Shifra said, “I don’t want fighting to be our only option.”

“Senator Thersha and his allies,” Omrai snapped, “their ideas sound wonderful, poetic even. But would they advocate the same when facing an army of wicked men, lusting for blood and more? To try to mince words, only to be cut down?”

Shifra’s hands fell to her side, tightening until the tendons in her knuckles rolled with pops. “Yes, they would.” Her voice was sharp.

Omrai shook his head. “Peace isn’t brought about by sitting around a table sipping tea with your enemies. Those who can’t overpower their conquerors are often enslaved, taken by the cruelty of men…”

He looked at his daughter, fear creeping into his mind. Shifra watched him in silence. Her frustration was still there. Obvious despite the loosening of her brow. He straightened his jaw. “I kill so that war never touches you, or your sisters. Other nations change rulers like the year changes seasons, and the people suffer. Sons are taken by war as victims or soldiers, daughters are taken to… to be hurt in ways I hope you never understand!”

He remembered the faces of the women in cities he had taken back, broken and robbed. Emotional scars that ran deeper than he thought possible. He had gutted many a soldier for those crimes. Ateyan or not.

He looked at his daughter once again, trying his hardest to read her, to see some remorse or anything else in her. All he sensed was a storm. His words written on a shore at high tide. She would think of nothing more than what she had set her mind to. Perhaps living in a secure city for so long had blinded her to hardship.

“I only wanted to change some of my education. I’ve learned plenty how to fight. Let me choose my own path. I’m old enough.”

Omrai’s own anger mounted. “I’ll tell you when you’re old enough. Once you stop thinking about yourself and start thinking about the good of your people.”

Her eyes widened, “And you think that social reforms aren’t good for the people? What do you think I’ve been studying? While other girls my age are flitting about looking for a good man, I’ve been trying to fix Ateya. Their fathers let them choose, and they choose folly. Throwing stupid parties and fretting over the latest gossip. Qadira and the others, they don’t. They think.”

“Why would you want to stop training with Master Atin? He told me you’ve been progressing well. That you enjoy sparring with him?”

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“I do,” Shifra said, “But, it’s about what’s right, isn’t that what you taught me?”

Omrai glanced outside, to the sun. No matter his resistance, time marched on. Like a stone rolling down a hill. It could take time, but the rolling could not be stopped. Soon, it would be time to march against an enemy that used netherbound sorcery. Would his armies and will be enough this time? Would his talents be enough?

“Shifra, I don’t have time for this. You’re not dropping your apprenticeship to Master Atin. My word is final.”

“Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”

“Shifra!” Omrai shouted, his patience spent. “I will not be having this conversation again. I, not you, will decide how you spend your time. Not only will you be keeping your apprenticeship, you are not to spend time with that scholar girl again.”

Shifra’s face reddened. “You can’t do that.”

“I can, and I will. I’ll speak to your mother about it.”

With a gaze of anger, she slammed the door to her father’s room.

Omrai felt the tension in his body relax, and he sat on the edge of his bed. With his elbows propped on his knees, he put his head in his hands. How had he lost control yet again? He never did with any of his other children. What was it about Shifra that caused such strife between them?

There was another knock on the door, and the person responsible entered before he could respond.

It was Dyral, his wife. She gave him a sympathetic look, her eyes furrowed in concern. She gave off a faint aura of sadness and hope.

“I told her to let me speak to you,” Dyral said. “She was adamant she do it herself.”

“I don’t know why I can’t keep a level head with that girl,” Omrai said. “She fights me on every point. How did I, a warrior of the Abbadon line, sire such a skeptical intellectual?”

“Omrai,” Dyral said, touching his shoulder, speaking quietly as to not be overheard. “You’ve got to make this work.”

Omrai nodded. “I don’t know how. It’s my father all over again.”

“You are not doomed to the same relationship,” Dyral said.

“Am I?” Omrai said, “My mother told me once that the Abaddon line has a long history of fathers conflicting with their first-born.”

“And you think that’s a good excuse for how you fight?”

He had no answer for that. He merely took another breath.

“I will return as soon as I can.” He looked to her. Dyral’s frown deepened.

He held her close, kissing her on the forehead. “Thank you for your patience,” he said. “I wish I did as well with her as you do.”

“Return,”—she gazed up into his eyes, her countenance a challenge— “and do better yourself.”

He gave her a grim nod. He would try.

He kissed Dyral again and held her close for a moment more before he embarked on the long path to war, with its even longer path back home.

✦✦✦

Omrai and his bodyguards hopped off their gallimais in front of the Grand Synagogue of Shevidaro. It was taller than three brachios, its massive towers high enough to overshadow the walls of the city and the former royal palace. It consisted of a large central dome, about a quarter as tall as the seven towers which circled it.

No matter how many times he came here to pray, the sight of the grand synagogue still gave him chills. His neck craned to take in its height, and he had to look far to the right and to the left to take in its breadth. But more than its size, was its construction.

White marble and limestone from the canyons of the Tukites, carved and cut into swirling patterns, shapes that flowed to and fro, more like a swirled pudding than stone. But each swirl was deliberate, and rather than looking chaotic, it seemed to be an upward rushing and twisting divine wind. The graceful and meticulously patterned curves following the towers and the dome, reaching for heaven.

Omrai made his way up the steps toward the grand doors.

He knew he should be leaving, his army was nearly prepared, waiting for him. He paused on the steps, breathing in deeply. His nerves twisted; his heart seemed to pull into itself from the pressure in his chest. A quiet dread rose up within him.

“Are you alright, High General?” Valtin, his lead bodyguard said.

“I’m fine,” Omrai said. He tightened his fist, ignoring the waves of concern his bodyguard exuded, and continued to make his way into the holy building. Pushing through the massive iron and oak doors.

They swung open with a loud groan.

Two members of the divine guard stepped forward. They each wore white and blue striped glimas, which hung almost all the way to the floor. Their shoulders and chests were covered in jagged-weave chainmail, designed for catching blades. Each bore a spadone, six-foot swords with massive crossguards. Not very practical in a military setting, but customary for guardsmen of noble houses. They were expensive, and their bearers even more expensive to train. Omrai had little practice with the weapons but had sparred masters before. They were a force to be reckoned with. Two could easily hold a small entrance against many.

“May my service lift you,” they said in perfect unison.

“And you also,” Omrai said.

The divine guard stepped aside, letting Omrai in. He turned to his bodyguards. “Remain at the door.” His men nodded in understanding. He turned again, entering the massive grand chapel. Broad and tall. This was the grand synagogue, and an entrance lay beneath each tower. Almost half the city could meet here, the roof curved in such a way to expertly echo sound. His eyes once again took in the grandeur, feeling an overwhelming sense of… smallness. Just one man out of many in Father God’s care. His problems always seemed to shrink here.

Currently, it was empty, its long benches lacking any visitors.

He removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm, and made his way forward, toward the altar. As he walked, he marveled at the art and stonework. Here, inside, none of the green of the limestone was visible. The chapel was meticulously lined with purest of white stone, shiny and polished, the edges lined with flowery accents of gold, inlaid at every border. High and graceful arches held the ceiling, and massive stained-glass windows let in light from the outside. He glanced up at the upper balcony, once set aside for the nobility, now open to all.

Armies of metal men, netherbound sorcery. He had to get this Jebuthar to fight him on the field. Fighting in cities would be pointless, if the enemy could ignore walls and drop from the sky, cities would only serve to limit his tactics. At least on a field he’d have maneuverability. He didn’t know how many soldiers, ships, or cannons the enemy had, the details had been so sparse. Or insane.

He made his way to the altar at the front of the large chapel. It was made of three parts—A cushioned bench for kneeling, an altar upon which the book of Shevidaro itself sat, and the ivory gold chest which held the tea and incense.

He set his helmet to the side, and knelt on the wide bench, his head down. He let out a long breath. Finally, he was alone. No emotions plagued his mind, no onslaught of worry or fear. Just himself.

Often, when Omrai came here, he felt a rush of peace. But today was different. His heart thundered in his chest, and his breathing resisted his efforts to slow. If those reports were even half true, what hope did he have? Others said he was a brilliant tactician, like his father. Omrai conceded that he had learned a great many tactics in his time, but most did not truly understand what gave him so many victories. It wasn’t ruthlessness, or martial skill. It was his ability to sense others’ emotions. He could look out over the tumult of battle, and see where his men had too much fear, or not enough boldness. Feel the emotional landscape of the battlefield. Like a layer of understanding over his natural vision.

It was both a gift, and a curse. He’d felt the horror of death far, far too many times. Emotions which burned in his mind. The agony of his spear piercing the neck of a Koyejian warrior, the spike of pain and disbelief when his sword removed a hand. The despair from one of his own soldiers as he died, a boy who couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

He shook it off. He had to hurry. His time for solace was running short.

“Oh,” Omrai said, his voice echoing in the massive chamber, “Holy Father God, and thy son, Shevidaro. I offer my life to thee. Neither man nor woman, child nor wife, friend nor foe, shall separate me from thee. I devote myself to the service of thy people as I go to war. Guide my blades to do thy will.”

Omrai found his hands were trembling.

He closed his eyes, the formal prayer done. He just knelt and listened. An exercise of will. Or rather, an exercise of sacrificing your will, to sit and ponder until Father God saw fit to tell you what is next, or until you come to your own conclusion. But one was to merely listen, at first.

He slowed his breathing, the pounding of his heart lessened, but the pressure in his chest remained.

He looked up at the altar, at the holy book which sat there. Then he looked beyond it, to the back wall of the temple. A man was depicted in lines of gold laid into the white stone wall. A depiction of Shevidaro, his robes long, a flaming sword in one hand, a bowl of fruit in the other. Justice and mercy.

Which did Omrai deserve?

He almost felt as if Shevidaro’s gaze was one of warning. Of urging. But to do what? To not go to battle? To hurry? Odd how he felt others all the time, yet so rarely did he feel God. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe, it was that Father God made him work. He had to fight tooth and nail to succeed. And occasionally, when God saw fit, he helped. And just when Omrai would be tempted to doubt, he felt a subtle warmth.

He looked down at his hands. The ones that would hold his spear, his sword. His blades. He closed his eyes and released a slow breath.

“I will use my blades as you require. Please guide them to thy will.”