I was still seething, sitting in the palace, my mind aflame with questions and fury. Oma saved him.
After everything—the years of plotting, the months of careful infiltration into Babel—I had prepared for this moment my entire life.
Every step, every whisper, every shadow had led to the dagger poised inches from Zefar's heart. And yet… Oma had intervened.
Only he can kill Zefar. What did that mean? The words gnawed at me like acid on bone. I couldn't make sense of them, and the anger only festered, hot and sharp behind my ribs.
Suddenly, the palace walls shuddered. Dust drifted from the ceilings in tiny, lazy spirals, catching the pale light and spinning like trapped stars.
The floor beneath my feet vibrated—first subtly, then violently, like the heartbeat of a living mountain. Screams rose from the streets outside, panicked, urgent.
An earthquake?
Impossible.
Natural disasters were legends in the land of Oma, warnings for the unprepared, never reality.
I sprang to my feet, my blood pounding in rhythm with the tremors. What in the heavens…?
I run outside to see the cause.
A flash of silver and gold tore across the sky. A humanoid shape, trailing fire and smoke, fell from the heavens like a comet ripping through the atmosphere. My throat caught. My pulse raced. I screamed, my voice cutting through the chaos:
"Defenders of Oma! To arms!"
The call was answered immediately. From hidden corridors, shadowed balconies, and training grounds, my warriors surged forward—men and women alike, eyes wide, weapons in hand.
Every heartbeat in my chest was mirrored in theirs, a chain of resolve forged from past loss and renewed purpose.
I moved among them, my presence both queen and general, the weight of both roles pressing down on my shoulders.
My army, the new Force of Oma, had been trained to survive where their ancestors had failed. We were the inheritors of defeat, the children of fire and blood, tempered into steel. The women had learned to wield swords as easily as pens, the men to strike with precision and courage that bordered on recklessness. And now, today, that preparation would be tested.
The ground beneath us quaked again, tiny fissures spiderwebbing across the palace courtyard. The object hadn't even touched the ground, and yet the quakes radiated outward, subtle at first, then violent enough to unsettle the footing of even the most seasoned warriors. Unheard of. Impossible.
"Move!" I barked, and my voice carried, slicing through fear. "Form ranks! Brace for impact!"
The children of Oma, trained from birth for moments like this, scrambled into the underground tunnels. Constructed of hardened clay and reinforced stone, the bunkers had been built to withstand explosions, to hide and protect our future.
Tiny hands gripped each other in the darkness, hearts pounding against ribs, their little feet scuffing against the clay as they were guided deeper underground.
I spared a glance toward the tunnels, a flash of guilt threading through the adrenaline. We would protect them. We must.
The object hit.
The crash was apocalyptic. Dust erupted like smoke from a dying star, clouding the air, reducing visibility to nothing. The moisture in the morning air vaporized instantly, leaving a dry heat that stung throats and eyes.
The earth shook beneath us, rolling in waves, yet the Force of Oma held formation. Shields locked, weapons raised, eyes narrowed against the fine particulate that clawed at skin and lungs.
I ran toward the center, the dusty crater forming before us like a wound ripped into the very earth. My boots kicked up clouds of stone and ash, my cloak whipping behind me, adrenaline sharpening every sense. The smell of burnt ozone and scorched soil stung my nostrils, making my stomach churn.
We formed a circle around the crater. Shields interlocked. Spears and swords ready. The women and men of Oma held their ground with a courage that made my chest swell with pride, yet my mind was focused entirely on what awaited at the center.
I stepped forward, into the heart of the swirling dust, ignoring the sting in my eyes and the grit in my lungs. And then I saw him.
Floating.
A creature, human in shape, yet impossibly other. Gold skin shimmered like molten metal, catching what little sunlight pierced the dust. Silver hair flowed in impossibly smooth waves, defying the wind and the fall.
Robes of silk rippled around him, untouched by the destruction that had torn the crater. And then I saw the wound—the golden liquid bleeding from his ribs, glimmering in the fractured sunlight.
My voice barely escaped my lips, a whisper swallowed by the chaos around us:
"What in the heavens…?"
The Force of Oma waited for my command, every eye on me, but my thoughts were a storm. Who was this being?
How could a fall from the sky, with such velocity, leave him floating? And why… why did he feel… alive in a way that none of our enemies ever had?
I wanted to step back. My instincts screamed to retreat, to reassess, to avoid this impossible apparition. But I couldn't. I was queen. I was general. I was the protector of Oma.
And in that moment, every plan, every grudge, every betrayal I had carried—every dagger I had sharpened for years—faded against the incomprehensible reality before me.
He hovered there, wounded and strange, yet majestic and untouchable, and I realized—this was no ordinary enemy. This was something far beyond anything Oma had faced, and far beyond anything I had prepared for. I watched in awe and utter disbelief.
What the hell were we dealing with exactly?
Where did this divine entity come from and why did he fall to Babel?
I clenched my fists, my knuckles whitening around the hilt of my blade. My jaw set. My voice was a low growl, but steady:
"Stand ready. No one moves until I give the word. This… this is ours to face."
Even as I spoke, part of me shivered. Not from fear alone, but from awe.
What in the heavens?