At the heart of the Yordil Mountains, at the border of sun and shadow, lies an ancient assembly ground—'Eiral Mor.' A place where even the mountains bow their heads.
Here, the wind speaks, and memories awaken in the stone.
Eiral Mor—an extraordinary valley, enclosed by seven massive mountain peaks. Each of these peaks seemed carved with the blood of the Samardun ancestors, a testament to their sacrifice and glory.
Even the clouds that brush these summits carry a reddish hue, for the air here has, over millennia, absorbed countless years of suffering, suppressed grief, and the echoes of innumerable dreams burned to ash by fire.
Every particle of this valley seems to bear the weight of the past, standing with a deep solemnity and sacredness.
At the very center of the valley stands a colossal stone pillar, witness to time. Square, ten hands wide, and as tall as three men. Around this pillar, a strange symbol of an inverted wing is intricately carved.
It is not just a symbol—it is the Samardun's most sacred oath-ground, where no weapon may ever be raised.
Here, only the pledge of the soul is spoken, and it is believed that when a Samardun makes a vow here, that promise is etched into every particle of the air, never to fade, standing forever as a witness of time.
Around this pillar, square stones, knee-high, are laid in perfect rows, forming the reflection of a lost constellation. Each stone is like a star, carrying the memory of the bright days of the past.
It is said that on each of these stones, once sat an ancient leader of the Samardun, offering wisdom and decisions.
Today, the descendants of those great ancestors are present here, bearing the weight of their heritage and responsibility, witnessing the birth of a new history.
Evening falls slowly.
The sun spreads its blood-red light across the mountains. Subtle glimmers appear all around—minerals within these mountains that shine only in the presence of Samardun blood.
Tonight, twenty-five fires burn along the valley's edge, each guarded by a warrior.
They stand silently, clad in grey armour, wings folded against their backs, like slumbering flames.
At the center of the valley stands a man.
Barzak Bhagar.
Tall, with deep lines on his forehead, snow on his face, and eyes that seem to question how much of him remains human.
He wears a long red-and-black cloak, its shoulders embroidered with golden threads like tree roots. Dust-covered shoes mark the long journey he has traveled.
Around him stand massive winged warriors—children of the Samardun.
Some male, some female, all radiant, stern, solemn as stone.
A wind of freedom flows through the valley, a wind carrying only the voices of the ancestors.
Barzak raises both hands forward and speaks in a low voice, yet it rolls across the mountains:
"In the Third Jarat War, when the black conch sounds—I will seek Thonoro, the Silver Root. There, beneath some hidden mountain, the gate of Zhbar shall open. Where lies the ancient weapon, Kalab."
For a moment, the wind ceases.
The light of the valley holds its breath.
No one speaks.
Yet that single sentence echoes back across the seven mountains—engraved into each peak as a promise.
An elderly winged warrior, whose wings shimmer with silver at the edges, closes his eyes and murmurs,
"He has named Kalab… after all this time, someone has spoken it…"
A female warrior grips the hilt of her stone sword, fire in her eyes.
From behind, a child Samardun whispers—"The Zhbar Gate… is it real?"
A thunderclap sounds in the sky, answering from afar.
Barzak steps forward, kneels on an ancient stone, and begins to carve a symbol with his finger—a tree whose roots touch the mountain, exploding above into shadow and light.
Tears in his eyes, yet his face set in hardness.
Here, the oath is made.
Here, the waiting ends.
Here, the wind regains its ancient scent.
And here, Kalab is invoked for the first time—mid-mountain, in a language hidden in shadow.
Beneath the dark, blood-red sky of that ultimate evening, as fires burn in Eiral Mor, the Samarduns with folded wings gather within the circle of stones.
The male and female Samarduns standing around, carved as if from stone, even in the shadows, the fire descending into their eyes does not waver—they are silent, yet their hearts tremble.
Then a voice of an old man was heard—deep, resonant, like a stream bursting forth from a fractured mountain:
"But to fulfil this great oath, he needs Queen Bahar, who alone can open the ancient Zhbar Gate hidden beneath the earth—one that awakens only to the tune of a lost language."
The moment these words were spoken, the sky seemed to halt. Clouds froze, the wind stilled—but the stillness resonated in the ears. It was not silent, but full of sound.
Shadows fell over the faces of the warriors standing around Barzak. Some lowered their eyes, others glanced at the sky behind—for Queen Bahar… that name, though written in history, stirred tremors in the heart.
Queen Bahar—a woman whose voice itself was an artifact of language, whose presence made the air resonate in rhythm, whose eyes carried the ruins of lost ages.
She was the reflection of brilliance—tall, beautiful, yet solitary; an exiled queen, the final song of a forgotten lineage.
A language that can open gates, known to no one else.
But Queen Bahar knows.
She carries it in her heart, like a river secretly bearing the story of pain awakened from the depths of stone.
Barzak knows—without Bahar, he is nothing.
His oath, his battle, the liberation of his generation—all lie bound in the voice of that one woman.
And in that woman's heart is betrayal, the dishonour of a royal family, the cold nights of exile.
Yet, Barzak stands. There is no mercy in his voice, only the sharpness of suffering. He does not seek pity—he seeks truth.
And the key to that truth rests solely with Queen Bahar.
*******
At the western edge of the Liodbur Mountains, where ancient sky-stair ruins peek through the golden mist, stands Queen Bahar atop a small hill.
On her head rests a blue Hema-crown, once the pride of Balan's royal court, now merely the ornament of a solitary woman.
The sorrow burning in her eyes seems like a star fatigued by the grief of the sky.
Far behind her, Barzak stands, slowly exhaling—the lion of a man, dusted in the remnants of war, all his oaths resting in the silent consent of one woman.
No one speaks.
The mountains are silent.
The wind is still.
Even the birds in the sky seem frozen.
Then Bahar steps forward and meets Barzak's gaze.
In those eyes, there is no anger, only fatigue, and an inevitable understanding. Her voice breaks slowly, clearly, yet in a soft tone:
"I consent."
Those two words strike like lightning through the heart of history, pressed down over centuries.
Fine cracks appear in the ancient stone.
Somewhere in the distance, an old sound—an unspoken mantra of a lost language—trembles, waiting to begin.
Barzak says nothing.
Something within his chest shatters, only to rebuild anew.
In this moment of consent, the mountains know—the gate will open. History will awaken.
And Queen Bahar, rising from the land of exile, will return once more to the center of a story.