Gurkiim's monologue ceased. He fell into a deep trance.
"Du Ku'am Gurkiim?" Kor Dui ventured, his breath catching in his throat.
Gurkiim did not answer. His gaze turned inward, lost in the labyrinth of his memories. The silence stretched.
Kor Dui shifted uncomfortably. He began to rise, swallowing his disappointment, but a sudden rasping breath from Gurkiim stopped him in his tracks.
"The Dove does not move as it once did," Gurkiim spoke again, prompting Kor Dui to drop to his knees once more. "It has been centuries since it left its tower. We are dying, Kor Dui. One by one."
Standing at the periphery, Umdohar closed his eyes and bowed his head, his expression a solemn mirror of the grim truth Gurkiim had laid bare. First, it had been the Elder Du Ku'am in Ovzamaazat; now, perhaps, death would soon claim Gurkiim.
"I was always doomed to rot," Gurkiim continued, his voice laden with weariness. "I have been preparing my tomb. Becoming a Du Ku'am, having those wishes granted by the Dove itself, did not halt the decay. Time is our greatest enemy, and even the blessings of the Dove cannot conquer it."
He fell silent again, his eyes misty as they gazed beyond the confines of the chamber, seeing not the present but some distant, unreachable horizon.
"If I could have my sixth wish granted," Gurkiim said at last, his voice trembling with an unexpected vulnerability, "it would be that I could do so much more for the Shaman Dove. It does not age as you and I do. It sees past the limits of time, whereas I am bound by it. Yet even as I near the end, I am reminded…" His voice faltered for a moment. "It is not the perceivable, tangible end that matters, but what endures after."
A heavy pause lingered. Kor Dui yearned to speak, to offer something—words of comfort, an oath of loyalty—but found himself silenced by the earnestness of Gurkiim's reflection.
Gurkiim stirred slightly, his ancient hands trembling against the armrests of his chair. "Tell me, Kor Dui, what will come after I aid you?" His gaze, though clouded by age, bore into Kor Dui with the ferocity of a blade.
Kor Dui froze, unprepared for the question. "I…" he stammered. "I wish to serve as you have—"
"The seas forget the ships that cross them, Kor Dui." Gurkiim's voice hardened. "What mark will remain when even you will soon crumble to dust? You want to cross a royal family that has lasted as long as the Domminical Order. And so? Give me the right answer, one that is absolute, and I will help you."
His words hung in the air, a challenge and a lesson intertwined.
Kor Dui clenched his fists. He felt his Elder's gaze still upon him, yet he could not look up.
A soft chime echoed through the chamber. Giifarimi Ku'ams of Carnelian Hall entered, bearing a small palanquin for Gurkiim. They lifted him gently onto it, preparing to carry him forth to initiate the night's ceremonial highlight: the presentation of gifts for the Du Ku'am Gurkiim's tomb, and the retelling of the life of Du Ku'am Tunq, whose legacy Gurkiim had carried for nearly three centuries.
Umdohar went to Kor Dui's side, and nudged him to rise.
"On your feet, Kor Dui. Let us begin there."
"Do not tell me what to do," Kor Dui snapped in a harsh whisper, swatting Umdohar's hand away. He brushed himself down with trembling hands, his frustration mounting. In a sudden burst, he bolted down the corridor in a burst of wind.
"That wretch never changes." Gurkiim frowned.
"He will be at the banquet," Umdohar replied—not an assurance, but a fact.
"I do not care where he goes."
Once at the front end of the banquet hall, Gurkiim rose from his seat with a slow, deliberate motion, his figure looming over the gathering like a weathered obelisk. His voice, though rasping, compelled even the restless to stillness.
"Brothers and sisters of the Domminical Order," he began, spreading his arms as though to embrace them all, "the Shaman Dove's vision spoke to us of a future unyielding, a destiny where mankind sheds off its shackles, where the masters of old are cast down, and we stand unchallenged upon the earth. The death of my dear Elder Du Ku'am Tunq, though grievous, is no tragedy; it is a pivotal threshold—a path the Dove has carved."
His voice, though faint, carried the commanding cadence of one who had long dictated the course of men's fates. "The Shaman Dove foresaw this path for mankind," Gurkiim continued, his gaze heavy-lidded but piercing as it swept across the hall.
"Tunq stood as a monolith among men. He was not born to silk nor cradled by privilege. Raised in the mines of my homeland, he understood the people of Ovzamaazat better than any scholar or king. He spoke their tongue not just in words, but in struggle, in fire, in the unyielding march of progress. Perhaps destiny has shaped him this way; a man like that comes once in an age. When he stepped into the ranks of the military, the greatest minds of the Order took heed. He was recognized among them. Honed our instruments of war into something sharper, deadlier. Because of him, we do not merely endure; we conquer."
He gestured toward the banners overhead, each bearing the Dove's sigil intertwined with depictions of triumph—figures trampling beasts, a rising sun painting the conquered land in gold. The silk shimmered. Flame licked its surface, each flicker an omen made manifest.
"May the Du Ku'am Tunq," he continued, "be forever immortalized this way."
He paused, taking a moment to gather enough strength in his voice. "And may the creatures that once dominated the Earth bow before us or fade into oblivion."
A solemn hum of agreement rippled through the crowd. Gurkiim sank back into his gilded seat, carved from dark wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, depicting scenes of mankind's ascension as foretold by the Dove.
Gurkiim watched with half-lidded eyes as the presentation of gifts began. Servants entered in single file, each bearing offerings upon silver trays. There was no escaping the mingled scents of perfumed oils wafting from the treasures brought forth. A chest encrusted with emeralds and sapphires, filled with spices from the farthest reaches of the trade routes, and even outside Ori'ehem, was placed near his right hand. The golden idol, its surface too polished to see anything but reflection, shimmered beside Gurkiim—an offering of wealth in a world now distant from meaning to a man who had lived for so long. Intricately woven tapestries, depicting cosmic battles and celestial visions, were hung over the walls as servants scrambled to keep pace.
Each treasure added to the overwhelming opulence of the hall, who had only witnessed such displays at a time of great mourning. Yet to Gurkiim, this parade of wealth seemed almost mundane, his indifference a stark contrast to the awe-struck murmurs that rippled through the crowd. He had been to other parts of the known world, walked a few other continents in his lifetime, and had seen the sort of treasures other cultures had to offer. Something of an ancient, perilous nature was the only thing that would catch his eye.
He knew his Maazati countrymen would deliver.
And at last, it was their turn to present their gift. The murmurs ceased as the hall's massive doors swung open, revealing the delegation—a solemn procession cloaked in black and gold, their faces obscured by veils. They bore the towering palanquin, its obsidian frame was simple in design compared to the item it carried, concealed by layers of silk.
From behind the trailing robes of the Maazati, Swinebroth slipped into the room. Once safely inside, the boy crept toward the shadows near the hall's edges, his wide eyes drinking in the spectacle.
Above, the vaulted ceilings sprawled with murals of the Dove's prophecies. Chandeliers of crystal and bronze cast dazzling patterns across the marbled floors. Rows of tables groaned under the weight of exotic fruits, roasted meats glazed in honey and spices, and goblets overflowing with jeweled wine. The boy himself could scarcely comprehend the abundance, his mind spinning with the sheer magnitude of it all. Swinebroth noted the sea of weathered faces around him, accustomed to such man-made spectacles. He felt a certain joy bubble within him to be a rare witness at such a young age, wondering why he had never done this before.
He watched as the Maazati approached the seated Du Ku'am, their palanquin carried with an almost ceremonial precision. The torches lining the hall cast long shadows over the bearers, their deliberate steps echoing ominously in the silence. At the head of the procession, a figure dismounted—tall, imposing, and wrapped in layers of gold-threaded fabric.
Umdohar rose to greet them, his expression one of veiled curiosity. This spokesperson in gold leaned in, relaying the message the Maazati had for their recipient, a Maazati himself, the Du Ku'am Gurkiim.
They conversed for a minute.
"It is… remarkable!," Umdohar said at last as he stepped back, his voice ringing out in the hall, though he meant this only to the spokesperson. He turned to Gurkiim, his face pale. "It is no ordinary gift from the late Elder Du Ku'am Tunq. Du Ku'am Gurkiim, I urge you to have this relic unveiled, at this very moment."
Gurkiim's eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. "Bring it forward," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.