"Amil, pick yourself up."
Steel rang against steel as Amil hit the ground for the fourth time. Dust rose around him. He groaned and rolled onto his back, staring up at the orange-stained sky. His brother stood over him, wooden practice blade resting casually on his shoulder.
"If these were real blades, you'd be dead four times in a row," he said calmly, running a hand through Amil's hair.
"Not like you'd allow that, older brother," Amil
grinned from the dirt.
A pause. His brother extended a hand and pulled him up with effortless strength.
"You rely on me too much," he said.
Amil laughed. "But that's what older brothers are for."
His brother withdrew his hand, letting Amil land back on the ground. Then he bent, placing his hand lightly on Amil's head.
"An older brother is meant to hand you the sword—not help you wield it."
He stood and watched as Amil struggled to rise.
"Dark times are coming, younger brother. I won't always be here to protect you."
Darkness draped the sky now as those words etched themselves back into his memory.
The earth soaked with heavy downpour and thunder singing despair's melody as he held her firmly in his arms.
"Amil… you should have waited." He felt her touch again. Her fingers tightened weakly around his collar, then fell slack as her eyes met his one final time.
"No… no… Maya!" he screamed into the night, cradling her lifeless body in his arms. The tattoos on his wrist flickered faintly—unresponsive as he called for strength.
Two years ago, Umar—his brother—had led the charge in the War of the Zemins.
Victory was finally theirs, but the price was paid in full. Amil rushed home after the battle, expecting cheers, but instead, he was welcomed to the hollow stillness of the victor wrapped in burial cloth—a legend now carved into history.
On the night of his brother's ancestral send-off ceremony, Amil walked the corridor alone, fury burning quietly beneath the grief he thought he had buried.
Their father had fallen in the war too.
Although he did not gain victory, it fueled the Lynkwei to strive for triumph.
Now victory lay within their grasp…
but at a cost heavier than sorrow's deadliest gambit.
"Arrg!" Amil screamed as he barreled into the corridor, rage boiling beneath the weight of a world he now understood to be cruel.
He stopped at a mysterious vase still humming faintly in the darkness.
"Fucking relics."
In a surge of fury, he smashed it against the wall.
Glass exploded across the corridor. From the shattered pieces, a soft glow spiraled upward.
Amil's eyes widened.
"Shit." Amil muttered, chasing it as it darted down the hall. Faster. Higher. Until it disappeared beyond the library doors.
The library loomed ahead, filled with ancient tomes, histories of their clan and dynasties. Amil had never cared to step inside—until tonight and at this very hour.
Midnight approached. The hour the dead were meant to cross.
But beyond the walls, the chiefs and elders struggled to send Umar's
spirit away, with every attempt it could not cross toward the ancestral plain.
"The urn!" the oldest chief struggled to yell, and with that the already darkened sky now raged with lightning and ear-splitting thunder.
"Great one what urn do you speak of?" An elder asked. The other chiefs and elders looked at him blankly, unsure of what he meant, but the storm intensified, striking fear into every one of their hearts.
The oldest chief smiled faintly,. "The awakening…"
his lips curled with something unreadable as he struggled to speak
"it has
begun."
The other elders tried to understand, their eyes searching his face, but the oldest chief only breathed deeply, serene, before
his body slumped. His final words carried the weight of mystery, leaving the
others silent, uneasy beneath the storm's fury.
Deep in the building, Amil dove into the library, searching frantically for the glowing object. Defeated, he turned to leave when
a deafening boom shook the room. Glass shelves exploded, books flying in a
violent swirl. The blast sent him sprawling to the floor.
Through the chaos, a book hovered above the wreckage, illuminated from within. Bloodied, Amil climbed over rubble to reach
it. The book rose higher, and he slammed onto shards of glass, piercing his
skin.
"Ahhh!" He screamed watching as the book landed gently on a table.
Amil draggedhimself toward it, stretching a hand to open it. It unfurled violently, pages
ripping open in a blinding light. The wind that followed sent him crashing into
the wall and then the ground.
Amil grunted in pain when he heard the
disappointment in his brother's voice.
"Amil, what have you done?"
He looked up as tears welled in his eyes.
"Brother!" He tried to lunge forward but fell face
flat; his kneecap was roughly dislocated. He screamed in pain.
"Get up, Amil," his brother said.
"But brother, my leg—" he replied.
"Get up," he repeated.
Confused, Amil struggled to obey, eyes catching the
faint glow on his wrist—the tattoos on his body now pulsed as though they
recognized his brother's spirit.