The Covenant Broken

As the armies of the Morningstar gather to the north the armies of the Kingdom begin to gather around the walls of the great citadel. Within the castle the messiah is guarded at all times by forces sent by the Pope, Siddig and members of MWPJFRMSFA:FJASPPC lead by Elizer ben Nathan. Philip of Jerusalem's Royal Guard also watch over the young monarch at all times, ensuring he remains safe from harm.

Despite the great defences mustered around her son Queen Aelith is nervous and deeply concerned for the safety of her child and the dark forces that are arrayed against him. In the dead of night her most loyal servants and guards provided by Getan de Reys assemble in one of the ancient wine cellars of the fortress. The Queen carries an innocuous looking basket and nestled within lies the sleeping prince. With a respectful bow Getan bids the Queen farewell and touches a stone in the dusty wall, a section of which slides away to reveal a passageway that ends far outside the walls of the city. As the Queen and her entourage hurry away in the flickering torch light Getan face is troubled; the Prince has left the city but he has also left the protections created for him by so many.

Across the sea Aelith flies with her young charge, arriving at Venice on the fastest ship she could hire at the port of Acre. Still in the deepest secrecy she moves across Europe to her father’s castle within the kingdom of Burgundy . With relief Aelith greets her father and explains the need to hide Hugh away from the forces of the enemy that seeks to destroy him and the fourth covenant that he represents.

With her child at last safe within her father’s home Aelith reluctantly leaves for the great courts of Europe to gather allies in the fight against the evil one. Across the states of the Western Kingdoms great rallies are held where she speaks of the need to strike forth in a mighty crusade to protect the chosen one and ensure that the will of God is fulfilled.

Within the citadel of Jerusalem something creeps. Through the shadows it moves, not merely within them but part of them, a deeper darkness in the shades of the castle. A guard passes oblivious to the incongruous black heart of his own cast shadow as it flits away into the murk behind one of the great pillars. Flickering the patch of night flows across the dim hallway and beneath the door of the royal bedchamber. Within the empty room a figure, that leeches umbral vapour, steps from the gloom beside the massive four poster bed. Gracefully it sweeps across the floor to the cot at the foot of the bed. It leans over the cradle and as it sees the empty bedclothes it hisses; a sound like the rending of a spider's silk. Around the figure the night darkens further and from elsewhere a discordant harmony of voices speak whispered words, words whose very utterance seem to blight the air of the place. The ebon intruder listens for an instant and then melts away into the dark once more. In a moment the room is empty but the sense of corruption remains.

Runners arrive at Jerusalem with news that the armies of the Morningstar are nearing their destination, their ragged banners of flayed flesh blighting the land in every direction. At their head is the Morningstar himself, his black wings glorious and terrible in the dusk light. On his face is the smallest and most knowing of smiles.

On the western borders of Burgundy Aelith and her guardian knights are returning from the court of King Philip II who has now pledged to send what aid he can to Jerusalem. The young Queen has been away for near a month and yearns to see her son once more so the party are riding hard for Dijon whose spires are just visible in the distance. Deep within Aelith there is a disquiet, a niggling worry whose source she cannot place and with a cry she urges her men on faster.

It is a cool overcast evening in the city. In the Ducal palace all is quiet and guards lazily patrol the silent walls. In the cathedral outside the palace a great mass is being held to pray for the forces of Burgundy that even now muster outside the Holy City. In the heart of the palace the Duke of Burgundy sits with his advisers over a vellum map that details the battle plans to be carried out by his distant troops. In the eastern wing, in a dim room, sleeps prince Hugh. Beside him his nursemaid snores gently, a peaceful smile on her pudgy cheeks. Outside his door stand two of the Duke's most loyal guards; alert to anything that moves in the corridor about them but not to the wispy shadows that curl around their ankles. As the darkness snakes up their forms they remain unaware and as cimmerian knives dart forth toward their hearts they do not even have time to cry out.

As the two men fall softly to the floor with a rustle of leather and chain mail within the nursery the maid stirs. Even as her eyes flutter open the shadows move and a deep bloody smile spreads across her throat. With a desperate gurgle she reaches for the manger and then collapses to the floor. From the darkness steps a figure in shawls woven from the very fabric of night. It pauses for only an instant to look at its reflection in the spreading crimson mirror that seeps from the corpse and then moves to the side of the crib and gazes down at the babe within.

Several miles from the gates of Dijon Aelith feels strictures of ice close around her heart. With a cry of fear and mingled determination she plunges her heels into her mounts flanks and gallops toward the city.

Prince Hugh's eyes open and the crystal blue gaze looks up into the face that leans over him. It is covered in eldritch patterns and devices that seem to shift as the child's eyes move over them and at their twisting heart are two black pools of shadow; the eye's of the Sultana of the Shai'tan; the eye's of Nadia. With a coo she reaches down to caress the rosy cheek with a silver talon, the baby giggles and tiny hands reach up to grab at a pale finger. Nadia's smiles and coos again. Bending she brings her delicate mouth close to the little prince and whispers;

“Come, ye children, hearken unto me: I will teach you the fear of the Lord”

The hand at her side shimmers and distorts. On her flesh the patterns whirl madly and seem to merge with the darkness of the room as a blade of living shadow forms within her hand, its intangible substance razor sharp. She raises the stygian knife high above the child and strikes.

Outside the walls of Dijon Aelith and her men shout to the sentries at the gate to open them in the name of her Majesty but they are slow coming and the huge metal gates take an eternity to grind open.

The shadows scream and Nadia reels back as the blade of the scythe appears from nowhere to meet her strike, shattering her conjured weapon into nothingness. The night swirls around the scythe's handle as the figure that wields it materialises into existence. A towering figure; floating above the child; robed in a mantle of deepest blue, whose head is lost in the depths of a deep cowl. From it's back stretch ashen grey wings and in its white hands are the scythe and a sword of seamless silver. Before Nadia can even respond the scythe sweeps down and she screams as it slices through the flesh of her arm causing freezing black blood to pour forth boiling away in curls of oily black smoke as it meets the air. The Angel of Death, silent and impassive, raises the scythe to strike again but as it does so Nadia dissolves into a sheen of twisting shadows that streak across the flagstone floor. The grim Angel does not even seem to move but the world shifts about it and now it stands before the boiling pool of darkness that is Nadia, blocking her exit. The silver sword flashes into the gloom and Nadia cries out in rage and anger, falling from her concealment clutching at her smoking chest. The Angel advances, flowing across the floor like water. Again it raises the grievous scythe; this time to cut Nadia's final vital thread but before it can strike Nadia snarls and rakes her silver talons outwards. Seething spears of shadow erupt from her hand striking directly at the oncoming figure but the Angel does not even notice them and as they near the azure robes they evaporate into naught, becoming no more then vague memories in the darkness of the room.

Almost casually the Reaper's argent sword cuts into the Sultana's hip and with a cry she falls crippled and helpless to the ground.

Her shadowy essence is pouring off her now as her wounds rob her of her animating darkness.

The Scythe has reached its apex, its edge slicing the moon's beams into impossible rainbows of purple and blue. Yet even as it hisses down the markings on Nadia's flesh begin to squirm once more and from across unfathomable distances the whispers of alien voices begin anew.

The glittering blade falls.

Nadia is not there to meet it.

She has risen, though not on legs. Seemingly composed of black smog writhing in the shape of a woman Nadia arises before the Angel. With eerie grace the roiling form billows upward and begins a twirling promenade around the Reaper and the crib. As the figure moves it seems to dance to a music that cannot be heard but whose silent notes resonate with the world, rippling and distorting reality as Nadia dances through it. The whirls and dips of the dance becomes faster, more disjointed and inhuman as shadows pour from Nadia's body; trailing out behind her so that the space she occupies becomes indistinct from that she has flitted away from. The Angel seems unable to move in attack or retreat and it watches transfixed as the pace of the horrific dance increases. Now the shade of Nadia seems to reach into itself pulling away gossamer veils of shadow which fly into the dark miasma that follows her. As she does this the darkness of her trail deepens further and further till it no longer resembles shadow but a torn rift into an empty oblivion. Still the soundless tempo increases and she twirls like a dervish, moving through planes and dimensions that do not exist within the confines of the room, or the world. As she moves she leaves distorted images of herself in the trail of void, everyone of them twisted into shapes of torment and agony, simulacra of Nadia's corrupted soul.

Now the Angel and the babe stand within a ring of crawling obscuration and still the intensity of dance grows so that a thousand spectral Nadia's encircle them, reaching out for them. Faster and faster the dance roars and from the nightmarish phantasmagoria tendrils of darkness begin to flow, snaking toward the cot and the child within. The scythe flashes and the dark filaments fall away but in their place ten, then hundred, more appear. Around the child the Reaper's scythe creates a barrier of blades in a desperate attempt to ward off the encroaching shadows but in vain.

With with a voiceless howl the darkness envelops the pair.

In the square outside the palace Aelith's horse clatters to a halt and in flurry of skirts she dismounts. The fear pounds in her now; unexplained, irrational and yet all consuming. With a cry of desperation she sprints towards the marble entrance portico, her men barely able to keep up, but before she can even reach the first step the world rocks.

The eastern wing of the palace erupts; columns and friezes carried into the sky in a rising, coruscating tower of darkness that stretches into the heavens sucking the light of the firmament away. Within the boiling helical vortex a legion of shadowy forms cavort; no longer anything like Nadia in shape but tentacled, be-clawed and deformed. Monstrosities that reach down in hunger and desperation to the base of the fell storm for at the very heart of the tempest sits the manger with prince Hugh inside. His Angelic sentinel is gone and a thousand nightmarish claws close in on him with dreadful glee. As dark energies close in the pillar seems to quiver as an unearthly cry of triumph comes from it; a multitude of corrupted Nadias and ethereal horrors united in their unholy victory.

As the darkness strikes Prince Hugh simply gurgles as Aelith screams.

Light. Searing, blinding, limitless.

From around the child an aurora, incomprehensible in its brilliance, blazes forth. Brighter then all the stars of the heavens, brighter than the heart of the sun itself it burns. Across the world it streams and on every horizon its glorious rays are seen. On the plains at Megiddo the defenders are bathed in its glow and the armies of the Morningstar quail as it washes over them.

From the messiah beams of the white radiance strike upwards scything through the churning shadows about his tiny body. The dark tornado screams in fury and pain as the blessed rays cut through it; disintegrating legions of the chittering distorted Nadias as it cuts through them. Yet the darkness endures and the roaring oblivion tightens seeking to quench the light, to blot it from existence. The coils of shadow constrict, crushing down upon the divine incandescence in their midst but even as they do the light intensifies once more becoming torrents of white fire that spiral upwards to meet the shadows' assault. Where the light and the dark touch their dichotomous energies discharge in massive cacophonous detonations that echo out over the land.

On the ground below Aelith's screams are lost in the thunder and she falls back helpless. Above her the titanic intertwined helices of opposing power streak into the sky, twisting and thrashing as they send forth their might against one another. Neither greater than the other; light and dark balanced perfectly in their reflected wrath. Yet within the tumult something moves…dances. Wreathed in shadows it slowly promenades through the storm its salacious dance strangely at odds with the chaos through which it weaves. Toward the heart of the light it twirls and against it the splendour of the messiah clashes, tearing fragments of darkness from its form, but still the dance goes on. Closer and closer it comes as the light brightens; searing away all before it. Yet Nadia prevails and hands of shadow reach for the source of the fury.

Reach out to snuff it out forever.

Reach out for the child.

For a moment the world is still as her hands touch the Messiah and then with a deafening roar the darkness implodes; falling inwards with a scream of sepulchral triumph; a scream that conveys an eternity of yearning, hatred, malice and, at last, victory.

The light goes out and the world falls into darkness.

To understand what happens next, or how Nadia has come to this action, it is important that we address what has come before in the last year.

Maha Al-Nazihah, Sultana of the Court of Dust, and Nadia, Sultana of The Shaitan, had come to an arrangement. Nadia has always desired Maha's company as something slightly more intimate than “looking embarrassed”, and wished for Maha to be at her side as her paramour. Maha desired the release of her family servant, Sultan and lover, Turab Qalb, recently captured and bound into servitude by Nadia, his resplendant orange form hidden behind a mask of silver and shadows, his shape and demeanor twisted and malformed.

So, to meet these needs, a deal was made, between Djinn. Maha would spend six months in the Court of Shadows as Nadia's Paramour, herself and Turab forbidden from association, though Qalb would be spared the most menial tasks. At the end of the six months, Turab and Maha would be free to leave.

And so the deal was agreed. And the deal fulfilled. And six months passed.

And on the final day, Maha and Nadia, one weary, one saddened by a possible ending, with shadow-wreathed Turab in tow, left the twisted Court of Shadows into the cool shade of a sand dune, somewhere within The Great Desert. A Final Attempt by Maha to awaken the love and humanity burioed within Nadia's soul. A visit to the Oasis they spent many days and evenings resting and bathing in each other's arms. Where, Maha had learnt, Nadia had captured Turab. A perfect place to release the Servant.

But the Oasis was gone. No water, not even a trickle, nothing to mark the place had ever been. Maha was close to crying, confused, a sinister smile on Nadia's face, Turab's guilty face hidden and bowed. The symbol of distant love trapped within barren darkness, destroyed. Maha falls to her knees, drained, her last chance gone. Nadia grinned, her quarry unable to resist, to think straight, she'd take her home to be cared for, to be loved, and all deals, all agreements of freedom would be forgotten…

The arrows struck fast. The servant Turab, commanded by the silver pendant around Nadia's neck, leaps toa ction, materialising afront his Mistress. One arrow too slow, into his mask. One too fast, half-shaft-deep in Nadia's throat. She barely notices at first, only realizing when the flight obscures the vision of her sweet Maha. Of course, an arrow means little to a Djinn. This was but a nuisance. All parties turned to observe the would-be assassin, a sand-coloured cloak rising from the desert basin, armed hunter waiting beneath.

A flaming eye illuminated the shadow, followed by a grin. Life rushes back to Maha as she screams for her brother to run. Zafir stayed put, rising out of his encampment, seemingly more concerned with Turab.

Nadia sneered, face contorting like a playful Panther, slightly more hungered for prey than pleased. “Considering we were friends, you and I, I'll spare you a truly agonizing death in front of your sister, Zafir. Just a very agonizing one, I'm afraid. At the hands of family's Valued Slave. Turab, Slay.”

The ex-Sultan stood stock still. Nadia repeated herself, shadows crawling. Slowly he turns, cordially addressing his mistress. “I really don't think so, My Queen.” He visibly smiles on gold-orange skin, the silver mask shattered and crumbling off his face, fracture lines surrounding the arrow. Nadia panicced, feeling her throat. The pendant had gone, lying shattered on the sand. separated by an arrow blessed by an Imam. Zafir's preparations had payed off.

Maha and Turab's eyes met. A smile began to form. Rage enblackened Nadia's face.

A shadowy blade burst from Zafir's silhouette, his hard-won reflexes throwing him to the sand a moment sooner. Turab gestured. A great golden chain formed from the sand, binding Nadia's hands. Raw black power breaks them, a lashing tendril heading for his throat. A column of glass blocks it's path, Maha interupting, tears in her eyes. Nadia began to backa way, adding up possibilities of outcome in her head. The sudden appearance of five-score or so orange-golden Djinn convinced her they were slim. It took the package thrown from Zafir to Maha to make it definite.

“Thanks to our business partners in Jerusalem and Constantinople.” Zafir explained, Maha tearing the paper away in a squall of sand and jewels. An old mirror. Turab's eyes lit up. Maha's soon too. Nadia's became a frown.

There was now ay she could win here. It ahd all come tumbling down. But there was another chance of victory. She closed her eyes, and looked for the brightest light in all the World's Shadows.

Then she saw it. Smiled. And in a burst of shadows, was gone.

Although reunited, Turab and Maha were still hard pressed to follow Nadia, her preparations making it almost impossible to track her. Almost.

Minutes have passed since then. In the darkness of the room in Burgundy, a hundred gold light suddenly shine as Turab and Maha locate their quarry.

Voices are screaming, rising, shaking with terror

The column of darkness still stands, triumphant. Quickly, it shakes with triumph and rage unhidden, unbound. The Shadow that was once Nadia grows and shifts, bursting into new colossal forms, her twirling, dancing arms reaching not only towards the sky, but through it. Transcending through solid matter and perception, the Dancer's black flame grows fast and cold, devouring and destroying. Her great shadow is cast over Burgundy, spreading and bleeding like ink on water.

The black markings upon her body and face have grown, entirely shadowing all but her burning white eyes. Her hair billows like the shadows cast from every church murder, blood-spilt on lit windows. Around her neck the burning ebon faces of all those she has killed. Her soul-touching voice that of uncontrollable lust, rhythm and power, surging unrelentingly heaven-wards. From her silhouetted form, new appendages spread. Six arms twirl and flex to a rhythm of annihilation, an uncontrollable symphony of destruction. Her delicate, burning hands reach towards the Courts in the Realm of The Elements.

First her own, the Shaitan, the Court of Shadows, ruptured by rising clawed fingers breaking through the delicate shadowy towers like daggers through skin. Great tears and holes in the darkness, sucking and bellowing the music of endings, shadowy Djinn falling for the second time, spiraling down through the ruptures, screaming in terror as they are consumed and torn apart by their once-Sultana. Others flee for safety to their Bretheren Courts, putting aside disputes in favor of survival in the Shadow of Perpetual Death.

One by one, they are ruptured. The Brass Court gets off lightly, great finger shaped swathes of darkness left in Ophanim's throne room, panicked deep-voiced Cherubs and miming Angels flocking to the Dust Court, only fast enough to watch all but Turabs throne consumed by the sensual sway of The Dancer's hips, obliterated and consumed, only a single Golden Tower left standing in the darkness. In the dark a great dragon roars and escapes the obliteration, rising to the light on Great Leathern Wings.

The Rain Court is drowned and pulled into the abyss of her spreading hair, their young Queen seated upon her throne till the end. The reclusive Steam Court is all but evaporated by the Burning Hatred in her eyes. The Barley Court is burnt and immolated in the burning black rolling flames of The Dancer's bosom. The Simoon Court is only briefly protected by the gathering of refugee Djinn, swiftly swept aside or annihalated by the clawing, dancing fingers.

Within moments the Djinn Courts are all but annihilated, collapsing ruins floating in the darkened ether, surrounding, spinning, gravitating around the growing mass of The Destroyer. The black-flame burning ruins of the Barley Court

Mirror in hand, Turab states he's going to end this: a year dead, another trapped as a servant has given him new perspective. This threat needs to be ended. Calling his Court, and calling out to the other ragged Courts, he proposes a simultaneous strike to bind, or at least pause The Dancer's growing Shadow before it becomes too much. She has become raw power, unfocussed and towering, but she is still a Djinn. Whatever Messiah-like force was here has weakened her, but still left hera tool of Annihalation. A tool of annihilation that can still be bound by an Invoker.

United in the face of Annihalation, the shattered remnants of the Court charge, calling on the names of Allah (and Iblis, for the Shaitan), lashes and chains emanating from their forms. Many are sent to oblivion just from her presence. Some explode in agonizing bursts of flame, sand and steam against her form. Others are more lucky, enwrapping appendages with their bindings. Djinn of many Courts combine their efforts, Shaitan and Dust Court willingly working together to fell the Destroyer. With great sweeping pulls and aided tugs of many dozen Djinn pulling together, the Great Dancer is bound and restricted, her great limbs struggling against the fit-to-burst chains.

But it's not enough.

“We must bind her to the Mirro–” Starts Turab

“What do you mean w–” Intersects Maha

“I'm not letting you do this alon–”

“I did not just lose six months of my life to see you die agai–”

“I did not just lose a year of my life to see YOU die agai–”

“First though,” Maha begins, seriously, shouting over the destruction and screams, the wail off the open Heavens above them, “you need to remove these innocents from here.” She gestures to the screaming, panicked Burgundians, unsure how to react after both Messiah-Death and The Dancer.

Turab frowns “Don't try and do the heroic sacrafice thing, please. You have no idea what the abyss is like. I've been there. Twice. I don't think I could sta–”

Maha silences him. “Promise. Double Promise. Triple Promise. Now get these westerners somewhere useful!”

The room is disintegrating, parts gravitating towards The Dancer's struggling, annihalating form. The Dust Queen briefly embraces her Sultan, the Mirror trades hands, and with a worried face, Turab disappears in a blast of Golden Sand, the Burgundians with him.

A tear in her eye, Maha uncrosses her fingers behind her back.

Slowly, quietly, Maha begins reciting The Words. High and Ancient, even whispered they pierce the air and gain Nadia's attention, suddenly stopping and panicking. The entrapping Djinn redouble their efforts, binding a set of arms to her side. The Mirror begins to glow softly, script appearing and drifting over it's surface.

The words continue, faster, louder. Nadia attempts to counter-chant, but it is too late. From the Mirror's surface, a single Golden chain seamlessly extends and dances in the air, looping around Maha's throat and frame, before shooting into the sky. Quick as a serpent, it ties itself seamlessly around Nadia's throat. The connection between the two Djin nis stronger and tighter than before. The Binders continue their work, pulling the Destroyer low, some evaporating and dying simply from the exertion and pressure.

Quietly placing the mirror some inches floating above the floor, Maha begins a prayer inside herself. For those closest to her. Rasha, Siddig, Imad. Ungrateful Son. Hisham. Turab. Zafir. Nadia.

One at a time, the surviving Djinn dive towards the mirror, great chains and lashes trailing behind them. As they touch teh surface, they vanish within, their leashes pulling the struggling Destroyer closer and closer to the Mirror. Around her, the Storm still blows and tears.

Within moments, the only Djinn left are Maha and Nadia. Eyes filled with jeweled tears, Maha smiles up at her Friend.

“It is over Nadia. Your lies and heart breaks, your murder and destruction. The hundreds you have hurt, rebuked. My attempts to mellow you, scorned and lied to my face.”

Slowly, Maha's image begins to descend within the watery surface of the Mirror.

“You wanted My Company so badly you abused my friends and stole my happiness, just so I could selfishly be yours. Now I can be. Just you and I, and the Survivors of The Courts within here. For Eternity”

Soon it is simply her tear-filled eyes left visible. And then she is gone. All but the Chains.

The hundred Chains from the Mirror all bind tight and pull with the force of a hundred whirlwinds, a hundred Earthquakes. The raging Dancer is pulled screaming, struggling, downwards. Down, into the shining mirror. Contorted and stretched to fit insideit's tiny face, The dancer rages a final time to teh Heavens of her achievements, but her Legacy denied. Then she is gone.

They are all gone. The Tower is silent.

The Mirror stops glowing and falls to the floor, bouncing and tumbling.

Above, the rent tears in the sky, in reality itself, the Earth bleeding to the Heavens and torn with prejudice begin to reform and take their true shape. Still visible through the rent, The Djinn Courts stay as they are. Barren and Broken. Empty. Crumbling. Soon, they are obscured by the sky and stars once more. Soon, they are lost to human eyes forever.

Moments pass. The Mirror sits alone under the now calm sky. No footsteps sound as the stranger strides towards the Mirror, feet never truly touching the ground, inverted grey swan wings beating unnaturally slow. There is no trace of where It came from, or how It entered. The Thing's features are long and sharp, utterly androgynous but also unbearably masculine, skin a dull reflective grey, eyes a burning white, pupils unnaturally small and piercing. Like a man or angel constructed on the instruction of the recollection of a faded nightmare. Unnaturally bright feathers adorn it's hair, a changing mess of colours on his loin cloth. Great broken heavy chains of Gold and Stone hang from The Thing's extremities, sand falls from It's hair.

With a gesture of Its long, twirling fingers, the Mirror floats into it's hands. A low, resonant, feminine creak of a voice leaves it's throat, a Shark's smile lifting it's knife-edge cheek bones under it's eyes.

“I Told You. The Greatest Secret Of All,” It whispers to the Mirror, “There Is No God.”

The Laugh rises, sharp and deep, slow and rasping. It's head snaps back in human, angular, the slow-built, carefully planned victory finally in it's grasp. It is a noise that has not been heard on this Earth for aeons.

A silver streak in the air. A Silver throwing Dagger deep in It's eye socket. It screams in pain, roaring like a long-extinct lizard, utterly unused to the sensation. The Mirror falls from it's hand, bouncing and ringing. It turns at the newcomers. Enshrouded in a burst of orange sand, Turab floats frowning. In front, Zafir stands, armed, poised as if a dagger has been thrown from his hand. With a glare, Turab gestures, the chains around The Thing bind tighter, pulling the Abomination to the ground. Screaming and whining, The Thing is dragged below the floor, passing immaterially through the stone.

Silence.

Turab picks up the Mirror, staring at it's black surface, a single ruby tear in his eye.

Zafir picks up his Throwing Dagger.

“What was that thing?” He asks, inspecting the knife. The blade has melted up to the hilt.

“Nothing” mutters Turab, “A Forgotten Secret.” He turns and places the Mirror in Zafir's hands.

“Where is Maha? Was she not he–”

“Gone.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Turab silences, “Take this. Hide this. Protect this. It is all that is left of the Djinn Courts. It is the last memory. It is your family's legacy, your greatest treasure. Speak to your new lover - yes, yes I know. Study the arts. Protect it. Keep it close. Keep it safe.”

Zafir stares at the object, confused. Knowing better, he asks no questions, stowing the glass in his robe.

Silence.

“To your battle?” Questions Turab.

Zafir nods.

“After this, do not seek me out. We need… time to reflect.”

Zafir nods.

Hesitantly, the two old friends embrace. With a final gesture, a blast of Golden Wind enshrouds them, and tehy are gone.

Burgundy is silent. The sky is dim. The shadows still encroach.

The light no longer shines.