The throne room was dim.
A single torch burned low. Shadows stretched across the stone floor. Moonlight filtered through the high windows, barely touching the god banners on the walls. Each banner hung still, marked with faded gold and red symbols. The throne remained empty—silent, untouched—but every stone beneath it waited.
Outside, the night held its breath.
Inside, Uruk listened.
Lugalbanda stood at the edge of the terrace, arms behind his back, posture rigid. Still as stone, while everything around him moved. Beside him, Ninsun waited in silence, her presence calm, unreadable.
Behind them, the great door stood partially open—just enough to let voices drift through.
"Things are getting worse" Ninsun said. Her voice held no panic, only clarity.
He didn't turn.
"Ever since the priests confirmed that the blessings didn't work on him... it hasn't slowed. First whispers, then rumors. Now open doubt. It's spreading faster than we can contain."
Lugalbanda's jaw tightened.
Ninsun approached him in silence, her gaze rising toward the horizon.
The stars were dimmer than they had been in nights past.
"Someone's feeding the fire."
He didn't deny it.
She folded her hands.
"Who wins if Uruk loses faith in its heir?"
A pause. Then silence.
It stretched.
Uncomfortable.
Lugalbanda exhaled through his nose. "Ishtal might be able to calm the situation."
"Ishtal?" Ninsun's tone dried instantly. "He doesn't care about these things. He never did."
Lugalbanda didn't argue.
The moonlight reached them now, painting his armor in dull silver. It made the creases in his brow look deeper.
"I can try to look into the futures" she said.
"Do what you can" he replied. "But don't overextend yourself."
She paused, watching him. A flicker of worry crept through her composure. Her voice softened.
"Were you too hard on him?"
That question didn't echo. It landed. Solid. Heavy.
Lugalbanda stared ahead, unmoving. The walls of the city glimmered faintly in the distance. His silence wasn't denial. It was conviction. Or refusal.
Ninsun spoke again, softer now. Not as queen. As mother.
"He didn't just need his king. He needed his father."
Still nothing.
Then, a slow exhale. Almost silent.
She turned away. "I'm going to see Kisaya. Maybe... we can let her out now."
…
(Kisaya POV)
It was already morning.
I was already sick of the view. The same walls. The same air. Every morning the same light filtered through that damn window.
It wasn't comfort.
It was a cage made to look polite.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
A bed.
A basin.
A bath tucked into the corner.
Everything arranged with care.
As if comfort could erase the locks on the door.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fists tight against my knees.
Across the room, a deep blue rune pulsed faintly on the door—steady, cold.
Whatever that rune did, it made the door unmovable.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Everything had been planned—the route, the timing, the disguise.
Knew the guards. The gates. The gaps.
Still, it wasn't enough.
How did they catch me? Was I too obvious? Too slow? Too desperate?
I stood and crossed the room.
My chest tightened.
Frustration rose. Then anger. Then shame.
All of it, again—louder than before.
Then my fist hit the door.
The sound was dull. Nothing gave. No mark. No crack. Just the sting crawling back through my arm.
I didn't stop.
Outside, the guards didn't even flinch.
I kept hitting the door, again and again. The pain didn't stop me. Needed to move. To do something.
Anything.
I didn't stop—not until I heard footsteps.
They were the same footsteps I'd heard every day. Steady. Measured. She never rushed.
Ninsun.
The guards shifted. I heard the change in stance. The tension return.
Then I heard her.
"Open it."
The rune on the door flickered—then died.
A door that had been immovable until now… opened softly.
I didn't move. Just stared at her.
My heart beat faster. Anger crawled up my throat.
She wasn't the only reason I'd been trapped here like a prisoner.
But she was one of them.
I knew she meant well. I knew she was trying to protect me.
But I couldn't pretend it didn't hurt.
I couldn't hide how angry I was.
My fists clenched again. I didn't try to be calm. I couldn't.
"If you hadn't tried to escape to follow him—again and again—you wouldn't be locked in here."
I said nothing.
"If I let you out" she asked, voice even, "are you going to try again?"
I looked away.
"There's no point anymore" I said.
"Good" she replied.
"Then join the training with the other Chosen today."
I stood, nodded, and walked past her.
As I stepped out, I shot a glare at the guards.
One of them raised an eyebrow. The other gave a half-smile—not cruel, just tired amusement.
Then her voice came from behind.
"Follow her. If she tries again, we lock her up until Ereshgal returns."
I stopped.
My teeth ground together. Just for a second.
Then I kept walking.
...
A private room was hidden deep within a forgotten wing of a secondary temple—far from the sacred halls open to the public, deeper still than any visiting noble might wander.
No signs marked the entrance.
The corridor leading there had no windows, and the air smelled faintly of old parchment, wax, and dust.
The room itself was low-ceilinged and narrow, its stone walls thick with silence. The candles burned low, their light uneven, casting jagged silhouettes against the walls. Flickers of flame caught in the creases of robes, in the edges of sharp glances.
The air was warm, but heavy—like the temple itself wanted to listen.
Guards stood just outside, still as statues. Trained not just to obey, but to forget what they heard.
Inside, priests and high-standing nobles filled the chamber. Their robes and garments differed in cut and color, but every person in the room had come here for the same reason: the future of Uruk.
They sat around a wide, circular table—no throne, no raised platform, just a shared surface where every voice could be heard.
Some leaned forward, whispering low, their words deliberate. Others sat upright, hands folded, letting silence speak their judgment. Eyes moved with caution, but not suspicion—these were not strangers. They were allies, careful and calculating, each measuring how far the others were willing to go.
The room felt like it had been built for secrets—and tonight, it was serving its purpose.
"Too many days have passed" one priest began, his voice calm but firm.
"The king hasn't announced a new heir. Clearly, he has no intention of changing him. What if he never does?"
"Ereshgal was rejected" a noble interjected sharply, leaning forward into the candlelight.
"Abandoned. The gods have practically declared him dead. We cannot permit someone like that to ascend. If he rules, Uruk will lose all divine favor."
Another priest stroked his beard slowly, thoughtful.
"What do we do now?" someone murmured. "The people grow restless. And the prince…"
A long silence followed.
"If the king refuses to act" the bearded priest finally said, "then we must. The city cannot wait forever."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room—quiet, reluctant. No one dared speak Lugalbanda's name directly, but the tension around it was palpable.
A third voice, older and rasping, broke the hush.
"He's one of the strongest chosen. Moving against the boy could be seen as… rebellion."
They all knew it—Lugalbanda's power, his history. He had earned the gods' favor and the people's awe. Any step forward would need to account for him.
Then a young noble stepped forward—clean robes, calm eyes, a steady, self-assured smile.
His voice was smooth, measured.
Certain.
"Gentlemen, please. There's no need for hesitation."
His eyes gleamed.
"Ereshgal is… being handled."
A few glances were exchanged. He smiled, calm and calculated.
"Nothing official yet, of course. But it's only a matter of time. I'd say it's almost resolved."
"And in the meantime?"
The young noble didn't miss a beat.
"We need to consider a replacement. Royal blood. Loyal to the gods—and favored by them. And most importantly—ready."
He let the words settle, then leaned in slightly, voice lower now—sharper.
"Because if things escalate, we'll need more than a name on a throne."
A pause.
"We'll need someone who can stand against the King."
Eyes shifted around the table.
"And we all know who that is."
Silence followed.
An older advisor, neutral until now, finally raised his voice.
"Are you suggesting we openly challenge the throne?"
"No."
Another noble replied quickly—tone cold, precise.
"We are suggesting protecting it... from itself. The gods have made their decision clear. There is no acceptable heir from the Kings's line."
...
Days later, at Uruk's gates, a cart approached—or rather, dragged itself forward, groaning under its own ruin.
The wheels were cracked—one nearly split through, the other unsteady with each turn. Its frame was warped and broken in places, as if torn apart by violence and barely reassembled.
Frayed strips of cloth hung from the sides—once a full covering, now reduced to tattered remnants fluttering weakly in the wind.
Every creak echoed like a warning.
Each turn of the axle carved trembling scars into the dirt.
Two oxen pulled it forward—steadily, unhurried. They moved not with urgency, but with quiet obedience.
From a distance, the guards squinted into the glare.
Spears shifted. Postures stiffened.
But as the cart limped closer, a figure slowly came into view—hands on the reins, posture rigid, drained but upright.
One of the guards stepped forward, eyes narrowing. Then, suddenly, he lowered his weapon.
"Weapons down!" he called sharply. "It's Namur."
Namur pulled the cart to a shaky halt. Its frame looked barely able to support itself. He climbed down slowly, dust-covered and grim-faced.
"Namur" the guard saluted, confusion and concern mingling.
"What happened? Are you alright?"
Namur's eyes remained dark, fixed ahead.
"We must see the king."
The guard straightened. Before he could reply, his gaze shifted past Namur—to the figure stepping down from the battered carriage.
Azel.
Recognition flickered across the guard's face. He nodded with respect.
Azel raised a hand in silent greeting.
The guard stepped aside at once.
"Of course. Right away."