"Wipe them out. Only about 90%, actually," Zephyros said, his voice calm, almost casual, as if discussing the weather.
Ignavaris shifted, its massive form filling the white room, emerald eyes flashing as they locked onto Zephyros. "Ninety percent?" it rumbled, its voice like distant thunder, the sound reverberating through the chamber.
"You heard me," Zephyros replied, his tone unchanged. He walked over to the man chained before him, his steps deliberate, almost reverent. "I've always wondered why the Free Dominion runs from me. I see them everywhere—even in my sleep. Do they possess a skill that allows them to penetrate the barrier over the castle?" His fingers brushed the man's face, the touch so light it could have been mistaken for tenderness.
Ignavaris snorted, a plume of smoke curling from its nostrils. "Unlikely. Unless they're above Ascendant. Mercy is a fragile toy for mortals, Godling. Break it, and they'll worship the pieces." Its voice dripped with mockery.
"They are," Zephyros said, his gaze distant, as if sensing something unseen. He looked down at the man again, his stone-cold face softening into a genuine smile. "It's okay. God is here to deliver you from your blight."
The man shivered, his eyes darting to Ignavaris's massive wing, then up its towering neck. Tears streamed down his face as he began to speak in Kol-Nic, the ancient dialect of the Free Dominion. His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Help me… I don't know what's real anymore—"
Zephyros cut him off, replying in the same dialect, his voice smooth and reassuring. "I am here to help you."
The man's crying ceased, his body relaxing as if a weight had been lifted. He stared at Zephyros, taking in the youthful face, the sharp eyes that seemed to pierce through him. Is this the king? he wondered, his thoughts a jumble of fear and hope, his voice trembling as he whispered, "Are you… really God?"
"Tell me, little prophet… does your 'God' smell like sanctity… or smoke?" Zephyros's gaze snapped to Ignavaris, but Ignavaris merely bared teeth in a smile, its shadow serpent lashing its tail against the wall.
"I am," Zephyros replied, his smile unwavering.
"Then why do you seem like a demon?" the man asked, his voice breaking. His body began to shake again, his strength fading. To him, Zephyros was no longer a man but a towering, demonic figure with eyes that saw the unseen—a being of endless torment.
"You've been blinded by the Free Dominion," Zephyros said, his tone pitying yet firm. "You've lived in pure darkness for over twenty years."
Ignavaris snorted again, its massive head tilting. "I didn't tell him that," it muttered, more to itself than anyone else. "He saw all that from the man's eyes? If so, he didn't see enough." Its emerald eyes narrowed, the smoke around it thickening.
Zephyros ignored Ignavaris, his focus entirely on the man. "Th-there was a quote…" the man stammered, his voice gaining strength as Ignavaris spread its six wings, the air thick with the scent of smoke and ash. "A quote to give to the king… if and when we saw him. Our lifeline." He paused, gathering his courage, his voice trembling but resolute. "I am the Son of Amoz."
Ignavaris's claws scraped against the walls as it began to ascend, its voice a low growl. "The Son of Amoz. The nephew of a king?"
"I am not a king," Zephyros replied, his smile fading for the first time, his voice carrying a hint of something darker.
"Yes… it was your ancestor," the man said, his own smile returning, though it was tinged with desperation. "It was our lifeline."
"Speak," Zephyros commanded, his voice low but carrying an edge of authority that made the man flinch.
The man's voice rose, raw and pleading, his hand clutching at Zephyros' garments. "The kings and queens of the hearts of the realm aren't strong enough. They can't free us from ourselves—or from themselves. But one day, by royal decree… the choosing of kings changed. Were the kings finally worthy? Who, then, will be the next king?" His grip tightened, his eyes wild with a mix of fear and hope. "Oh king…"
"God," Zephyros corrected, his tone soft but firm, his smile returning, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Oh God! Deliver us from our ignorance! The heart needs a new—" The man's plea was cut short as Zephyros gently pushed him back down, preventing him from rising.
"Son of Amoz…" Zephyros said, his voice almost a whisper, his gaze piercing. "How old are you?"
The man's expression shifted, his voice changing, becoming hollow and mechanical, like a recording. "I am to be beautiful… I am to be perfect. The Central District will be in my shape."
Zephyros tilted his head, his smile widening, though his eyes remained cold. "I am around 600… 700 years old," the man continued, his grin unnaturally wide, his voice echoing as if channeling something far older. Zephyros's smile didn't waver, but his knuckles whitened on the man's shoulder.
"They are to see mercy! They are to see a new light!" the man repeated, his voice rising, the words carrying a weight that seemed to press against the walls of the room.
Ignavaris let out a low growl, its emerald eyes flashing. "A God to be born over 700 years before his birth… a being prophesied," it said, its voice heavy with warning. "Careful, Zephyros. Even sages can be undone by their own hubris."
Zephyros ignored Ignavaris, his focus entirely on the man. "You are blessed. The light is closer than ever. A new disciple apart of the rings." With that, he raised the man to his feet, his touch firm yet gentle. Ignavaris let out a final snort, its massive form disappearing into the shadow-dyed air as it flew off, leaving Zephyros and the man alone in the white room.
"We should meet the children," Zephyros said, his voice soft yet radiant, a smile playing on his lips like the first light of dawn breaking through a storm.
"Chi-children? What children?" the Son of Amoz stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of disbelief. His fear began to unravel, replaced by a fragile, trembling hope.
"Down... below," Zephyros replied, his smile unwavering. His dual-colored eyes sparkled with an otherworldly light, their glow piercing through the Son of Amoz's confusion, anchoring him in a moment that felt both eternal and fleeting.
"Down?" the Son of Amoz whispered. What does he mean, down? His thoughts spiraled, a storm of dread and longing. Please, not there. Not back to that hell. I've already spent an eternity beneath that abyss—how long has it been? Zephyros knows... God knows...
Before he could finish the thought, the world shifted. A tube materialized around them. Without hesitation, Zephyros reached out, cradling the man's face in his hands. The touch was electric, a surge of warmth that lingered, a promise of something unspoken. And then, they fell—not through space, but through something deeper, something infinite. It wasn't a descent; it was a transformation.
They emerged in an open, pastoral landscape—a grassy hillside stretching outward with great distance and not far off, a simple, minor house. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and earth. Zephyros released him, and the man collapsed to his knees, his hands sinking into the soil. The grass brushed against his skin, tender and real, and he let out a cry—a raw, guttural sound that carried the weight of centuries.
"You are free," Zephyros said, his voice a gentle breeze, his smile a beacon in the vastness of the open sky.
The Son of Amoz ran. He ran until his lungs burned. I've lived through countless prophecies of supposed light, he thought, his chest heaving, yet never one where I was bathed in it. His tears fell freely now. Is this it? Am I finally living in it?
Behind him, Zephyros watched, his smile deepening. "Children," he murmured.
The Son of Amoz turned, his breath hitching. "What?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Children are coming," Zephyros said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. And there they were—three, maybe five, their laughter ringing like bells in the stillness. Zephyros ran to meet them, his movements fluid, almost divine in the eyes of the Son of Amoz. "Let the children come to me," he said, as if reciting a verse. He lifted one into the air, their tiny form glowing in his hands.
His laughter, pure and unrestrained. "Hahaha! Oh, how I love children. Don't you, Son of Amoz? Their innocence... it's intoxicating. A light untouched by the shadows. I would shield them from the darkness, from the rot that clings to this world. That evil—bulky, pervasive, infesting every corner—it will be destroyed."
The Son of Amoz watched, his heart pounding in his chest. He staggered forward, each step heavy with revelation. The darkness I saw earlier wasn't in him, he realized, his thoughts a whirlwind. It was in me. My eyes were blind. He is... he is truly God. In that moment, Zephyros was no longer a man but a radiant light, a being of pure, humming energy, his form both human and infinite.
The children swarmed around Zephyros, tugging at his robes, their laughter a symphony of joy. He lifted them, twirling them in the air, his laughter mingling with theirs. For a moment, the world was perfect. "Diotima, Hypatia, Socrates, Plato, Heraclitus, it is best you go back home," their laughter syncopated by a distant, metallic scream. The Son of Amoz, amidst his euphoria, catching a glimpse of distant, unnatural light on the horizon below that he dismisses as part of the "light."
"Burn," a voice hissed, cold and merciless. An emerald eye glowed, its gaze piercing. A red hue spread like a stain, and smoke began to rise. The six-winged Ignavaris emerged. Screams filled the air, sharp and desperate. Cries of terror, of pain, of death. Zephyros's voice cut through the chaos, calm yet commanding. "Wipe them out. But only 90%."
"How many deaths is 90%?" Ignavaris growled, its voice a thunderous rumble. It soared into the sky, its massive form casting a shadow over the land below. The ground was a sprawling expanse of technology—flying cars, trains hurtling at impossible speeds, the headquarters of the Free Dominion reduced to smoldering ruins. Flames consumed everything, their hunger insatiable.
"I wonder if any of them were allied with the Free Dominion," Ignavaris mused, its laughter a deep, guttural sound. It swooped down again, spewing fire, the screams of the dying drowning out its mirth.
But then, an arrow—large and gleaming—shot through the air, aimed straight for the dragon's neck. It dodged, twisting mid-air, its eyes narrowing as it searched for the source. Below stood a woman, her arrow nocked with ashes of the dead. Her gaze fierce. "Die," she said, not to the dragon, but to the memory of the screams.
Ignavaris soared above the Free Dominion's collapsing skyline, its roar splitting the air. Flames cascaded from its jaws, incinerating towers of glass and steel. "Ninety percent!" it bellowed. A woman's arrow grazed its throat, and it paused, recognizing her face—an immortal it had killed the family of decades ago. "You play savior, Woman… but who cleanses the cleanser?" It screamed aloud.
"You." She replied. With that, it vanished into the sky, leaving behind a world engulfed in flames.
Back on the hillside, Zephyros lay on the grass, his laughter mingling with the children's. He was a saint amidst the chaos, his joy untouched by the destruction. The cries of the people, the smoke, the flames—they were distant, almost unreal. And in the midst of it all, a lone figure stood, a woman. "A devil resides in that castle," she said.
"A God resides in this place," the Son of Amoz thought.