Chapter 213 – The Man of Endless War

Mirian had thought through her plans endlessly, but they had all been for different circumstances. Worse ones, in fact. If there was one thing she could be absolutely certain of, it was that her father was on her side.

It was a key advantage.

They had a minute, maybe less. “If you were a Prophet, and had to deal with other Prophets, how much would you trust them?”

“Not at all,” her father said.

That was straightforward enough. “I would like to align us to purpose. I fear the others have goals beyond just saving Enteria. We will say nothing of our relationship. As far as Ibrahim knows, all we’ve agreed is that you’ll tutor me.”

“Done,” he said, and stood.

“Atroxcidi!” called a voice. It echoed off the walls.

Gaius Nezzar dismissed the illusion on the wall.

“He’s got your name wrong,” Mirian whispered.

“Good. I haven’t used my real name since Leyun died.”

A jolt of grief shot through Mirian. She nodded, and breathed in sharply. She needed to clear her emotions. She veiled her eyes with a quick illusion. They walked out.

“Atroxcidi,” came Ibrahim’s deep baritone as the necromancer entered the catacombs. “I come to you as… oh. So you are meddling again, Mirian.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know me?”

Ibrahim snorted. “You’ve had yourself declared Prophet by the Pontiff of the Luminates several times.”

“You’re sure I’m not one of the other Prophets?”

“Sulvorath? Unlikely.”

“No, one of the other Prophets,” Mirian said, and was satisfied to see that Ibrahim was caught off balance by the statement. The surprise faded quickly, though.

“What do you hope to accomplish here?” he asked, sounding tired.

“I would have talked to you sooner, but I wanted to ensure our honored necromancer here wasn’t being manipulated first. There’s three Prophets so far in our council, and we’ve begun to coordinate our actions to solve the puzzle of Enteria’s doom.”

Ibrahim glanced at her father, then back at her.

“Did you really not tell him in the previous cycles? He figures it out anyways. The Ominian needs us to stop the apocalypse. Not conquer Baracuel. You have a place on the council of Prophets—or Chosen, if you prefer—if you can agree to work with us.”

The other Prophet shook his head. “You think you know the will of God. You know no such thing. God has given each of us a task. You can scurry off and do yours, I care not. I will do mine. But do not interfere.”

“What exactly makes you think the Ominian has tasked you with the destruction of Baracuel?”

Ibrahim was silent. Mirian could see his soul still writhing, like steam was coming off it. There was a barely contained fury beneath the surface of the man.

“In Baracuel, there’s several communities of Persamans. They don’t deserve to die for the sins of the generals and Parliament. But that’s what your invasion causes. Rostal—”

Ibrahim took a sudden step forward and hissed, “Do not speak his name to me. Or the names of any of the other traitors who abandoned their people for coin and comfort.” He spat on the ground.

Mirian looked at Ibrahim, jaw clenched. Here was someone truly implacable. She needed to proceed cautiously. Today, she was either going to make an ally of him, or a terrible enemy. “In Akana Praediar, there’s a conspiracy of businessmen, spymasters, and generals. They get their population to hate Baracuel, and then they invade. The first cycle, I watched my friends and professors cut down in cold blood. Innocents, butchered. Then I watched it again. And again. Merciless slaughter, all based on a lie. I have every reason to hate all Akanans. They were fools, easily riled up into bloodlust, eager to call for the death of people they knew nothing about. But I’d rather kill the liars that led them. Even without the apocalypse, there would have been a slaughter across Enteria. But we have the opportunity to set ourselves on another path. You’ve seen the tree, half in flame. The path through the tangles is not so obvious. But there is a path.”

Gaius twitched slightly at the mention of the tree.

“Your path may be tangled,” Ibrahim said, head high. “Mine is clear.” He had such a confidence about him. More than Gabriel’s bravado. Despite his hatred of his old mentor, she saw Rostal’s steps echoed in the other Prophet’s. He simply radiated leadership.

“Then tell me your path, Ibrahim Kalishah.”

“Each Chosen has their duty. The Sixth Prophet, as you call him, failed.” Ibrahim turned his gaze to the necromancer. “Baracuel was never meant to have united. That must be fixed.”

Gaius shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll wait for you two to resolve your differences before I comment. Besides, you already know how I feel about you and Dawn’s Peace. This isn’t the first time we’ve talked, is it? Then this certainly isn’t the final loop.”

Ibrahim gave an amused “Hmph.” Then he continued. “If Baracuel is allowed to stay as it is, when this is all over, it will continue to spread again like a creeping plague.”

“And if it’s destroyed, Akana Praediar will take its place. As it intends to. Do you know what kind of armies they can field? How fast they can build artillery? How many airships they have? There’s a smarter way to do all this. Solve the apocalypse first. Then we can discuss what the world looks like after that.”

“This is God’s trial. The crucible that forges us into Their unbreakable weapon. If Akana Praediar stands in my way, I’ll break it too.” His aura tightened and flared as he said it. What must it be like to fight this man? she wondered.

“There are three Prophets in Akana,” she said. “Sulvorath is no longer one of them.”

That made Ibrahim hesitate, though only for the briefest moment.

“You’re practicing for the final cycle. I understand that. But there won’t be an Enteria in the final cycle if you don’t help us. I have business in Alkazaria that I can’t accomplish when it’s already been conquered and razed. I have people I need to talk to in Palendurio and allies in Cairnmouth. If I’m your ally, I can make your objectives easier. I can convince Fort Aegrimere not to march against you, for example. General Corrmier is a traitor, and given more time in the capital, I can find the levers that will topple him early in the cycle. There’s a way to change Baracuel without slaughtering the farmers and artisans who live in it. They are not your enemy—”

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“They are,” Ibrahim snapped. “If the injustices of the past cannot be repaired and a new destiny forged, then I care not if Enteria bleeds out, for it is already bleeding. The fossilized myrvite ripped from my land, cut from it by the bloody fingers of my people, is used to power these ‘innocent’ cities. Baracuel’s citizens then feast on it like ravenous dogs. What fuels your spellwards and the spell engines your artisans use? Whether or not they wield weapons means nothing. They drink our blood.”

“And the children?”

Ibrahim said nothing to that. She could guess how he’d justified it to himself, though. After all, Baracuel had killed as many children in their wars.

“Ending all fossilized myrvite extraction is already on my agenda. Would you rather end the feast of blood, or bleed your people more with endless war? What will Persama look like after every soul has been fed into the machines of war? And even if I step aside, will the other Prophets?”