The sky is painted a deep purple dominating a salmon pink, casting a regal gloom upon the towering Holy district of the city of Mizar. The Main Spire of the Shamic Temple, center of all religion in the Shamza Khalifate, glittered in all its crystalline splendor as the glazed minarets reflected the setting horizon.
Glittering as the structures may be, however, they were at the moment devoid of any glow. The district had yet another power shortage, as the city redirected the energy from the power stone plant to the newly-built munitions factory in the Manufacturing district. Yet another call by the High Council to expand the Khalifate's arsenal, in case of a sudden attack by the treacherous Demon armies.
And so, on the middlemost floor of the highest tower, blocked by the shadow of a minaret without a fluorescent lamp, one middle-aged man grumbled through his teeth as he struggled to write a letter on parchment with the little light his arm-length window and thumbnail of a candle could provide.
"14 Aylul 2045
To my dear brother Jibril,
Praises to Ilah, the Lord of Light, all Wise, all Benevolent.
I write to you once more bringing tidings of the city and the Temple's Child.
The boy grows to be a smart, clever lad, if not with a streak of mischief. Jamil has now mastered the Sura of Lightning, and can cast Lightning Bolts without uttering a single word. We shall be moving on to the Sura of Patience next, for which I worry given his impulsive disposition. I fear he may yet fail to achieve full comprehension of the writings in the Book of the Sun, and fall short of becoming a true Hunter.
Duvall continues to instruct him in the arts of war. He learns well, a born tactician, trouncing his peers at bouts of Shatrana always in less than two dozen moves. He makes much flair of it, leading to little scuffles with his fellow disciples. But he remains well-loved, leader of his own ragtag bunch of miscreants who love to swipe plums of the tables. Never has a day passed when the cook has not mentioned his name in shrill tone.
The Khalif and his ministers continue to provide for us teachers in the Temple, and inquire as to the boy's development and capability. I do not know what to make of it: are they truly looking after the boy's welfare, or do they simply see him as a weapon being forged?
A weapon, and for what? The prophet Mahmut was given no oracle by the Lord of Light as to how the Rasul will bring about the end of war, not even as he drew his dying breath. Four millennia and two score have passed since then and yet, we have received no sign but the Rasul himself. We continue to educate him in the ways of Light, and teach him in all arts and sciences. I daresay he is well on his way to becoming a promising prince, but to say he shall bring about victory is too much. Must we truly place the burden of the world upon such a small child's shoulders?
And yet, I can not fully blame them. What we have is but a tenuous peace. We are all desperate; this Holy War has gone on for so long, and the people have become far too restless. Weapon or not, the Gun must fire upon the Demon lands soon enough. Far too many people have died, and the loss of the Fortress City Alkaid remains far too fresh in all our minds. That black sun, swallowing the entire citadel whole...
The Demons grow far too fearsome in strength, and can no longer be kept unchecked. Within the city there are whispers of lavender-skinned strangers sighted near the walls, and even within. The City Lord dismisses it as fiction, but I wonder how so many whispers can bear only a single truth.
But that is all. I hope all is well with you. The boy misses you as well, and asks after his "scruffy uncle." Mayhaps one of these days you would be able to ride a storm-wagon home to stay for a few days. It would bring some more happiness to the child's cooped-up life.
Send all our friends at the monastery my regards.
In faith,
Gamalil"
Rolling up the parchment, he sealed it with the still-hot candlewax and pressed a wooden stamp engraved with a waxing crescent encircling a sunburst. He then tied the letter to the leg of a gyrfalcon, which he perched in his forearm. Stretching his arm out the window he whispered,
"Brother, brother, fly as wind,
through the seas of gale and cloud and sand
Journey to this man's abode
And bring these words I have bestowed."
Flapping its wings, the raptor flew off to the horizon, towards the setting sun.