High above, in the highest chamber of the tower, Xerxes stood with a couple of his Ursang Saints—hulking warriors draped in iron, the mightiest of his chosen. Their presence was a silent testament to Xerxes' power, an unspoken threat to anyone who dared defy him.
Before them sat Lak Ahm, her throne a twisted mass of roots and vines that burrowed into her skin, feeding on her divine essence. She was beautiful, ethereal, yet haunted—dark, heavy shadows lay beneath her eyes, and her skin glowed with a faint, sickly pallor. Every movement seemed to drain her as if the vines themselves were siphoning her strength.
"You don't see the bigger picture here," Xerxes thundered, his voice reverberating through the chamber like a rolling storm.
"Oh, I see it," Lak Ahm replied, her tone dismissive, almost bored. "I simply choose to ignore it."
"That's even more foolish," Xerxes snapped, barely containing his frustration.
Lak Ahm leaned back against her throne, roots tightening around her as if to hold her in place. "And this is, what—your twentieth attempt to persuade me? What makes you think I'll yield this time?"
"Because the world is falling apart," Xerxes said, his voice low and grim. "Baalos is in flames. Aremanian hordes are pillaging the northern kingdoms. And worst of all, Arslan's forces are gathering at Samarqand as we speak. The largest army of Scethian riders since the conquest of the Sassan heaven is poised to descend upon us. My Essyrian people are strong, but I don't know if they can withstand this."
Lak Ahm's gaze hardened. She rose slowly from her throne, the vines clinging to her body, burrowing deeper into her flesh, drinking her divine energy like parasites. She was visibly weakened, and Xerxes could see it. It pained him.
"My people fought and survived alone for years," she said coldly. "Neither you nor Arslan lifted a finger to help us. We made this land ours through blood and sacrifice, and I am all that remains to protect its memory. If I leave, it will be as if they never existed."
"They're not real," Xerxes said, his voice a mixture of sorrow and frustration. "The people you cling to are long dead, Lak Ahm. They live only in your memory."
"They are real to me!" Lak Ahm shouted, her voice echoing with the force of her grief.
Xerxes didn't flinch, but a deep disappointment shadowed his face—disappointment in his daughter, and perhaps in himself. He had once hoped for more from her, that she might see beyond the ghosts she clung to.
"When Arslan's horde comes—and it will come, if I fall—my brother will trample this land of yours into dust. The memories you hold so dear will be scattered to the winds," Xerxes said, his voice low and somber.
Lak Ahm lifted her chin defiantly. "My lands survived the onslaught of Erlik and her puppets of death. I saved them then. I will save them again."
"You're living in a dream that you built if you believe that," Xerxes replied. "But I won't force you to wake from it. I cannot and am unable"
He paused, as if recalling something. "You still have the pendant?"
Lak Ahm's eyes narrowed. "The one you gave me ages ago?"
"The one that serves as part of the seal," Xerxes clarified.
Lak Ahm reached to the armrest of her throne, where a small, ancient pendant hung—a twisted piece of metal that seemed to pulse faintly with divinity. "Why do you ask?"
Xerxes' expression turned grim. "The current Old Man of the Mountain has lost his mind. He sees himself as some kind of successor to Cyrus, my father, and has allied himself with a band of mercenaries, mostly human. They're plotting to reopen the Tower of Cyrus and break the seal. To what end, I don't know."
"And where did you get this information?" Lak Ahm asked, her tone suspicious.
Xerxes's eyes hardened. "From someone I trust. You know who."
"Hamael?" Lak Ahm scoffed. "The son of the Old Man of the Mountain himself? You're putting your faith in a man who would betray his own father?"
"Hamael's loyalty is to his god and his cause," Xerxes replied. "Sometimes, faith is a stronger bond than blood. You, of all people, should understand that."
While the conversation between gods was going on, Gadaric was listening from the shadows, his breath held as he eavesdropped on the conversation. He carefully noted the pendant's location—the armrest of Lak Ahm's throne—and slipped back to rejoin the others, who were huddled together, discussing their next move.
"What did you find out?" Satifa whispered as Gadaric approached.
"The pendant is here. It's one half of the seal, but Xerxes is with her," he muttered, listening around at the silent assassins of the Odam Haji, who remained impassive. The rest of his companions, however, exchanged uneasy glances.
"Does the goddess ever leave her throne?" Joan asked.
Gadaric shook his head. "No. It seems she's bound to it, almost like the throne is draining her. Xerxes is about to leave, though. I'm almost certain of it. But even if he does, there's still the matter of the goddess."
As they debated, something shifted in the shadows. One of the assassins stiffened, catching sight of movement. He peered into the darkness but saw nothing amiss. Reluctantly, he turned back—just as a thick vine lashed out from the ground, wrapping around his leg and yanking him off his feet. He let out a muffled grunt as he was dragged backward into the shadows.
The assassin nearest him spun around, just in time to see his comrade being pulled away. Acting quickly, he drew a knife and slashed at the vine, severing it with a swift cut. The freed assassin scrambled to his feet, steadying himself, but before he could catch his breath, a low growl echoed through the chamber.
From the darkness, a creature emerged—a twisted, dog-like beast, its body formed from dead branches, bark, and thorned vines. It moved as the dog was hurt, hungry and rabid. Its eyes glowed with a sickly green light, and its mouth opened to reveal a maw lined with sharp, splintered wood, dripping with sap like blood.
It wasn't alone. More creatures crept forward, forming a circle around the group. Each was a grotesque blend of animal and plant, an extension of Lak Ahm's power—a perverse reflection of her divine garden. Their bodies bristled with thorns, and long, whip-like tails of vines lashed through the air, coiling and snapping flesh and bone alike.