Chapter Text
I'm on a river that winds on forever
Follow 'til I get where I'm goin'
Maybe I'm headin' to die but I'm still gonna try
I guess I'm goin' alone
- Ends of the Earth (Lord Huron)
[37 years before Jophiel of Theria’s Rule]
Fluixon - 10
"Fluixon. You must be heard, but never seen."
They were walking along the marketplace. The crowds parted where they went. A ten-year-old Fluixon had only just begun to realize this was not a normal occurrence for everyone. The Sultanate was his playground.
Fluixon looked up at his father. Crow was a severe looking man. Dark hair, dark eyes. The sharpest features Fluixon had ever seen on a human being.
Even if that was his dad. He had never known a day where Crow had looked soft before. He stood out in a crowd wherever he went.
It served him well, especially since he was the supposed heir to Storminghell, leader of the Sultanate.
The Sultanate was the best place to live in. Fluixon knew it. His lessons told him so.
And he had eyes: the streets were clean and free of crime. Every building polished to the point of shining. The land was rich where the rest of the desert was barren.
Would Crow’s position make Fluixon in line for the throne one day? Half-formed fantasies began to fill his little mind. Where he was a ruler, where the entire desert bent in the same way the marketplace.
That would be…
“Epic.” Fluixon mumbled. A small smile on his face.
“Hm?”
"Nothing. Also, that doesn't make sense." Fluixon wrinkled his nose. Fluixon was never soft either, even at his age. "Zaanga's always calling me annoying. Telling me I should be seen and never heard."
"I suppose Zaanga would say that, your impertinence."
Zaanga was Crow's "work rival", as he liked to call it. They felt more like siblings. Fluixon had been told to call him “Ammo Zaanga.”
No way. They were on a strict first-name basis.
Fluixon didn't understand why Crow hung around that guy. Or why he was considered Crow's equal. The guy was much younger than Crow. More carefree. And Dad seemed to do all the work. Did all the heavy lifting for the nation.
There was a tension there and Fluixon didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way Zaanga and Crow always measured each other up. As if there was some imbalance to them.
What Fluixon still couldn’t figure out was who was on the losing end.
"Influence is best done in the shadows. I hope you learn that one day, Fluixon." Crow said.
He raised a hand to a young seller they were walking past. The man bowed his head. Rushed forward, presenting them with the freshest fruits, already prepared on a basket.
Like he knew they were coming.
Fluixon takes a persimmon.
"Not doing so well on that front, old man." Fluixon raised an eyebrow.
"I might be better at it than you realize." Crow just raised one back at him. Fluixon took a nice juicy bite of the persimmon.
The man bowed to them again.
Then began following them a few steps away. Fluixon looked behind him in curiosity.
"Where are we going today?" Fluixon said, through a mouthful of fruit.
"Trial of the people. You are old enough to enter the Shari'ah now. I thought you should know how it works.”
---------------------
The Shari’ah court stood at the heart of the city, older than most of the structures that surrounded it.
The walls were darkened with age, and the carvings along their surface were worn smooth by years of passing hands.
Fluixon stepped inside and immediately wrinkled his nose. The air in the building felt heavier, thick with smoke that clung to the lungs and dulled the senses.
“It smells strange.”
“Incense.” Crow replied. “A reminder that all who stand here are judged under something greater than themselves.”
Fluixon rushed to shake the sand off his sandals. He followed his dad, careful not to run in such a… solemn hall.
The court was shaped like an inverted dome, and Crow led them down the steps. Lower and lower until they almost reached the floor.
Fluixon looked up, and saw the people sitting in the seats above them were so high up, they would have to watch the trial with their heads bowed the whole time.
All of them. Nobles. Commonfolk alike. Their expressions were carefully blank, as if anything more might be dangerous.
“Dad…” Fluixon began to feel unease.
Crow ushered him into his seat.
--------------------------------
At the center of the room, a raised platform stood waiting.
And upon it… A man. Bound and kneeling.
Fluixon slowed. The man did not look like a criminal.
He looked… ordinary.
Dust clung to his clothes. His frame was slight. His hands were rough, the skin tanned and worn from labor. His gaze flickered constantly, searching the room as if there might still be someone, anyone, who would intervene.
No one did.
“He doesn’t look dangerous.” Fluixon pointed out quietly.
“He is not.” Crow answered.
Fluixon turned to him, confused. “…Then why is he here?”
Crow did not respond.
Fluixon noticed too, the man who gave them the persimmons earlier had followed them into the courtroom.
But he supposed they didn’t have the privilege of sitting so close to the stage. They sat a ways up. Their eyes shining with unshed tears. Hands clasped in front of their mouth in prayer.
He looked like the man on the stage. But younger. A father and son. Just like them.
When he tried to settle closer to Crow, the other man did not move.
-------------------------------------------------
The doors opened once again, and the room changed. Every single person stood.
Fluixon followed a moment too late, his movement clumsy compared to the smooth, immediate obedience of the others.
Storminghell entered without ceremony, flanked by 2 soldiers in dark clothing. No visible way to distinguish them but a pin on their breast. A wolf and a jackal.
Guard dogs.
The room seemed to bend around Storminghell, like he had his own gravity. The leader of the Sultanate was a large and imposing man. Richly embroidered clothes layered over a pure-white thobe.
Storminghell’s gaze swept across the hall once, slow and deliberate.
And for a moment… It landed on him.
Fluixon froze. He felt like an insect about to be crushed.
Storminghell looked away just as quickly, ascending to the platform with measured steps. The guards repositioned. The room began to take their seats.
Fluixon realized, distantly, that his hands were clenched.
“…Sit.” Crow murmured. Everyone else had already.
Fluixon dropped back into his seat.
------------------
The trial began without announcement. A herald steps forward and his voice echoes across the chamber.
“State your name.”
The man at the center flinched, like the words themselves had struck him.
“Nova.” He said.
And your crime?”
“I… took medicine.” Nova admitted. “From the supply lines of the southern district. My family-”
“Your crime will suffice.” the voice repeated, sharper now.
Nova’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “…Theft.”
“Three separate counts of it to be exact. Our reports show you have taken excess from the rations in the past. And there is an additional offense.”
Nova hesitated.
“Failure to seek blessing.” The official recited, his voice cutting. Like this next crime held gravitas.
“Under law, no subject may abandon their assigned duty, post, or household without the explicit blessing of a superior authority. To do so is to reject the structure that sustains the Sultanate.”
Nova’s voice broke as he spoke. “The wages are too small. A quick advance on the rations, I thought no one would notice. My child was sick, you understand those things need to be done urgently.”
“You abandoned your superior without permission.” The official continued, as if the interruption had not occurred. “You took what was not granted.”
Fluixon felt something twist in his chest. “He was trying to help his family.”
“He needed permission to leave his place.” Crow corrected. “He could have asked first, asked for help before turning to crime. All things must move with a structure. Without it, there is only chaos.”
Fluixon stared at him. “That’s stupid.”
Crow’s hand tightened slightly on the armrest. “Be careful, Flux.” He said quietly.
Fluixon sank back, crossing his arms.
Another one of the officials stepped forward, unrolling a scroll. “For theft against the Sultanate’s supply line, the punishment is-”
“Execution.” Storminghell said. His voice was low, strong. And maybe it was the way the chamber was built, but the sound of it carried all the way to the tops of the chamber.
The scroll bearer froze. The entire room did. And Fluixon’s head snapped up too.
“Execution.” Storminghell repeated, and it was law. “I don’t believe this is his first offense.”
The official nodded tightly. “As you decree, my lord.”
Fluixon felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“Hey, that’s not right.” He said, a bit louder now. Fluixon was a learned student, and his teachers often told him an educated person knew what was right and wrong.
The question was, what was truly a wrong? And who determined it?
“Fluixon.” Crow’s hissed at him, warning him. But Fluixon couldn’t stop.
“That man’s not dangerous.” Fluixon said, pointing. “You said so. So why is he being-”
“Fluixon, keep your voice down.”
“Somebody should stop this!”
The words came out louder this time. Too loud. The room shifted and Fluixon felt it. The attention turning, the eyes flicking toward him.
Even Storminghell paused.
“You can’t just kill him.” Fluixon continued. “That’s not- he was just trying to help his family!”
Fluixon did not know why he was doing this. He just knew… This was wrong.
Storminghell turned. Fully, this time. His gaze settled on Fluixon again. And this time there was something in it.
Interest. So this was Crow’s boy.
“How old are you, child?” Storminghell asked aloud.
His voice echoed across the hall, no one else dared to make a sound. Storminghell didn’t look mad, but Fluixon had a feeling that could change at a drop of a hat.
Fluixon swallowed. “…Ten. Your Majesty.” He was not so young or stupid to forget his manners.
A faint smile.
“Storminghell, forgive him. I wanted to show him the Shari’ah.” Crow tried to say. Storminghell’s eyes crinkled into a warm smile. A strange look on a man who just ordered execution.
“I know, Crow. I’m not so cruel a man to punish a child for speaking out. Come here.” Storminghell beckoned.
“But-” Fluixon’s blood ran cold. He did not want to go there.
“Come. Here.” Storminghell asked again. It wasn’t a request.
Crow squeezed Fluixon’s shoulder once, Fluixon tried to cling onto the warmth of his hand. Then he was pushed forward.
All eyes were on him as he ascended the stage, shakingly walking to Storminghell’s side. Until he stood in front of the gilded seat their leader sat upon.
Storminghell looked at Fluixon. Fluixon tried his best to stand tall. Look sharp. Just like dad.
It was really, really hard though.
“Do you think this man should be forgiven?” Storminghell asked him.
Fluixon’s face burned from the amount of attention he was receiving. And he also knew the man on the stand was staring at him too with pleading eyes.
I want to help you. But I don’t know if I can.
“I hope he can be given another chance, your majesty. Care for one’s family is a major virtue of the Sultanate.” Fluixon tried to say.
“Wise words.” Storminghell rubbed his chin. The Sultan was a bit older than his own father. He had a humor in his eyes that Fluixon was not used to seeing. It didn’t match at all.
“A chance he has already been given. This is not his first offense. Should he not receive punishment for the theft?”
“I- I don’t know.” Fluixon said.
“Every action has a consequence, boy. Your father wanted you to come here and see it first-hand. And now you will get to watch it from the eyes of a king.”
Fluixon bowed his head. He wished the ground would swallow him up.
“But… for your bravery, this man will be given a swift ending. He will not even feel it.” Storminghell gestured to the executioner standing off to the side
.
Fluixon turned, panicked. His stomach dropped. And Storminghell held him in place, with a firm hand to his shoulder so he could not look away.
The blade was drawn.
One moment, Nova breathing.
The next. He wasn’t.
Fluixon didn’t realize he had stopped breathing too until his lungs burned.
---------------------------------
He didn’t remember leaving the courtroom. Only that he was outside again.
The desert sun felt wrong. Too bright. Too normal.
“Fluixon. You cannot act out in that manner again. That was dangerous.” Crow's voice said from behind him.
Dangerous. Fucking hell it was. Fluixon had no idea why he was sent to watch that.
Though he didn’t have the words for it yet, he knew a child shouldn’t have had to watch that. That a father shouldn’t have died either for the failure of their own systems.
Fluixon jerked away when Crow reached for him.
“Don’t!” He snapped. Crow’s hand stilled in the air.
“…I did not expect today’s events, Flux.” Crow relented. “But at least you understand how we achieve such peace in the Sultanate.”
“No, I don’t.” Fluixon shot back. “That wasn’t justice. That was-”
“Terrible. And painful, yes. Where do you think all of this comes from? The line must be drawn somewhere.”
Fluixon laughed. A sharp, broken sound. “...You didn’t even try to stop it.”
Crow’s expression hardened. “It was not my place.”
“Yes it was!” Fluixon said. “You’re the heir!”
The words hung in the air. Crow went still.
“I am many things, my boy.” Crow said carefully. “But not that.”
Fluixon frowned. “What?”
Crow looked away.
That day, Fluixon would never forget. That day Fluixon found out Crow was a lying dirtbag. That the Sultanate wasn't actually his playground. And that maybe... he should have never wanted it to be.
------------
In the next few years, Fluixon learned quickly.
He had to.
The palace tutors taught him numbers, politics, language. But he learned a lot more outside of them.
From servants who spoke when they thought no one important was listening. From guards who underestimated him. From merchants who thought a little boy asking questions was no threat.
Things like where their supplies came from. Where they didn’t go. He learned which districts starved when the caravans were rerouted. And he learned how some people got so desperate they left without that damned blessing, fucking the law. Fucking the order that the Sultanate brought.
There were groups of them. Out there.
It was terribly exciting to know they were out there. People who managed to make it out at all.
Fluixon also learned that Nova hadn’t been the only one man to die. Not even close. He learned that his son had killed himself shortly after.
He learned about Zaanga.
Not from Crow. Never from Crow.
From whispers. From the way people hesitated when they spoke about succession. About Crow’s position.
The real heir.
Crow was indeed powerful and respected. Feared, and bent the world around him. But there was someone else out there who bent the world even harder.
It took an embarrassingly long while, but Fluixon eventually understood their place in the world. They were the failsafes…. the security detail on the real succession.
Fluixon stopped arguing and started planning.
Call it morbid curiosity. But when he learned he might be living in a cage, a beautiful cage, Fluixon started wondering if there was a way out.
He mapped the city. Every possible exit. All the patrols.
He learned how to travel light. How to store water. And how to move without being noticed, just like Crow wanted.
And on the night he turned into an adult, Fluixon managed to stand at the edge of the city. The desert stretched endlessly before him.
Influence is best done in the shadows.
Fluixon smiled faintly. “Guess you were right, dad.” No one had noticed him slip out into the night.
You may not leave without permission. It echoed in his mind, twisting guilt into vines in his stomach.
A man could not leave his post. A father could not provide for his family. And a son…
Fluixon stared out at the desert, vast rolling waves of sand stretching beyond the reach of the Sultanate’s walls. They sprawled without rhyme or reason.
Without order.
…A son could not leave his father. Not without becoming a criminal.
----------------
[27 years before Jophiel of Theria’s Rule]
Jophiel: 14
Saparata: 17
Fluixon: 20
The desert was hot.
Unforgiving.
How long has it been since Fluixon and the caravan had managed to find a single oasis?
It was a hard few months. They had lost a few of their members in the journey, people who died to thirst and hunger. The pockets of water and green were sparse. The stronger men like him taking turns carrying the children and the elderly through the sands.
But a spring and river had finally cropped up amongst the golden dunes of that Desert Island. A haven for wandering travelers. Refugees. Runaways.
Anyone who didn't want to join the rising power in the east, The Sultanate.
No one knew where he had originally come from. Who he was.
When Fluixon's caravan had arrived, they had been one of the first ones there. Setting up tents, starting the first farms.
But only a few months later, hundreds of people have come. In waves. All seeking a new life.
He had been put to work right away. His life as a scholar, at least that was what everyone thought he was, was tested. He had been making building plans, sketches, for how they might house all these settlers that have come to be nourished by this oasis.
"We need to get organized. Our presence may be small, but in a few years we may soon be detected by the Sultanate." The people were beginning to realize.
"We best be prepared then. We have the chance to start a whole new nation. Right here."
So that was where they were. As the first few settlers, people had begun to look at him and his companions for guidance. Fluixon’s skills and education had not gone unnoticed
A gathering had been called.
"We need an army." The head of their caravan had announced, standing atop a wooden crate. "Nothing too large. Just a group of able-bodied people willing to train!"
There were a few people who had defected from the Sultanate army. A few smiths by trade willing to make weapons. Mercenaries too who had stepped forward.
Fluixon had no interest. People were already looking to him to be their chief builder. He would have his hands full.
Then.
A voice.
"I volunteer!" A young voice rose up from the crowd, high and clear.
A boy stepped forward. His white hair was shorn short. He had clear, grey eyes. Pale skin that should've been burning in the midday sun. And white linen robes.
When he moved, he rippled like a mirage.
"I can fight!" He said bravely, determination across his young face.
The people in the crowd laughed. "The army isn't a place for juveniles. Go back to where you came from."
The boy was unfettered. He ran up, pushing through the people.
"Sorry! 'Scuse me!"
His companions scoffed, not angry, just entertained and a little condescending towards this boy, naive and bright as he was.
Fluixon was immediately intrigued.
"C’mon, let’s see what he has to say." He said.
The boy stood before them. He was tall. Had a good build. Strong arms that looked like they would be good for holding a sword. Bravery. A hard thing to come by these days.
"What's your name, kid?" Fluixon asked. He doubted he was that much older than him. But Saparata just gave off the vibe of someone still wet between the ears. Like the world hadn’t broken him in yet.
"Saparata." He said.
Saparata. Now where did Fluixon hear that name before? He scoured his memory.
An ancient city in the south. Crescentia. A well-known mage who had served under their royal family bore his name too. And he had served under a king named Fluixon.
"Saparata? Sounds like a grandpa’s name. Named after a seer." Fluixon had joked.
"Well I'm not a prophet. I'm a warrior." Saparata said, eager.
The others were unsure. But Fluixon knew they would need all the bodies they could get.
But more than that, something inside of Fluixon was screaming at him: Give him a chance, he might surprise you.
He gave the others a look, his eyes cutting. They begrudgingly indulged Fluixon’s request.
"We shall see."
.
.
.
Fluixon thought that was the last he would see of Saparata. But that was probably the most wrong anyone had ever been about anything.
-----------------------------
In a few months, the oasis no longer resembled the fragile patch of life they had first stumbled upon.
It had grown. Though not cleanly or beautifully.
Clusters of tents were hammered down, in uneven rings around the water. The first crude irrigation trenches carved lines through the sand, guiding precious water toward stubborn crops. Smoke curled upward in thin, wavering strands from hearths always burning.
It was loud too, in a way the Sultanate never was. With laughter, arguments. Trade. Life.
It was terribly annoying.
Fluixon stood at the edge of their budding village. His hands, once untouched by labor, bore the beginnings of calluses. There was dust at the hem of everything he owned, and it never truly left.
“If we expand the housing this way, we can avoid overcrowding the spring.” He directed, to a cluster of settlers gathered near him. “You know too many bodies near the rivers will contaminate it faster than we can maintain it.”
He unrolled the parchment in his hands, revealing rough sketches. Lines marking future structures, and shaded areas indicating farmland.
And the people leaned in. Because Fluixon knew what he was talking about.
“…And defenses?” Someone asked. “If the Sultanate finds us-”
“Not if. They will.” Fluixon said, shortly. “We should work as if they’re already on the way.”
There was a murmur of agreement. “Speaking of. how’s the volunteer army doing, anyway?” Fluixon asks.
“Check them out yourself. We’re not far off from there.”
Fluixon does. His group rolls up on the makeshift camp while the grunts are sparring. If they were going to build something that could survive, truly survive, then the people tasked with defending it could not afford to be disorganized.
Fluixon narrowed his eyes slightly, watching as a pair of recruits circled each other in the sand, wooden training swords raised.
One of them was that boy. Saparata.
He was easy to spot.
Not just because of the white hair, though that certainly helped, brighter under the harsh sun. But because of the way he moved. Like a storm on a hot day: fast and reckless.
He was good. Even with their lackluster training.
Saparata’s strength was obvious. Each swing pushed his opponent back a few steps. Wooden blades clattered at a staccato pace from how fast Saparata was swinging his sword.
His opponent stumbles out of the crude, sand ring.
“Dead.” One of the trainers called.
The other recruit groaned, lowering his weapon.
Saparata grinned, almost manically. He stepped forward, offered a hand to shake, said something too quiet for Fluixon to hear.
The recruit laughed too.
Fluixon tilted his head slightly. Charming. And he adapts quickly.
Fluixon watched too as the next round began.
This time, Saparata was matched with someone larger than him. Stronger. The difference was immediate as Saparata changed his strategy on the fly.
His steps were light. Noticeably faster than anyone else on the grounds. Fluixon couldn’t even tell where his strikes were coming from. Where did he learn how to fight like that?
Saparata defends against a series of heavy strikes that cracked loudly against his wooden blade. Before he taps his opponent sharply at the ribs with the flat of his blade.
“Dead.” The trainer’s voice rang out again.
He was good. Better than good. Fluixon hadn’t expected that.
“…You’re here.”
Fluixon was snapped out of his stupor.
He hadn’t noticed Saparata was standing right in front of him until the boy’s attention was already on him. Fluixon looks around, his companions had already moved on. How long had he been watching Saparata?
Saparata stood a few steps away now, wooden sword resting loosely against his shoulder, a sheen of sweat made his pale skin glowy. Fluixon tries not be blinded by this sudden flash of brightness, even in the desert.
“I was observing the person I had endorsed. Saparata, is it?” Fluixon said, schooling his face into a mask of calm. Yeah. That was it, Flux.
Saparata’s mouth curved. “Yes. And you’re Fluixon.”
Fluixon does not remember ever telling Saparata his name. How did he know that?
“...You’re not bad.” Fluixon said. You are chaos incarnate, is what he meant.
Saparata lit up. It was immediate, uncontrolled. Fluixon almost frowned with that reaction. Why did he look so happy?
“I could give you some pointers.” Saparata said, trying and failing to sound casual. “I’ve been training.”
Fluixon does not know why Saparata seems so interested in him. But he couldn’t say much, as he had been the one intrigued with Saparata first. The solution? Feign nonchalant-ness.
“Sorry to disappoint, I’m not a warrior. I have other work.” He holds up the building plans in his arms. “And you swing a sword.”
“I swing it well.” Saparata says with a grin. What did that mean?
Fluixon would not make it that easy for him. He tilted his head, baiting him. “…That remains to be seen.”
Saparata stepped closer, not enough to be inappropriate. But Fluixon had become highly aware of the pact that people were watching them. Particularly, the ones in the field training.
“You just saw it, man.” He said.
“Potential. I saw potential.” Fluixon corrected. “You lot have never seen a real battle yet.”
Saparata’s smile was a little crooked, quirking up more on one side. Nothing about him seemed orderly in the slightest. “It’s basically the same thing.”
“Oy, Saparata!” An older recruit yelled at him. “What are you doing chatting up some builder?”
Saparata waves him off impatiently, and turns back to Fluixon right away. The brightness of his eyes reminded him of a puppy who had just seen a treat.
“You could come more often.” Saparata said, a little too quickly. “Watch, I mean.”
Fluixon raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Saparata shifted his grip on the wooden sword. Then, without warning, twirled it once in his hand before catching it again, smooth and controlled.
A show-off move.
Fluixon noticed.“…You’re performing now.” He said, amused.
Saparata froze. Caught like a deer in the headlights. “Am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just-” He stopped. Then scowled slightly. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little.”
Fluixon hummed. Saparata was getting more and more interesting by the second. Almost cute.
He shakes his head. “That’s unnecessary.”
Saparata pouts, and with that, Fluixon deems their conversation over. Before he say something too cruel and ruin Saparata’s day even more. Fluixon starts to walk away.
“What do you mean by that?” Saparata called after him, voice a little higher than usual.
“It means…” Fluixon replied over his shoulder. “You’re too noticeable. You’re going to get yourself into trouble.”
Saparata crossed his arms. A self-assured smirk on his face. “I already volunteered to fight. I am trouble.”
“Yes.” Fluixon said. “I’ve noticed.”
-------------------------
.
.
.
The army camp just happened to be built in the area they were trying to expand to. A fact Fluixon had told Saparata extensively, when he found himself wandering in that area in the next weeks.
Saparata was always somehow training close to the fence’s edge. So they could talk. Saparata leaning on the fence. While Fluixon pretended to do work, facing the other way.
What was this guy’s deal?
“You should actually come practice sometime. Instead of watching.” Saparata said. “You might learn something.”
Fluixon raised an eyebrow. “I highly doubt that.”
“Don’t want to spoil your princely robes? Where do you even get such nice stuff out here anyway?”
Fluixon bristles. He had packed the clothes he used in the Sultanate. They’ve grown sandy and faded in his months in the sun, but that didn’t hide the fine fabrics they were made of.
“From… my old home.”
Saparata raises an eyebrow at him, but Fluixon refuses to elaborate. Which suits Saparata just fine. In their budding friendship, they always seemed to scoot around the topic of their first homes.
In this oasis, no one had to know where you came from. That was what was important.
“You say that now.” Saparata shot back, a grin tugging at his lips again. “But when I’m the one saving your life, I expect a proper thank you.”
Fluixon looked at him for a long moment. His purple eyes squinted in annoyance “I don’t need saving. Least of all from you, Saparata.”
“You say it yourself all the time. The Sultanate is coming. And when they do, you should know where to place your bet. I fight better than most of these guys.”
Fluixon raised an eyebrow. “You want to go to war against the Sultanate?”
Saparata had a mad grin on his face. “Why not?”
Why the hell not. Fluixon decides Saparata is a psycho.
“I’m not a gambling man, and the army’s skill is not a high bar.” Fluixon replied. It really wasn’t. Everyone here was only a few steps above an absolutely normal joe. Only Saparata was any sort of good. He refused to let him know, though.
Saparata stepped closer once again. Almost too close for comfort.
Fluixon noticed. And filed it away under mildly concerning.
Softer this time, Saparata said to Fluixon “…You came to watch me, didn’t you?” Hopeful. Fluixon ignores the flurry in his chest at the tone.
“I came to assess the army.” Fluixon shot back and fixed him a glare. You’re getting too comfortable. Don’t forget who gave you this position.
The mischievous glint in Saparata’s eyes didn’t fade. “Sure.”
--------------------------
“You’re following me.” Fluixon said one afternoon. This time, he wasn’t even anywhere near the army camp.
He walked along the edge of a half-built structure in the city center. He doesn’t look up either, too immersed in his sketches.
“...I am not.” Saparata’s voice replied immediately from behind him.
“You have been within five steps of me for the past hour.”
“I happen to like the direction you’re walking in.”
Fluixon turned and stopped walking abruptly.
Saparata bumps straight into him, proving his point.
----------------------------------
“What is that guy’s deal?” Fluixon complained.
The desert changed its mind about how it wanted to hurt you once night fell.
The heat that had pressed down like a suffocating hand slowly withdrew into the sand, leaving behind a chill that you really had no cover from. Not in this empty stretch of nothing.
Fires burned low across the settlement, their glow flickering against tents and half-finished walls, casting long shadows. Fluixon sat at a table, inside a large tent.
Across from him sat the Magister.
Teacher. At least that’s what they called him when they were travelling together. A former Sultanate scholar. And just like Fluixon, he had grown weary of the order and wanted an out.
There was no one person that claimed authority yet here. The Magister was no different, but Fluixon knew very well when people held a gravity, one that people instinctively leaned into.
Who would rise to become the leader of this budding… nation?
It’s whoever was there when decisions were made, diffused conflicts, and whoever tried to hold everything together, when they needed it to be together.
Fluixon felt like this man could be that. Fluixon could place his bet on this man.
His teacher did not need to ask who he meant.
“Saparata?” he replied, the faintest trace of amusement slipping into his voice. He sipped from a clay cup.
“Yes, Saparata.” He said. “He follows me as if I have nothing better to do. He interrupts me while I am working. He insists on speaking even when there is nothing of value to add. And he…” Fluixon paused briefly, searching for a word that did not feel unnecessarily dramatic.
“...lingers.”
“Sounds like he likes you.” The magister says, with a twinkle in his eye.
Fluixon did not look at him.
“He does not like me.” Fluixon is aware he sounds like he is six at the moment. “He is… attached. There is a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.”
You know.” He said, voice tilting toward something more playful. “From the outside, the two of you look remarkably like-”
Fluixon clenches his fist into his robes. “Do not say it.”
“-lovebirds.”
Fluixon rubbed an impatient hand through his hair. “…I am choosing to ignore that.”
The man laughed, unbothered.
“He has an attachment.” Fluixon said again. “I put him in his position. That is all, and it is very misplaced.”
“And you?” He asked lightly.
“What about me.”
“You let him attach.” He points out. You enjoy it a little, don’t you?
Fluixon did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked back into the fire, watching the way the flames curled and shifted. Trying to make sense of something that also refused to sit still.
“That is because he is useful.” He said at last. “Saparata learns quickly. He adapts. He is… talented. We need talent.”
The magister nodded slowly, though there was still a trace of quiet amusement in his expression.
“Of course.” he said. “It’s purely practical.”
Fluixon frowned slightly. “You are implying something that is not there.” He took a drink.
The water did not go down so smoothly, bitter and sharp in a way that lingered longer than it should have.
Then the magister coughed.
It was a small thing at first, easily overlooked, but it came again. Longer this time, rougher and wetter, sounding like he was choking on his own water. And Fluixon’s gaze shifted toward him almost immediately.
The older man waved it off with a loose flick of his hand, as though it were nothing worth noting. He takes his own cup and drinks more of the water swiftly.
“Desert air.” He muttered.
Fluixon studied him more carefully now, noticing the faint sheen of sweat along his skin despite the cooling night, the slight tightness in his posture that hadn’t been there before.
Fluixon decides to call it a night.
Before he leaves, lifting the flap of the tent open and exposing them to the cool, desert air. Fluixon turns back. And gives his last greeting.
“You should rest, teacher.” Fluixon said. “We still need you.”
---------------------------------
The night passed.
Fluixon did not sleep so well in his own tent. He sweated heavily, and his stomach churned, even in the coolness of the night.
He told himself it was nothing. Perhaps something that he ate that didn’t agree with him.
He ended up waking more exhausted and dehydrated than he was the night before.
And the scream the next morning made it very clear that this was not one of those times.
It cut through the early light, and Fluixon was moving out of his tent before the sound had even fully settled. By the time he reached the center of the commotion, the magister’s tent, a crowd had already formed.
Too many people.
Fluixon was losing his patience. But then a voice cut through the crowd.
“Everyone move! Let us check inside!”
Saparata. His voice carried just enough authority to part the bodies in front of him. They obeyed. Saparata seemed to have his own gravity too.
Fluixon shoots him a grateful look as he pushes his way through
Inside the tent, the magister lay on the ground, unmoving.
The color had drained from his face, the pallor now looked immediately wrong in the morning light. And his chest, Fluixon’s eyes flicked there immediately, it did not rise anymore.
Nothing.
Fluixon knelt to him immediately and pressed two fingers against his wrist. No pulse either.
His gaze shifted, scanning the immediate surroundings with his mind racing. What had happened? He was perfectly fine last night. No… almost perfectly fine.
The cup he had drank from lay on the ground some ways off.
A slimy residue clinging faintly to the inside. The taste of the water had been off last night. Fluixon’s bout of sickness.
“Contamination…” Fluixon said. “Get back.” Fluixon rose to his feet in a hurry.
Murmurs grew outside the tent. Dozens of heads trying to peak inside. Fluixon looked at their faces. People he had grown alongside these past months.
Who would be next? He did not want to think about it.
“No one touches the body.” He continued, his voice cutting cleanly through the growing din. “No one drinks from the river. Not until we know what caused this.”
“What do you mean?” Saparata asked.
“He’s been poisoned.” Fluixon said. “Our water is poisoned.”
The word settled heavily over the group.
And then...
The panic began.
----------------------
It did not take long for everyone to understand the scale of what they were facing.
If the water had been contaminated, their singular water source in this entire desert, then the magister surely would not be the last. They were fucking dead if they couldn’t fix this.
“You want us to burn the body?” Saparata had asked. Fluixon turned back to him with tired eyes. It wasn’t like he wanted to do this.
Saparata’s usual energy had sobered up.
“If this is some kind of disease, we cannot risk it spreading.” Fluixon said. “Fire is the fastest way to ensure containment.”
It was the correct decision.
It was also… cold. Necessary things often were. He did not miss the look Saparata gave him.
----------------------------------------------------
They were preparing the pyre when the new arrivals appeared.
At first, it was only movement at the edge of the dunes, distant figures breaking the horizon in a slow, steady line. They spotted them almost immediately.
More settlers? Now?
Fluixon straightened slightly, his gaze sharpening as the figures came closer. With half a mind to turn them away.
But there were not many of them. Just a small group. Dressed in white.
Fluixon meets Jophiel on that day their de-facto leader dies.
----------
A girl approached first.
Despite her youth, she had an unexplainable aura around her. The crowds immediately parted as she walked forward.
She wore a simple white tunic dress. Her strawberry-blonde hair braided into a slim plait down her back. Blue eyes as clear as spring water. The desert sun tanned the skin at her nose bridge, so her face was covered in sun spots.
Fluixon realized then what it meant to fall in love at first sight.
No. Not like that.
Have you ever looked at someone and realized: Yes. You are going to be important to me. You are going to change my life.
Like that.
She knelt beside the body. Closed his eyes. From her satchel, she drew a small vial and anointed his forehead, her touch light but certain.
Then she spoke softly, in a language Fluixon did not recognize, though the meaning of it seemed to settle between them regardless.
The rest of them were moved to silence.
“…Who are you?” Fluixon asked, his voice was hoarse.
The girl looked up. Despite just handling a dead body, her eyes sparked with some kind of strange life. She looked like a girl who laughed a lot.
She looked at Fluixon, then at Saparata.
“I am Jophiel.” She said. Her voice was low and smooth like rolling waves. “And we follow the sun.”
-------------------------------
Everything changed after that.
Jophiel and her group moved through the settlement. They tempered the panic with their calm efficiency. It stood in stark contrast to the tension that had gripped it only hours before.
And it was a different kind of control than what Fluixon had known in the Sultanate.
Fluixon brought them to the river first.
Jophiel knelt at the water’s edge, her fingers hovering just above the surface before finally dipping into it, disturbing the reflection of the sky in slow, careful ripples.
Behind her, the other priestesses spread out along the banks, crouching to study the soil, lifting handfuls of it, letting it fall again between their fingers as though reading something written there.
“This is not natural.” Jophiel said at last, her voice was loud enough that the nearby onlookers could hear.
“Something has been introduced here.” She continued, her voice accusing. “And it has settled into the flow. What have you been taking from the river?”
Fluixon just gaped. “Um. I don’t know. We rely on it pretty heavily for… just about everything.”
“This is what happens when you mess with the order of things. Not enough life to replenish the river. Your people need to respect the balance.” Jophiel gave him a look, like he should know this. But he really didn’t.
Fluixon shook his head. Life? Balance? What did that all mean? “Can you fix it?” He asked instead.
Jophiel lifted her gaze then. Her gaze was fiery. “Yes. But not quickly.”
“How long.” Fluixon pressed.
She glanced back toward the river, toward the stretch of water that now both their greatest asset and their most immediate threat.
“Weeks.” She said. “Maybe longer, depending on how fast we can return it.”
Fluixon didn’t understand a thing. But… he felt like he could trust this girl.
“Tell us what you need.” He said.
----------------------------------------------
What followed did not resemble anything Fluixon had been trained to expect.
Fluixon was taught systems that were precise. He understood how to create structure, how to plan and control things to the most minute detail.
This… was something else.
Jophiel and her priestesses moved along the banks of the river, marking section by section and identifying points where the flow slowed naturally, where the soil held more moisture, where the earth itself seemed more receptive.
Then they began to plant.
Fluixon did not yet fully understand. There were specific seeds they had packed with them.
They dug shallow channels. Small, deliberate diversions that guided portions of the river into low-lying areas where the water pooled and planted even more plants there. This created crude wetlands that had not existed before.
It was inefficient. By every conventional standard Fluixon had been taught, it should not have worked.
But hell. It did.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the water began to change. It smelled sweeter. The water ran clearer.
And less people grew sick.
Fluixon found himself returning to the river more often than he intended.
“You’ve done this before.” He said one afternoon, as he stood beside Jophiel while she adjusted the placement of a cluster of newly planted reeds.
Jophiel did not look up immediately, her hands steady as she pressed the roots more firmly into place.
“We travel.” She replied after a moment. “And when you travel long enough, you begin to understand what the land needs in order to remain alive.”
“You make it sound as though the land has intent.”
Jophiel smiled faintly, brushing her hands clean as she rose. “Does it not?” She said.
Saparata, who had been lingering nearby, as he so often did, crouched at the edge of the water, watching the slow movement of it with open curiosity.
“You’re telling me this whole thing…” He gestured vaguely at the river, the plants, the newly formed wetlands. “is going to fix itself because you planted a few things in the right spots?”
“The water changes the soil, the soil feeds the plants, and the plants, in turn, draw out what does not belong.” Jophiel explained, like she was teaching a child.
Agriculture. Jophiel was someone who knew the lay of the land. They would need her. Fluixon’s mind was already turning, trying to figure out a way to get her to stay.
“The earth already knows how to restore its own balance.” She continued. “We puny humans just keep messing it up. And it’s our job to guide it back.”
Saparata frowned, clearly trying to follow. “That sounds like magic.”
“It is not magic.” Jophiel said. “It’s more like… instinct?”
Fluixon exhaled quietly, folding his arms as he watched the water. Instinct. That was not something the Sultanate had ever valued.
There, solutions were immediate. Decisive and Final. This… required trust in something that could not be controlled directly.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
------------------------------------------------------
Fluixon found himself seated once more near the edge of the settlement, the horizon stretching endlessly before him, the last light of the sun bleeding slowly into the dunes.
Jophiel sat a short distance away, her posture relaxed but composed.
Saparata dropped down beside Fluixon with far less grace, his presence as immediate and unavoidable as ever.
But for once, Fluixon did not comment on it. Because they were here for a lesson.
Jophiel was their new teacher.
“Life is like the sun.” She said, her voice carrying just enough to reach them both without disturbing the quiet around them. “It rises. It sets. And yet, no matter how many times it disappears beyond the horizon, it is never truly gone.”
Saparata tilted his head slightly, considering her words.
“You’re talking about reincarnation,” he said.
Jophiel nodded.
“Our souls do not end,” she said. “It changes. It moves forward. It returns, again and again, carrying with it the memories of what it has been.”
“And it’s the same every time?” Fluixon asked.
“Not the same.” She replied. “But continuous.”
She turned then, her eyes settling on him with a clarity that made it difficult to look away.
“A name.” She continued. “is more than a word. It is a thread. It binds a person across lifetimes, anchoring them even as everything else changes.”
Fluixon felt something in his chest tighten slightly. He thought about their names.
Saparata.
Fluixon.
Jophiel.
Have they ever met before?
“And if the name is lost?” Fluixon asked.
“Then the thread is severed.” she said. “And what comes next… is no longer connected to what came before.”
She held his gaze. Blue eyes coolly meeting his. “May your name live on, Fluixon.” She said softly.
Fluixon felt the weight of her words, but he didn’t fully understand it yet.
A weighty question, Fluixon. What does it take for your name to outlast you?
-------------------------------
It happened during one of the evening gatherings. When the settlers battled the desert cold by huddling around the large hearths.
Don’t get confused. Nothing about this tiny oasis was formal.
But the gathering still carried its weight. When enough people survive the same hardship, how could it not?
The water had cleared.
Not all at once, but gradually, the subtle imbalance that had tainted it began to recede under the steady influence of the changes Jophiel and her group had introduced.
And because their job was done. These sun-followers had planned to leave again. But-
“You should stay.” Saparata had said. The campfire washed over his pale form, making him glow red in the night.
The words were directed toward Jophiel. But they echoed outward, picked up and repeated by others in murmured agreement.
“We need people like you here.”
“You saved us.”
“You understand things we don’t.”
Fluixon stood at the edge of the group, arms folded loosely, observing.
He did not speak. In the past few months, he couldn’t think of a single thing to get Jophiel to stay with them. This humble place had nothing to offer them. Not yet, anyways.
Jophiel looked around at them. At the faces of people who had been strangers only days before, now bound together by something more fragile, and perhaps more powerful, than any formal structure.
She took her time before answering.
“…We were not meant to stay in one place.” She said at first, her voice thoughtful. “Our path has always been to move.”
There was a ripple of disappointment. She glanced, briefly, toward Fluixon. Then toward Saparata.
And something in her expression softened.
“…But perhaps.” She continued slowly. “There are times when the sun asks us to remain.”
She smiled serenely. “We will stay. We’ll be in your care.”
Relief tore through the crowds. Their companions jumping up. Hugging each other, and hugging the people Jophiel came with.
Then that damned smile of hers cracked into something wider, more mischievous.
“But only so that guy doesn’t poison you all again.” Jophiel laughed, pointing at Fluixon. Who was trying to disappear in the back of the crowd.
The group began to laugh too, dragging Fluixon out from his hiding spot.
“Hey!”
------------------------------------