CHAPTER FIVE
The Summons
Dawn spilled across Edin in bands of gold. Mists coiled above the inland sea, and the cries of vast winged creatures echoed like horns across the sky.
Belial stood on the plain, armor gleaming in the morning light. Around him, his generals formed a ring, their weapons at rest but their eyes sharp. Workers unpacked supplies in ordered rows, while soldiers patrolled the perimeter.
Udu approached, his face solemn. "The high priest has sent for you. He says the time has come to speak openly."
Belial nodded once. "Then we speak."
He mounted a Troju, its twin heads tossing in the dawn air. Udu rode beside him on his boar. A small escort followed. Together they crossed the fields toward the settlement.
The Settlement
The indigenous settlement lay at the edge of a forest whose trees shimmered with strange luminescence, their leaves glowing faintly in rhythm with the rising sun. Smoke curled from wooden halls. Children played among the roots of the great trees, pausing to stare at the armored strangers who approached.
The high priest awaited them before a longhouse carved with symbols. His white hair glowed like frost, his posture bent but his presence towering. Around him stood elders, warriors, and seers.
Belial dismounted, his height dwarfing all around him. He inclined his head slightly, not bowing, but acknowledging.
"High priest," Udu translated, "this is Belial of Akromos, commander of the star-voyagers."
The priest's eyes narrowed. "I know who he is. He is the one who killed and spared, who arrived with fire yet stayed his hand. He is contradiction made flesh."
Belial's jaw tightened but he said nothing.
The First Exchange
They entered the longhouse. Fires crackled in pits, casting shadows across carved beams. The air smelled of smoke, resin, and roasted roots.
The priest gestured for Belial to sit. The Shamite lowered himself onto the wooden seat, his armor creaking. Udu remained between them, the bridge.
The priest spoke first. "Why have you come to our world?"
Belial's voice was steady. "Because our world dies. Our suns falter. Our skies thin. We require gold to sustain the air we breathe. Without it, Akromos will perish."
The priest frowned. "Gold is poison. It scorches our soil. Take too much, and rivers sicken. Why should we allow you to wound our land for your survival?"
Belial leaned forward, eyes burning. "Because if Akromos dies, billions die with it. My people, my tribes, my world. I will not allow that."
The priest's gaze hardened. "And if Edin dies, what then? Do you carry our deaths so lightly?"
Silence filled the hall. The crackle of fire was the only sound.
The Offer
At last, Belial spoke. "We are not conquerors. We are survivors. I offer your people gifts: tools to ease labor, medicines to heal wounds, knowledge to expand your reach. In exchange, we ask only to take what we need from where it lies abundant."
The priest's lips curled faintly. "Every conqueror begins with gifts. Every invader speaks of need. Yet behind the gift lies the blade."
Belial slammed his hand upon the table, startling the elders. "I could take, priest. With fire and steel, I could take. But I offer instead. Does that sound like conquest?"
The priest did not flinch. "It sounds like desperation."
Udu's voice trembled as he translated, caught between loyalty and fear.
The Trial of Trust
The priest rose. "If you wish to live here, prove that you are not poison. Aid us in what we cannot do."
Belial narrowed his eyes. "And what is that?"
The priest gestured toward the forest. "The storm-beasts come. They descend from the mountains when the rains break. We cannot stop them. They devour our herds and shatter our homes. Tomorrow they come again. If your weapons are as mighty as you claim, stand with us. Protect us. Prove you are more than a destroyer."
Belial considered. To demonstrate Shamite might would inspire awe. To stand idle would prove the priest right.
He inclined his head. "We will stand."
The Storm-Beasts
The next day, clouds blackened the sky. Thunder rumbled like drums of war. From the mountain passes, the storm-beasts emerged.
They were colossal, their hides armored in plates of stone, their horns jagged like lightning strikes. Their roars shook the ground.
The indigenes trembled, spears raised in futility. Belial strode forward with his generals, weapons humming with plasma.
"Hold ranks," he ordered. "Aim for the joints. Bring them down!"
The storm-beasts charged. The earth quaked beneath their weight.
Belial raised his arm. A beam of fire lanced from his weapon, striking a beast in the chest. It staggered, bellowed, and collapsed. Plasma bolts followed, burning through stone-hide, toppling giants one by one.
The indigenes gasped. For the first time, the storm-beasts fell not to nature's whim but to power beyond their imagining.
The Turning of Hearts
When the last beast lay dead, silence fell. The storm broke, rain hissing against steaming corpses.
The high priest stepped forward, eyes wide. He looked at Belial not with suspicion but with awe; and fear.
"You have slain what we could not," he said softly. "You are either salvation… or doom."
Belial wiped blood from his armor. "We are both. As are all peoples."
The priest studied him long. Then he bowed his head. "You may remain in Edin. For now. But know this: the land watches. If you wound her, she will wound you in return."
Belial inclined his head, satisfaction hidden behind his stoic mask.
Udu's Doubt
That night, Udu approached Belial privately. His voice was low.
"You showed us power. The people whisper your name with reverence. But I have seen into your mind. I know you hunger for more than survival. You hunger for dominion."
Belial's eyes flashed. "I hunger for life. If dominion is the price of life, then so be it."
Udu stepped closer. "Be careful, Belial. Power builds quickly, but trust crumbles faster. If you betray us, this land will rise against you and I with it."
For a moment, the two men stared at one another. The bond between them fragile, luminous, flickered with tension.
Belial finally turned away. "Sleep, Udu. Tomorrow we begin our work."
From the cliffs above Edin, Belial gazed across the plain. His people built shelters, fires burning against the night. The indigenes buried their dead storm-beasts and sang songs of mourning.
In the sky, a single star pulsed faintly. Akromos, too distant to reach, yet never forgotten.
Belial clenched his fists. The Spirit Head's words returned, echoing: Your heart will decide.
And deep within, Belial felt his heart shifting, not toward return, but toward reign.