Night smothered Gazaiah—the mighty capital of Mura—in a cloak of darkness thicker than pitch. The air was heavy, cold, and unnervingly still, as if the entire forest had paused its breath in anticipation. Even the crickets dared not chirp. Only the rustling of dry wood under heavy boots broke the silence.
Bakar, the mastodon of Mura, walked with a deliberate slowness through the trees. His massive frame moved like a shadow wrought from iron. Every snap of a branch beneath him echoed like a warning, though none in this forest would dare bar his path. He was not just the king of Mura—he was its storm, its hammer, its relentless will.
Yet tonight, he walked alone.
Far from the fortified palace, deep in secluded woodland, stood a small hut. No guards. No torches. No evidence of civilization—just an unsettling aura that felt ancient, older than Mura itself.
Bakar reached the door, placed a steady hand upon it, and pushed.
The hinges groaned like dying spirits. Inside, dim candlelight revealed four figures seated at the four cardinal points of the room. Their garments were black as bottomless night, their faces painted stark white, and their eyes—blood-red and glowing faintly—were fixed on something beyond sight.
They exuded an impossible contradiction:
a presence too light to detect, yet too heavy to ignore—like shadows staring back.
As Bakar entered, he lowered himself slightly in a respectful bow. It was small, but meaningful.
Any servant, soldier, or noble witnessing this would have fainted. The great Bakar—the undefeated war-king of Mura, the living symbol of strength—bowing? Impossible. Unthinkable.
But those who understood how kingdoms truly functioned—the informed, the elite, those who glimpsed behind the curtain—would not be surprised.
For they knew that even kings bowed before the unseen.
The faint, almost invisible pressure that filled this room would have crushed any untrained soul to their knees.
In Mura, as in all of Nubia, the world of flesh was merely the surface. True decisions, true victories, true destinies were forged in places beyond mortal sight.
The air in the hut seemed to thicken as Bakar sat in the center of a circular array of candles. The flames flickered inward, as though the king himself were drawing them closer.
He spoke first.
"Great ones," he said, voice steady despite the oppressive atmosphere, "I come seeking direction on how to achieve my goal."
A whisper answered him—soft, distant, as if seeping from the walls.
"Bakar…"
Then another voice followed.
"Bakar…"
And a third.
"Bakar…"
Then, with perfect harmony, all four repeated:
"Bakar."
A cold wind howled outside, though the hut had no openings. The candles bent toward the mystics, then toward the king, then steadied themselves.
"What you seek," the four spoke together, voices layered, "you are not meant to claim."
Their tone was eerie, yet carried a wisdom that felt cosmic—ancient, immutable.
"What you seek," they repeated slowly, "cannot be yours."
Bakar's jaw tightened. His eyes hardened. He was not a man who accepted limitations. He did not believe in fate—only in force.
He tilted his head forward, his voice low and dangerous.
"Nothing in Nubia is beyond my reach."
A denial was something he had never accepted—not from men, not from kings, not from destiny itself. He would conquer all Nubia. He would not be stopped.
The mystics' red eyes gleamed.
"Spoken like a child who has tasted only the surface of power," one murmured.
"You grasp at kingdoms," whispered another, "but kingdoms are only dust upon the wind."
"Your ambitions," said the third, "move only in the realm of flesh."
"But flesh answers to the astral," finished the fourth.
A silence followed, heavy as iron.
Then the first mystic continued:
"The astral plane is woven in layers—cycles within cycles. The physical realm mirrors only its outermost skin. Every war you have won, every death you have dealt, every crown you wear…"
He leaned forward slightly.
"…was decided long before it reached your battlefield."
Bakar's nostrils flared.
He knew of the astral realms. He had heard stories since he was a boy—stories of sages who separated their souls from their bodies, climbing through invisible layers of existence. Some entered the Dream Cycle, where memory and imagination fused. Others pierced deeper into the Ethereal Drift, where light and thought coiled together. The rarest, the most dangerous, reached the Primordial Vein—where entities of immense hunger and power dwelled.
Deities, djinn, genies, ancestral giants…
Names varied, but the truth was the same:
They were real. They were ancient. And they influenced all.
The mystics continued:
"To enter the astral," they explained, "one must separate soul from flesh—through ritual, trance, suffering, or pure enlightenment. There, time bends. Energy speaks. And destiny is not a line, but a negotiation."
"The rise of a kingdom," another added, "is merely the reflection of a cycle that has already bloomed in the spiritual."
"The fall of a dynasty," whispered the third, "is simply a cycle collapsing."
"And cycles," the last concluded, "can be altered… for a price."
Their four voices then merged into one chilling declaration:
"Everything can be bought."
The candles exploded into tall flames as though reacting to the words. Shadows spiraled along the walls, twisting into unnatural forms. Bakar felt something brush past him again—ice-cold and heavy, grazing his spirit rather than his skin.
"What you seek is domination," the mystics whispered.
"Not over land. Not over armies. Over Nubia."
Their voices echoed unnaturally, as if vibrating inside Bakar's bones.
"You desire a legacy carved into eternity."
"You desire to stand above kings, gods, histories."
"You desire not power…"
"But supremacy."
Bakar did not deny it.
His eyes burned with hunger, ambition, and a terrifying certainty.
"I will rule all of Nubia," he said slowly. "Not because I am destined to—but because I will take it."
The mystics' mouths curved into unnatural smiles.
"Then you will need the backing of forces older than the first sunrise."
"Entities dwell in the deeper cycles—some born from faith, others from terror, others from blood itself."
"They grant pacts. They twist fate. They reshape cycles."
"But their price," the last whispered, "is the very essence of what you hold dear."
Bakar did not hesitate.
"I am prepared to sacrifice anything."
The hut erupted.
Flames shot sideways. The air turned icy. The wooden walls groaned as if pressed upon by invisible hands. Strange circles of light appeared on the floor—glowing, spinning, collapsing into one another like collapsing stars. A low hum reverberated through the room, vibrating the very air.
Shadows rose and twisted like serpents.
The candles extinguished—plunging the room into blackness.
Then, in one violent gust, they re-ignited.
The four mystics opened their eyes.
"Go," they intoned.
"The conditions have been set."
"You shall achieve your desire."
"But the sacrifice required…"
Their voices grew soft, almost tender.
"…will be revealed at its appointed time."
Bakar stood tall, unshaken, burning with certainty.
He walked out into the night, swallowed by darkness—but carrying with him the promise of a destiny he was willing to bleed worlds dry to attain.