The scribes write down their lord's will, even if it is stained with blood.
Shortly after the Yànshī priests left, the patriarch was seized by an exaltation that none of his relatives had ever seen before.
He laughed, a dry, almost childish laugh, his eyes wide open, shining with a supernatural glow.
It was as if the light of the fire was reflected in them without ever going out.
The servants stood back, terrified.
In the corridors, it was whispered that the breath of the gods had spoken to him.
But he, in his solitude, no longer doubted anything.
The prophecy still echoed in his head:
"Follow your dreams. Find the child. Mark your name on the Temple of Asira."
He now knew that his dreams had given him the answer.
The child he saw every night, the one whose golden tears brought the dead back to life,
was not an omen, she was a promise.
And that promise belonged to him.
In his mind, there was no longer any doubt:
this child was not the key to the world,
she was his key.
His victory over death,
his justification,
his eternal legacy.
He rose slowly, his eyes burning with a blue glow.
"Yes..." he whispered.
The child is mine.
She was shown to me so that I might claim her.
If the breath created her, it was to save me.
In that whisper, something broke.
The patriarch no longer prayed.
He reigned.
He believed in the word of the priests.
For, it was said, it was absolute, neither contestable nor human.
And for Patriarch Nobutsune, these words sealed the truth he had always sensed:
he was the Chosen One.
No longer the servant of the breath, but its instrument.
Quickly, he summoned the scribes from the snow-covered palace.
They rushed over, pens and scrolls at the ready, pale silhouettes against the cold stone; here, in the northern lands, his voice was law.
Silence fell: all that could be heard was the rustling of tunics and the distant dripping of melting snow on the stone.
Nobutsune stood up. His hands trembled, but his voice, when he spoke, was firm as the seal of a decree.
"At the center of this world stands the Temple of Asira," he said. "All know it. Today, that temple holds a child.
They took him from me.
I will burn their fields, freeze their cities,
reduce their altars to ash and their bell towers to ice.
Let this be a sacred order."
The scribes bowed their heads and their quills began to scratch the parchment.
Someone brought the ink. Someone else handed him a knife for the seal.
Nobutsune took the blade and, without hesitation, cut his own finger; a drop of blood blackened the ribbon that would seal the decree.
In the shadows, the generals exchanged glances: loyalty, calculation, fear, the game was beginning.
The scribes wrote the Sacred Order in ink and blood.
Then the Golden General and the Silver General moved,
and the chessboard of the world came to life.
Thus began the War of Ashes.