It was the latest war, forged by the men who had ended the last one. Fought by the architects of the next. A war of fire that burned from the waters of the eastern seas to the arid bones of the western earth. Swallowing the ancient jungles of the south beneath a cloud of black smoke and northern ash. Cities turned to embers, rivers choked on the dead, and still the drums did not cease.

  Rumors of a returning hero have become the people’s last lullaby. Kings whisper it over maps, slaves murmur it through iron grates. Nobles toast to it in candlelit halls while peasants pray to it beneath the open sky. Some wait. Some search. Some hide. And others, gripped by the fever of hope, draw their swords and believe themselves to be the one.

  Lord Omni sat in iron shackles within a narrow cage draped in coarse blankets, the kind used to keep sunlight; and hope, from finding its way inside. Around him, a dozen prisoners breathed the same stale air, their silhouettes shifting with each jolt of the journey. The Evokian soldiers had fastened the cage to a train of horses, their hooves drumming against the jungle path like a cruel heartbeat.

  Omni, fifty years in body but twice that in spirit, moved with the patience of an old grandfather at prayer. His hair, once the color of dark earth, was now streaked with silver and sweat. Each tremor of the wagon made his prayer beads slip between his fingers, yet he still tried to count them. Murmuring the afternoon verses beneath his breath, words swallowed by the creak of metal and the muffled cries of the forest beyond.

  “In your vision, I see mine; in my mind, I see your vision, in…” Omni whispered, the words trembling out as the cage lurched, lifting him momentarily from his seat.

  “Keep it steady up there!” an Evokian guard barked from the head of the caravan, his voice muffled through the heavy blanket and the rhythm of hooves striking mud.

  Omni steadied himself, fingers finding the prayer beads again. When he glanced to his right, he caught the gaze of another prisoner. A gaunt man, his eyes reflecting the faintest gleam of light filtering through the fabric.

  “Guess I have to start all over,” Omni said warmly, his tone soft and amused despite the chains.

  “You some kind of Kesh priest or something?” the prisoner growled, suspicion curling through his words.

  “Are you blind, or something?” came a voice from the opposite corner; a one-eyed man leaning forward, his grin a flash of pale teeth in the dark. “That’s not a priest. That’s Lord Omni. Master of the Kesh...the one who sees the vision.”

  A ripple moved through the cage. The murmurs rose like wind in dry leaves.

  “Pray for me, Lord Omni.”

  “When will he arrive?”

  “Is this your vision?”

  The questions came from every shadow, overlapping, urgent, half-hopeful, half-afraid. Omni closed his eyes, the beads stilling in his hand, and for a moment the cage felt smaller than a coffin and larger than a temple.

  “Yes, I am indeed Lord Omni,” he said at last, his voice steady as the slow toll of a temple bell. “But as you see me here today, I am only Omni.” He lifted his shackled wrists into the thin light seeping through the blanket. “Another prisoner of this war.”

  “It seems even the promise of Meshi and the Second Gods has denied you, Omni,” the one-eyed prisoner sneered, his grin sharp and feline in the dark.

  “The promise,” Omni replied gently, “is not between one man and the divine. It is for all of us. My fate...whether I live or die here beside you, is no sign of a broken vow, but the unfolding of a greater salvation.” His tone softened into something almost fatherly. “We must not lose our faith, for it was envisioned by Lord Meshi, the Eternal, that the light of salvation will rise from the deepest night. And so too, the dark of our destruction will one day rise from our brightest of days.”

  The murmurs faded. The cage groaned against its hinges as it jolted forward through the jungle path. Only the rhythmic creak of metal and the distant call of unseen birds filled the silence that followed.

  “I pray,” Omni continued, his head bowed, “that among you men lies the promise...that one will rise from this ruin, one who will receive his vision, one who will take up his sword, defy death, and claim his throne to lead us into the Age of the Third Gods.” He leaned back against the cold bars, his voice now little more than breath. “Such is the vision.”

  “And such is my mind,” the prisoners answered as one; softly at first, then in unison, like a vow spoken into the dark.

  The one-eyed prisoner grinned. A wide, wolfish thing that glimmered faintly in the dimness. He leaned toward Omni from across the cramped cage, the weight of his chains the only leash restraining him. The movement pressed others inward; the men caught in the center groaned as space vanished around them.

  Then came a sharp crack. His boot had come down on another man’s hand.

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  “Get off me!” the prisoner snarled, his voice strangled somewhere between pain and fury.

  The one-eyed man didn’t move. His grin deepened, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the sound of bones beneath his heel. For a moment, all other noise seemed to drain away; the creak of the wheels, the breathing, even the jungle’s distant hum. Until only the prisoner’s ragged gasps and the faint metallic rattle of the man’s chains remained.

  “I have seen the vision,” the one-eyed prisoner hissed through his smile. “It belongs to the Red!The fire and the blood.”

  A few men barked laughter; others booed, spitting curses to drown him out. Yet he didn’t flinch. His single eye, sharp as flint, stayed fixed on Omni. In that gaze, Omni felt something raw and unnerving. Conviction born not of faith, but of hunger.

  Before he could answer, the cage jolted to a stop.

  Metal shrieked. The doors were thrown open, and sunlight exploded inside like an invading army. The prisoners winced, blinking against the sudden glare.

  “If any of you animals do anything that is not commanded of you,” an Evokian soldier bellowed, swinging a heavy blade for emphasis, “you’ll be executed where you stand!”

  Six more guards appeared behind him, their faces hard beneath the shadow of their helmets. One by one, the prisoners were dragged out into the open, shackled together by a single rusted chain that clanged like a funeral bell with every step.

  They had arrived.

  The prison camp sprawled across a barren clearing, the earth stripped to gray mud and iron dust. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, with the metallic tang of labor and loss. In the distance, men hacked at the mouth of a cavern; an open wound in the earth where the Evokians mined their iron. No birds sang here; even the wind seemed to move differently, heavy with the memory of screams.

  Omni stepped down from the cage and into the day. The sunlight struck the canyons of his weathered face, tracing the lines carved by years of prayer, patience, and sorrow. Dust rose around his feet with each measured step, clinging to the hem of his torn robe.

  He hadn’t taken more than three paces before a soldier’s hand pressed firmly against his chest.

  “This is him!” the guard called out, his voice ringing above the din of chains and orders.

  Another soldier approached, eyes narrowing as he unlatched the shackles from Omni’s wrists. The sudden freedom left pale marks where the metal had bitten into his skin.

  “Lord Omni?” the soldier asked, his tone unexpectedly deferential.

  Omni inclined his head, silent but steady.

  “Come with me,” the man said, almost politely, and gestured for him to follow.

  Behind them, the line of prisoners shuffled forward, still bound, their feet dragging through the mire. The one-eyed prisoner lingered near the rear, his single gaze burning through the dust.

  “A vision for them...and a vision for us, Lord Omni!” he shouted, voice cracking into a laugh before a guard shoved him back into line.

  Omni said nothing, though his steps faltered for half a heartbeat.

  The soldier guiding him kept a courteous distance, his tone rehearsed and bureaucratic. “Lord Omni, this is a prison work camp. The Evokian Empire, as an extension of the mighty Evok’s hand, does not persecute nor condone harm to religious practitioners. Therefore, a room has been prepared for you in one of our guard cabins. You will, of course, remain here until superior orders grant your release. Protocol, I’m afraid.”

  He smiled in the way men do when they wish to sound humane.

  Omni offered no reply. The path to the cabin wound past rows of tents and wooden scaffolds, through the reek of sweat and iron. Everywhere, the sound of picks against stone echoed like a dirge. When they reached the small cabin, its walls painted with the same mud as the earth around it, the soldier opened the door with a shallow bow.

  Inside, there was only a cot, a chair, and a narrow window that faced the horizon. Still, to a man who had known only darkness for days, it felt almost like a sanctuary.

  “If you require anything, the cabin next door belongs to Officer Bens. He can assist you with whatever you need. Is there… anything I can do for you now, sir?” the young guard asked, his tone wavering between respect and unease.

  “This will do fine, sire. Thank you,” Omni replied, offering a small bow of gratitude.

  The guard hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hand tightened on his helmet as though wrestling with a thought.

  “Is there something I can ask of you, Lord Omni?” he said at last, voice trembling on the edge of reverence.

  “Of course,” Omni answered, curiosity lighting his features.

  “Will you… pray for me?”

  For a heartbeat, Omni simply stared. His brows lifting in faint surprise, followed by the softest, most genuine smile. “Oh… ?” he murmured, warmth creeping into his voice. “Yes, of course. What is your name, son?”

  “Zemo, my lord,” the guard replied, quickly bowing his head as he removed his helmet.

  Omni stepped forward, placing a weathered hand upon the young man’s brow. “Then let us pray, Zemo.” His voice lowered, rich and steady, carrying the cadence of ritual. “May the Eternal shield you from the horrors of war, guide your steps back to your home, to your mother, to your wife, and to the child who waits for your return.”

  The air seemed to sit still around them.

  And then, suddenly...

  A roar shattered the quiet.

  It came from beyond the cabins: the sound of men shouting, metal clashing, and chains snapping taut. The noise rolled across the camp like thunder breaking against stone.

  Omni’s eyes shot toward the door. Zemo froze for half a second, then bolted toward the noise, sword half-drawn. Omni followed, the prayer still lingering on his lips as the cries outside grew louder: wild, urgent, and unmistakably human.

  The familiar sounds of human conflict.