CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Gunther knelt beside the wounded warrior, his hands hovering just above the torn flesh. The man grimaced, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but his eyes were locked on Gunther’s, filled with a desperate hope. Gunther inhaled deeply, steeling himself for what was to come.
As he placed his hands on the wound, a barely visible glow began to emanate from beneath his fingertips. It was faint, like the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon, but it grew brighter as he focused his energy. The light pulsed with the severity of the wound, intensifying as it knitted torn muscle and fused broken bone. The tension in the warrior’s body lessened as the wound began to close, the pain slowly easing.
Gunther felt the energy draining from him, a deep exhaustion settling into his bones. The glow dimmed, flickered, and then faded away as the wound sealed itself completely, leaving nothing but a puckered pink mark on the skin that would slowly fade away. Gunther swayed slightly, the world tilting around him.
He scanned the field, and there was at least another dozen who needed healing. This was the sixth man he’d healed and he’d reached a temporary limit.
With a shaking hand, he reached for the flask at his side. The amikawa had a sharp, sweet taste, and as the liquid slid down his throat, he felt a surge of warmth spread through his body. The alcohol in the drink didn’t get him drunk, nor did it seem to have any bad effect on him other than a headache. Yet the exhaustion ebbed, replaced by a gentle rejuvenation that steadied his hands and cleared the fog from his mind.
Gunther moved to the next wounded man, laying his hands on a deep gash across his chest. The glow returned, brighter this time, almost blinding in its intensity. The healing was swift, the wound closing almost instantaneously, but instead of the usual fatigue, a sense of euphoria flooded through Gunther. His body tingled, electric currents dancing from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.
He staggered back, clutching the flask, the now-empty vessel falling to the ground. His heart raced, pounding against his rib cage, and his senses heightened to an almost unbearable degree. He could hear the rustling of leaves far beyond the clearing, the soft breathing of each man around him, even the distant rush of a waterfall he hadn’t known was there.
Gunther closed his eyes, trying to steady himself against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. A thought wormed its way into his mind: Have I gained a level?
The idea was absurd, yet the sensation coursing through him felt like an elevation, a step beyond what he had known before.
He opened his eyes, expecting to see the familiar glowing balls of light they had encountered in Egypt, but there was nothing. There was something within him, pulsing, thrumming with a power he hadn’t tapped into before. He could feel his mind reaching outward, far beyond the boundaries of the physical world, stretching toward a place he wasn’t sure even existed.
Are you out there? he thought, the question forming on the edge of his consciousness.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing, the wind rustling through the trees, and the distant, ever-present hum of life around him. Then, suddenly, his mind snapped back to the here and now as a voice responded, clear and undeniable.
I am here.
Gunther’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. It was the same voice that had often intruded on his thoughts, garbled and distant, but more recently it had been insistent, urging him to explore the island’s underworld, a command he had resisted. But now, the voice was clearer, more present than ever before.
He looked around, half expecting to see someone standing beside him, but there was no one. The men he had healed were staring at him, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. “Gunther, you are glowing,” the man he had just healed said.
Gunther swallowed hard and looked at his hands. It wasn’t just his hands that were glowing, his entire body was shedding some sort of light.
These people had seen what he was capable of, and for however long he’d paused in self-reflection, his body had begun to glow . . . bathed in what could only seem like an act of a spirit of some kind.
The voice lingered in his thoughts, a presence just beyond the veil of reality. He had reached out, and something had reached back. Something ancient, something powerful.
The light around him faded and he shuddered as a chill raced through him.
“Are you okay?” one of the Neshili asked.
He bent down to pick up the flask, his hands trembling. The euphoria was fading, replaced by a deep, unsettling knowledge. The world had shifted around him, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. But the voice, that voice, it was undeniably with him now, and there would be no turning back.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The men were watching, waiting for him to speak. He nodded to them, the words coming out more forcefully than he intended. “I’m fine. Let me finish tending to the wounded.”
The air inside the makeshift tent was thick with tension as François paced back and forth, his usually calm demeanor strained by the weight of the conversation he was about to have. Outside, the sounds of the camp settling in for the evening drifted in—the quiet murmurs of the islanders, the crackling of the fire, and the distant calls of the jungle’s creatures. But in here, it felt as though the world had been drawn tight, ready to snap.
Kareem stood by the entrance, his face a mask of indifference, arms crossed over his chest. He had been summoned, and he had been told why. But François could see the defiance in his eyes, the unspoken challenge in the way he held himself.
François stopped pacing and faced him. “Kareem,” he began, his voice low but firm, “what the hell were you thinking?”
Kareem’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond immediately. He was weighing his words, choosing carefully. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that if I didn’t kill her, by God, she would have alerted everyone to my presence. We were on the edge of attacking, François. She would have ruined everything.”
François stepped closer, his eyes locked on Kareem’s. “And you decided to kill her on your own? You didn’t think for a moment to wait, to give us a chance to be ready? You could have scouted the area and warned us, and then any yelling she did wouldn’t have mattered because the fighting would have already started.”
“She was a threat,” Kareem shot back, his tone edged with frustration. “A threat I neutralized. She didn’t deserve a trial, not after what she’d done.”
François shook his head, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “That’s not for you to decide alone. We’re a team, Kareem. We don’t go rogue and execute people without consulting the others. Prisoners of war, no matter how guilty, deserve some kind of process—something more than a knife in the dark.”
“International Court of Justice? The Hague?”
“Something like that.”
Kareem’s jaw tightened. “You’re being naïve, François. Out here, it’s kill or be killed. She was a danger to all of us.”
“And what if your actions had turned the situation against us?” François pressed. “What if her death had led to some unforeseen event that we weren’t ready for? You’re not a lone wolf, Kareem. You’re part of this team, and that means you don’t act alone when other people’s lives are at stake.”
For a long moment, the Frenchman and teenager stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unresolved tension. Outside, the camp was quiet, but François knew that others were aware of this conversation—maybe even listening in.
Finally, Kareem’s posture softened just slightly, a reluctant acceptance in his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered, looking away. “Next time, I’ll consult with you before I kill someone.”
“That’s not good enough,” François replied sharply. “You’ll consult with the team, not just me. We make these decisions together, or we risk everything we’ve built falling apart. We’re in this together, or we’re not in it at all.”
Kareem didn’t respond immediately, but François could see the internal struggle behind his eyes. Finally, he nodded, the fight in him ebbing away. “All right,” he said, his voice quieter now. “We’ll do it your way.”
“It’s not my way, it’s the only fair way.” François let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good. Because the others are worried, Kareem. They need to trust you, and you need to trust them. We’re a team, and we should behave as such. We all have each other’s back, no matter what.”
Kareem gave a short, curt nod, his eyes meeting François’s once more. “Understood.”
The tension in the tent eased slightly, though the undercurrent of unease remained. François knew this wasn’t the end of it—Kareem was a teenager, and he’d expected some sense of rambunctiousness from someone his age. But rarely did someone his age have the skills Kareem brought to the table. In addition, the young man had been shaped by a world that had taught him to survive at any cost. But for now, they had reached an understanding, and that was enough.
“Get some rest,” François said finally, turning away. “We have a lot more to deal with tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Kareem said. “But there’s something you need to know. Something I saw underneath Nesha.”
Caught off guard, François sat and listened.
When Kareem had finished, he turned and left the tent. François stood alone for a moment, letting the quiet settle around him. Should he tell the others? That perhaps they had missed a portal in Nesha they were supposed to take? But what would that do, other than cast the leadership and judgment of Marty into doubt? He thought, and decided to keep his silence.
They were all walking a fine line, and every decision could be the one that tipped them over the edge. But for now, they were still together, still a team. And that had to be enough.
The heavy weight of judgment hung over Surjan as he sat at the head of the makeshift Neshili council, his queen Dawa by his side. The sky was clear, but the waves crashed hard against the sand, threatening violence and sending the ships at anchor turbulently up and down. He could hear the murmurs of the assembled islanders hushed as they awaited his decision. Before him stood the Neshili who had fought on the side of Halpa, the former queen who had betrayed them all. They were bound and kneeling, their faces a mix of fear, defiance, and resignation.
Dawa leaned in close, her voice a whisper meant only for him. “The default penalty for going against your own people is death, Surjan. You know this. But if there is anyone who will speak in their defense, you should let them do so now.”
Surjan nodded, his expression impassive as he scanned the faces of the accused. “Does anyone here wish to speak on behalf of these men?” he called out, his voice strong and clear.
For a long moment, silence reigned, the only sound the rustling of the leaves in the trees above. Then, a woman stepped forward, her face lined with sorrow and desperation. She was thin, her clothes worn, but her eyes burned with the fierce love of a mother.
“My lord,” she began, her voice trembling, “I plead for the life of my youngest son.” She gestured to the young man kneeling before her, his head bowed. “Halpa poisoned his mind. She seduced him from the righteous path, filled his head with lies and promises. He is misguided, yes, but he is still young, still capable of redemption.”
Surjan listened, his heart heavy, but his face remained unreadable. The mother’s words tugged at something deep within him, but he knew this was not a time for sentiment.
Another figure emerged from the crowd—a man, older, his posture slumped with grief. He hesitated before speaking, his voice thick with sorrow. “My lord, I beg for mercy for my only son.” He looked down at the boy kneeling before him, a boy who could have been no more than eighteen summers. “My wife died in the attack, and he is all I have left of her. He is my only son, my last tie to her. Please, do not take him from me.”
The father’s plea struck Surjan even harder. He could see the pain etched in the man’s face, the unbearable loss that clung to him like a shadow. But the weight of the law, the need for justice, pressed down on Surjan’s shoulders.
He looked to Dawa, seeking her counsel. Her eyes were steady, her expression firm. “We cannot show weakness, Surjan,” she said softly, but with a hard edge. “This is not a time or place for nuance. We must be consistent. To go against the people is to betray the very foundation of our survival.”
Surjan nodded slowly, understanding her point, even if it pained him. He turned back to the crowd, his voice heavy with the finality of his decision. “The law is clear. To betray your own people is to face death. There will be no exceptions.”
The mother let out a wail of despair, collapsing to her knees beside her son. The father, too, looked as if he had been struck, his face crumpling with grief. But Surjan knew there was no turning back now. The law had to be upheld.
As the executioners stepped forward, Dawa raised her hand, and the crowd fell silent. “There are two more decrees,” she announced, her voice carrying with the authority of a queen. She pointed to a woman standing at the edge of the crowd, her face pale with shock. “You, the unmarried sister of the wife who died. You will marry this man and become his sister-wife,” she gestured to the grieving father, “and you will give him another son, so that his line does not end here.”
Surjan turned to her, surprise flickering in his eyes, but he held his tongue. Dawa’s decision was unexpected, but it was a practical solution. It hadn’t dawned on him that these people held family line continuity to be important, but such things mattered to many in the modern day, why not in the distant past?
The woman at the edge of the crowd stepped forward and nodded slowly, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and resignation. The father looked at her, his expression unreadable, but he did not protest.“And the second decree, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“My sister’s handmaidens,” she said. “Nirni and Kuzi.”
The women were dragged forward. Surjan remembered them from his first meeting with Halpa, when she had seemed to offer them to him along with herself. “Yes,” he said.
“They came only because they were compelled,” Dawa said. “We spare them.”
Surjan inclined his head, signaling his approval of Dawa’s decrees. The executions were carried out swiftly, the cries of the mother and father echoing in the stillness of the clearing. Nirni and Kuzi wept, maybe from the relief of survival as well as for those they had lost. Surjan watched, his heart heavy with the burden of leadership, knowing that this was the price of order, the cost of ensuring the survival of their people.
When it was done, he turned to Dawa, his voice low. “Your decision was unexpected, but wise,” he said, his tone carefully measured.
Dawa turned to him and gave him a warm smile. “I watched my sister and learned a lot. Both what to do and not do. I believe we must balance justice with the needs of our people, Surjan. This is the way forward.”
Surjan nodded in agreement, though the weight of the day’s events still pressed heavily on him. As they turned to leave, the cries of the grieving parents still lingered in his mind, a reminder of the harsh realities of the world they now lived in.
He glanced at the new queen and felt a sense of contentment. When the time came for him and the team to leave this time and place, the Neshili would be in good hands.