The Realm of the Whites


    Aina’s envoy reached the White Realm. At its gate, the guards seized the Black messenger, discerning he bore a message. The Black Jimmianun requested an audience with the White King to deliver it. A commander, summoned by the guards, inquired, “Wherefore approachest thou the White Realm?”


    “From Aina, I bear tidings for thy sovereign,” the Black replied.


    Dismissively, the commander said, “Speak thy message to me—I’ll relay it to the king.”


    With a scornful tone, the Black retorted, “Thy rank’s too low to hear this word.”


    The commander’s face darkened, “Foul wretch—even thy highest scarce equals our lowliest White in standing.”


    “If so, why thy anger?” the Black sneered. “Thou art but a captain of base guards—I must address thy king alone.”


    Silent, the commander summoned a guard, bidding him hasten to the royal palace with the news. Should the king consent, bring the envoy. Minutes later, the guard returned—the king granted audience. The commander, with several guards, escorted the Black to the palace. Its walls, of gleaming glass, shone like mirrors; its grand sapphire door parted, and the guards led the Black Jimmianun through halls lined with pearl columns, their luster caressing the eye, floored in gold, to the main chamber. Its emerald gate, adorned with gemstones, opened to lofty pillars of radiant stones—diamonds, black emeralds—and a vast white agate dome, admitting light within.


    The White King sat upon a turquoise throne, its base gold, armrests ruby. The hall, vast and splendid, magnified his majesty. He bore the primal form of old, ere Togus’s curse—pearl-white, spiral horns, a human visage with long black hair, a noble, well-proportioned nose, beautiful eyes, and a rounded face. His gaze, green, alone retained the initial Jimmianun form, for Hagan’s choice and will granted kings this reversion, their primal shape a royal mark. Even the king’s heirs lacked it—no Jimmianun could reclaim that visage, its purpose to recall their essence.


    Commanders forced the Black to bow, but he refused. The king, gesturing, bade them spare him. Releasing the Black, he intoned, with regal gravitas, “We await thy word. What message bears Aina?”


    “Helagul, son of Refaz!” the Black proclaimed. “Aina, our great sovereign, ruler of all seven Jimmianun races, summons thee to the Valley of Hell for breaching our pact, demanding discourse on this violation.”


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    Furious at such speech, a commander roared, “Silence, vile cur! What audacity names Aina grand king of Jimmianuns, speaking thus before our sovereign?”


    “She rules us, not ye,” the Black retorted.


    The king silenced his men, “Hold—let him speak.”


    “What hath breached our pact?” the king asked.


    “Thy servants entered our domain, stealing a human—contrary to our pact. Ye broke it, risking war. Our lady seeks thy meeting ere war’s decree,” the Black replied.


    Indignant, commanders cried, “Ye had no right to human realms—ye broke it, slaying there and assailing Hagan’s chosen. Ye’ve no claim to speak of breach!”


    Rising slowly, the king, in silken robes, green eyes fixed on Aina’s envoy, said, “Tell Aina—Helagul shall come to the Valley of Hell.”


    His son, beside him, protested, “My lord, we broke not the pact—these wretches, defying it, entered human lands, slaying and striking Hagan’s chosen. Oust this cur—tell his mistress we’ve no words, nor breached aught.”


    Hearing Hagan’s name, knowing Aelten his chosen, the Black raged, “Usurpers’ thralls—ye betrayed our kind! Hagan’s time ends—he’ll be our slave, as will men. Hagan and his cannot act.”


    The prince, incensed by such insolence, snapped, “Be silent, fool! What right hast thou to name Hagan? Thy boldness dares speak his bondage here!” Drawing his blade, he lunged, but the king struck his staff earthward. A white light burst, stripping all Jimmianuns’ power—they stood immobile. Sternly, he chided, “None shall perish in our realm. We hold a pact with the First Light—we’ll not break it. Our survival stems from its grace, shielding us from Togus’s wrath. No death shall stain our land. Trefaa, return to thy place—my word stands, unalterable once spoken.”


    Trefaa, fearing his father’s ire, withdrew. The envoy, mute, eased, knowing he’d not die. The king’s wrath silenced all.


    He ordered the Black’s release; guards bound and expelled him at the gate, unshackling him beyond. Turning, the Black taunted, “Ye traitorous dolts shall die—survivors, thralls.” Vanishing, the guards, bound by the king’s word, endured his scorn.


    The king, deep in thought, sat, staff in hand, gaze fixed ahead. None dared speak—commanders, clad in silver, bearing silver staves with white stones, stood. Unable to reclaim their primal forms, Whites assumed human guise—closest to their original shape.


    Trefaa, hesitant, ventured, “My lord, grieve not that wretch’s words—’tis no cause for sorrow.”


    The king turned, eyeing him silently. Trefaa continued, “Thou art Hagan’s chosen for Jimmianuns. Aina knows they broke the pact—she sparks war to claim other realms.”


    “What course be best?” the king asked.


    “Forego the meeting—relay her words to the Naqibs for Hagan. We seek not war—we’ve ceded realms to Blacks, emboldening them with each retreat. Hagan must grant war’s leave, else they’ll seize our remaining lands,” Trefaa urged.


    Closing his eyes, the king mused deeply, then said, “Hagan knows all. Were war needed, He’d bid us. We’ll not wage it, even retreating again—I’ll meet Aina. My word shall hold.”


    Trefaa insisted, “But, my lord…!”


    Raising a hand, the king forbade further speech, rising, “The discourse ends. Five senior commanders join me to the Valley—war must be averted, lest human realms chaos anew.”


    Turning to his retinue, he bade, “Fetch my battle garb.”


    Servants bore a white-gold armor, thin and light, etched with a lozenge and bifurcated lines. Donning it, they fastened his purple cloak. Descending, he passed betwixt commanders, Trefaa pleading, “My lord, let me join thee.”


    “Nay—thy presence is unneeded,” the king declined, lest Trefaa provoke Aina, departing with his chiefs for the Valley.