The Valley of Hell


    Before the king and his commanders arrived, Aina lingered in the ruins of Qalad—a land scarred by a Jimmianun war before time’s end, its entirety scorched to ash by searing flames. With several Blacks, she awaited the White King. As white lightning struck the debris, the king and his men appeared. With his advent, Aina emerged from the shadows, cloaked in black with a hood concealing her face. The king struck his staff upon the earth, asserting dominion, and demanded, “We await thy word.”


    With a harsh, deep voice, Aina accused, “Ye broke our pact, entering our realm, stealing our prey—ending peace betwixt us.”


    “We broke no bond,” the king retorted. “Ye trespassed our human domain, slaying there—we stayed thy further slaughter. We seek not war—thou knowest mutual ruin follows. This be thy nth warlust—we’ve yielded, yet our patience wanes—no more realms shall ye claim.”


    Aina laughed, “Entered your human realm? Our pact knows no human domain—only Jimmianun realms.”


    “The White and Black realms are defined—human lands fall therein. Thou canst not ignore this,” the king countered.


    “We heed the pact’s terms, not beliefs,” Aina insisted. “Ye should have yielded the man—thy refusal breaches us.”


    Her envoy, behind, added, “My lady, the usurper ye stole was Hagan’s chosen—hence their act. They’re thralls, bound to their master’s word.”


    Hearing Hagan, fear stirred Aina’s heart, masked by shadow. “No matter—Hagan, too, shall answer,” she declared.


    “This profits none,” the king warned. “This act invites the Milakafs again—no reprieve shall follow.”


    “Had ye not bowed to Hagan’s yoke, following us, this wouldn’t be,” Aina sneered. “No war would mar us, but ye chose usurpers, becoming their thralls, though ye might have ruled them.”


    “We serve no master—neither Hagan nor men. Hagan seeks no slaves—ne’er hath He demanded it,” the king affirmed.


    “Hagan…” Aina chuckled, “I’ve slain all Hagans through men—this one, too, shall fall by their hand. With his death, men shall be ours. Forsake Hagan—join us.”


    The king pondered—throughout human history, Hagans fell to men; the last, spurned, hid in a land unknown, ceding rule twelve millennia past after his predecessor’s death. “Thou knowest, and canst not deny it,” Aina pressed.


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    “Hagans, had they willed, could raze our realms,” the king replied. “Thou knowest the first Hagan brought thee low. Best we tend our own.”


    Aina neared, circling him, touching his staff, “Together, we could slay the last Hagan—Earth, as afore, ours alone, we its sovereigns.”


    Withdrawing his staff, the king warned, “Thou, above all, knowest our peril. Thou, once commanding the fiery Milakafs, slaughtered us for our sins—thou knowest they serve Hagan fully; His slightest word destroys us all.”


    “No Milakaf returns—this the Tablet decrees,” Aina countered.


    “Thou canst not sway us,” the king declared.


    Stepping back, facing away, Aina said, “I knew thou’d ne’er forsake Hagan’s thrall—no path remains.”


    She retreated to the ruins; her hundred Blacks emerged—twenty for each White. Furious, the king struck his staff, seeking to strip their power, but its might failed. Shocked, he and his men faltered. Aina, from the debris, taunted, “Thou’st clung to honor, prized by men—thus thy fall.”


    A light gleamed in her hands—she’d deceived him, siphoning his staff’s power by touch. Enraged, the king transformed to lightning, his commanders following. The Blacks, too, shifted, igniting war.


    In battle, they found the king beyond their reach, falling one by one—until Aina intervened, binding all Whites, even the king, in flesh, shackling their limbs. The Blacks, too, corporealized. Kneeling, the king faced Aina, who approached, “Cease this folly. Men merit not thy war—forsake it, join me, and we’ll grow mightier.”


    “Ne’er shall I bow to thy yoke for life,” the king vowed.


    Drawing a dagger, Aina advanced—when lightning from the ruins struck her. She caught it, corporealizing it—Trefaa. Laughing, she mocked, “Well met, Trefaa—thy father’s folly leads him to death for men. Wilt thou follow, or join me?”


    Trefaa, spitting in her face, enraged her. She plunged the dagger into his heart. The king’s anguished cry, so dread, daunted the Blacks. Laughing, she released Trefaa, red flames erupting from the wound. He fell, dying, turning to ash. Aina turned, “Stand with me—I’ll restore Trefaa.”


    The king’s pleading gaze met Trefaa’s—mid-pain, he smiled, shaking his head. Proud of his son’s valor, the king glared at Aina, “Our lives be Hagan’s safeguard!”


    “Thy folly’s choice,” Aina sneered.


    Seizing his beard, she lifted him, “Know what they’ll say—‘Helagul, son of Refaz, sacrificed his son for Hagan’s thrall.’”


    As she spoke, a mighty, radiant light blazed o’er Qalad’s ruins, exploding, annihilating all Blacks, hurling Aina forth. Unbelieving, she fled—a Naqib had entered their realm. At the light, she vanished, her bonds and spells undone. The king rushed to Trefaa, embracing him. The Whites, blinded by radiance, could not see.


    The light faded, revealing a man. The king, releasing Trefaa, approached his commanders, bowing, “Lord Ahmad, welcome.”


    “Rise—before none doth a king bow,” Ahmad bade.


    Moved by Ahmad’s humility, the king replied, “My lord, I am but thy servant.”


    Ahmad’s surrounding lights dimmed. Approaching Trefaa, dying, eyes closed, he laid a hand upon his heart, murmuring, then intoning, “By Hagan’s name, I summon thee.”


    Trefaa awoke, wounds healed. Joyful, the king embraced him. Ahmad told the king, “Cherish thy son—my presence here stemmed from his hope in Hagan.”


    Ashamed for ignoring Trefaa, the king prayed, “May Hagan’s life endure—forgive us.”


    “We must to thy palace—I’ve words for thee and thy folk,” Ahmad said.


    All vanished from Qalad’s ruins, reappearing in the king’s palace.