Chapter 40 - Rebellious Angel

In the nation of Angels, along the twin rivers Efrela and Anaster, divine vessels glided gracefully over the water, sailing from the kingdoms of Lucintra and Berethia toward Saint Zagra.

Though the angels could use their wings to transport goods, these small, consecrated ships carried far more, making them a far more practical means of travel. Yet between these two rivers, a third joined their flow, Berina, which ran close to the kingdom of Chrisantra. At the very heart of this confluence stood a monument unlike any other, where the sacred waters intertwined.

Two colossal statues of metal, each towering over 120 meters, dominated the horizon. Their grandeur was so immense that it would take a man three days to climb from their base to their crowns. These were Ko'Achran and Shairan.

Shairan was depicted with long, straight hair, a thick beard, and a flowing cloak that draped over his armor. Ko'Achran, in contrast, had shorter hair, a clean face, and wore only a cloak that revealed his bare form beneath, gazing upward with divine pride. Shairan looked downward.

Ko'Achran's right hand was raised toward the heavens, palm open in a gesture of authority and might. Shairan's hand was extended below, his palm facing the mingling waters of the three rivers. Between their hands hung a massive balance, suspended by two iron chains coiled around their metallic fingers, The Scales of Judgment, known as Merthuzana'Im.

Near Merthuzana'Im, a gilded divine chariot descended, drawn by two armored pegasi with gleaming wings and golden hooves, their very presence scattering luminous motes through the air. Between the rivers, a giant pink lotus floated serenely, serving as a living throne upon the waters below.

On either side of the lotus stood ten angels, cloaked in radiant white robes. Their faces were hidden behind masks, and each wore a crown shaped like a falcon's skull. They knelt on one knee, five to a side, facing each other, awaiting someone or something.

The pegasi alighted upon the lotus before the masked angels. At once, the angels rose and turned toward the chariot door. Slowly, it opened, revealing King Tarnael.

He stepped out, dressed in his customary royal garb, adorned with dark feathers and a golden-cross pendant that hung over his chest. His long, almost feminine hair shimmered, swaying with the gentle dance of the breeze rising from the lotus beneath him. Tarnael's half-lidded eyes swept across the masked figures, some slender and graceful, others heavy and imposing. Each bore an emblem from their respective angelic kingdoms, stitched upon their white cloaks. His gaze was cool, tinged with quiet disdain and doubt.

"Your Majesty," came a voice. It was Lazrael, clad in his usual servant's attire.

"Ah, yes," Tarnael murmured.

Lazrael handed him a small copper bell. The king took it in his left hand and rang it softly. The wind over the lotus fell still. Silence enveloped the air. Then, a great swarm of golden colibrines, appeared, fluttering above the guests' shoulders. They gathered together, their feathers and wings interlocking, forming a grand staircase leading upward, toward Merthuzana'Im.

The stairway reached the Scales, solid and shimmering, providing a clear path to the suspended platform between Ko'Achran and Shairan.

The masked angels motioned for Tarnael to proceed ahead of them, guiding the way. The king lifted a brow in irritation at the gesture.

"Lazrael, return to the chariot. I have a feeling this will take a while," Tarnael ordered, beginning his slow ascent up the living stairs.

"As you command, Your Majesty," Lazrael replied, bowing deeply before turning toward the chariot. He opened the door, stepped inside, and sat on the velvet couch within. Through the window, he could see Tarnael climbing toward the Scales. Turning his gaze inward, Lazrael reached into his coat and pulled out a peculiar stone, its surface pulsing with a dim, intimidating green light.

Tarnael continued his ascent, occasionally glancing sideways at the pegasi below. "Say a damn word..." he thought to himself with irritation.

At last, they reached Merthuzana'Im. In the center of the suspended platform stood a vast round table with ten chairs, and a single throne at its end.

Tarnael took his place upon the throne, while the others each sat in their respective seats around the table.

"You may remove your masks," said Tarnael, his fingers interlaced upon the table.

All those present obeyed. The masks dissolved into faint Lapis particles, revealing their faces, all of them royal figures of the angelic dominion; the ten remaining kings.

Frastel Urtea, King of Ulmra, whom we have met before. He still appeared to Tarnael as the same repulsive, lumbering man, dressed in his usual brown suit which barely managed to contain his proportions.

Ardael Tasresa, King of Maxres, a young man wearing a red cloak draped over a blue suit. A golden clasp fastened the cloak above his tie, whose knot seemed to struggle for breath beneath the fabric. His hair was long and slightly wavy, as if uncertain which direction to follow, much like the king himself, unsure of his own rule.

Sregiel Mirda, King of Oradenera, an elderly man, bald, with a thick silver beard and a permanently furrowed expression. A heavy stone-gray cloak hung from his shoulders, giving him the weighty look of a man who had long forgotten warmth.

Magdanela Korlatti, Queen of Lucintra, a woman with long hair tied on both sides, wearing an iron mask shaped like an emotionless face. Her gown was deep green, embroidered with leaves, and her heavy cloak, a darker shade of the same hue, lent her the air of an elven monarch, timeless and austere.

Lirtelia Gerza, Queen of Berethia, a young woman radiant in a gown of shimmering gold. Her hair was carefully arranged, forming a regal double crown upon her head, with two gentle streams cascading like twin rivers down her slender neck. Around her chest hung a dark cross, a stark contrast to her golden attire and her seemingly pure, sincere expression.

Marxel Svintis, King of Troa, the only warrior among them. He carried a simple battle trident and wore gilded armor with violet cloth beneath, the engraved circles and crosses upon the metal catching the light with quiet majesty. Marxel stood tall and proud; his crown meant little beside the valor that had already earned him his throne.

Dimitrel Kurza, King of Santria, the oldest of them all. His long white beard and unruly hair framed a face that spoke of centuries. He wore a strong blue cloak, adorned with rubber cords that held small crosses at their ends, symbols of the faith and devotion that had defined his long reign.

Martanel Gortta, King of Pietari, the most devout follower of Edin'Borghia's faith among them. He was dressed almost like a pope, though his white cap was lined with hanging chains tipped with crimson crosses. His eyes moved sharply around the table, full of suspicion, questioning the authority and seriousness of those before him.

Alexandrel Streda, King of Limnes, clad in a dark suit embroidered with golden branches, his short blond hair and neatly trimmed beard reflected his quiet strength. A man of few words, but of precise conviction.

Wizitrel Forsalla, King of Lorena, dressed in a brown overcoat, he was the second youngest of the assembly. His long hair fell only at the sides of his face, and he seemed uneasy, intimidated by the heavy silence of the room. Ironically, one might expect such nervousness from Ardael, yet the latter did not even blink under the weight of fear.

"I believe you are all aware of who I am," began Tarnael, his voice steady and commanding. "But for the sake of formality, I am King Tarnael Augustel Frizina of Saint Zagra, the High King of the Angelic Nation. It has been nearly eight years since we learned that Uanamangura is no longer myth, but reality. According to the old accounts, the power he possesses is terror itself. The wrath he carries could very well be the last breath of the world. I was present for many of the meetings my father once held here, at Merthuzana'Im. I see new faces amongst us today."

His eyes drifted toward Kings Wizitrel, Ardael, and Queen Lirtelia.

"Most of the time," Tarnael continued, "every hundred and thirty-eight years, these gatherings have amounted to little. Our relations with the Dominions have always been distant. But that changes today. This time, we have a purpose, to defend the fate of Ladnoria and, if necessary, Zagros itself."

"How do we intend to do that?" asked King Marxel.

"What do you mean?" Tarnael replied.

"Well," Marxel said, "the Dominions are individually stronger than we are. And now, with Uanamangura on their side... You said his power is terror itself. How do we fight against terror itself? I admit, our armies are disciplined and well-trained, but will that truly be enough?"

Tarnael's expression darkened.

"I have considered how to—"

"The children of Edin'Borghia no longer understand the sin they are committing upon themselves," interrupted King Martanel, hands clasped in a prayerful posture.

"What sin?" demanded Alexandrel sharply. "The sin of defending ourselves?"

"The sin of defying the end," Martanel intoned solemnly. "Uanamangura is the final chapter written by our gods. We have no right to resist the fate they decreed."

"This one's lost more wits than I have," muttered King Dimitrel mockingly.

"Perhaps," said Queen Magdanela calmly, "we should hear what Tarnael has to say."

The tension eased slightly. Tarnael straightened, his face regaining its composure.

"Though the Dominions may appear invincible and fearsome, I have found ways to gain significant advantage over them, even with Uanamangura at their side," said Tarnael firmly.

"What?" asked Wizitrel, startled.

"One of those ways," Tarnael replied, "is through the Keys of Sizran."

"I've heard of them," said Sregiel. "Eleven keys said to bind the soul of a Kindu."

"The dragons sealed their true powers within those gates," added Dimitrel. "But how would the Keys of Sizran serve us?"

"Their true name," Tarnael explained, "is the Arch of Sizran. Once the keys are joined, they form the shape of a bow. This construct traps the Fernia, the divine current that flows through the bodies of the Dominions, within the gates of the Kindu. As a result—"

"The Dominions become powerless," finished Ardael.

Taranael nodded.

"And does that weakness include Uanamangura?" asked Alexandrel.

"Unfortunately, no," Tarnael admitted.

The room fell silent.

"So the entire purpose of this council is to defeat Uanamangura," said Frastel bitterly. "And yet you tell us he cannot be defeated. What is the point of all this, then?"

"And how do we even find these keys?" Marxel pressed. "They will not simply fall into our hands."

"That," Tarnael said, "is where another artifact comes in."

The kings listened closely.

"The Spheres of Alitus," Tarnael declared.

"No... Not that name! NOOO!" screamed Martanel in hysterics before collapsing unconscious.

"Well, it seems madness isn't his alone," said Dimitrel dryly.

"You can't be serious," stammered Wizitrel. "Those spheres?"

"Have you truly thought through what you've just said?" demanded Alexandrel.

"This is outright blasphemy," growled Frastel.

"Perhaps you could explain," said Queen Magdanela, her voice cool and deliberate, "why the very things we despise most are suddenly necessary to your plan, Tarnael Frizina."

Lirtelia and Ardael exchanged uneasy glances. They were visibly shaken, uncertain what to believe or even ask.

"It's quite simple," Tarnael said indifferently. "To defeat Uanamangura."

"That's absurd!" snapped Marxel.

"I refuse to stand with a king who no longer thinks of his people," said Frastel heatedly.

"This insults every kingdom represented here," said Alexandrel coldly. "Even the thought of it is disgraceful for an angel."

"I agreed with the first part of your plan," said Sregiel, "but now you've gone too far."

"I concur," added Dimitrel.

Martanel stirred, slowly regaining consciousness.

"Better he stayed that way," murmured Dimitrel.

"S-Such a thought cannot exist in the mind of an angel," Lirtelia said, trembling.

"She's right!" said Wizitrel. "I can't believe we're hearing this."

Tarnael listened to their voices rise and fall, disappointment, fear, and outrage blending into a single hum. Then his gaze fell upon Magdanela.

"What thought hides behind your mask, Magdanela?" he asked, his tone laced with irony.

"I've no wood left to throw upon the flames of madness," she replied calmly. A faint burn scar could be seen beneath the edge of her mask.

"Hmm... I see. And you, Ardael?" Tarnael's voice sharpened. "Which side do you stand on?"

Ardael froze. He couldn't answer. His authority, fragile as it was, shattered beneath a single question.

"A king split so easily in two," Tarnael said mockingly. "I should have expected as much from such two-dimensional creatures gathered here. You don't even realize the danger we stand in. Your pride blinds you to the edge of the abyss. Why do we even have so many kingdoms when every angel here still thinks like sheep beneath a shepherd too weak to guide them?"

"We're divided into many kingdoms," said Dimitrel, "because Saint Zagra has seen enough kings like you, Tarnael. We disagreed long ago, and chose to rule ourselves."

"We can handle our own affairs without your twisted plans," said Marxel coldly. "Or did you have to kill your father just to kill your people too?"

"Heh... I see where you're going, Marxel Svintis." Tarnael smirked bitterly. "And to the rest of you, who see me as a madman, very well. I don't need you."

He turned away from the table. "I'll be the only one then. The Rebellious Angel..."

And with that, Tarnael walked out of Merthuzana'Im, leaving behind a table of monarchs whose eyes followed him, filled with contempt, confusion, anger, and betrayal.

Among the white feathers that adorned the world of angels, Tarnael felt like an intruder.
Or perhaps, the dark feathers of his father's mantle, resting upon his shoulders, had always suited him more...