The plains of Anissar were one of the rare places without sand in the entire Hataal Empire. A sea of tall grasses stretched endlessly into the horizon, swaying gently under the breath of the wind. Here, some of the bloodiest battles in human history had taken place. Over the centuries, dozens of legendary clashes had stained these very plains, each battle carving another scar into the land's memory.
It was said that a Djinn once dwelled here, a warrior named Muhar, from an age when humans and Djinn still lived together, sharing the same soil. Muhar had been one of the greatest among his kin, a towering figure on the battlefield, his every motion shaking the earth and sky. To the people of that time, he had been known simply as the Djinn of War.
In honor of his spirit, Anissar became a land where warriors bled, a place where dreams were broken and forged anew.
Saed Nafura gazed out over the vast fields from a hilltop. The tales had not exaggerated. The grass was a shimmering ocean, alive with shades of green and yellow. In the late afternoon sun, the blades looked almost golden, painting a dreamscape where knights of old might still be dueling in ghostly echoes.
It was a place from a dream. A battlefield where heroes were born and died.
At the center of it all, under the shadow of a towering tree, its trunk so wide that a dozen men could not circle it with their arms, stood a single round table. Around it sat eleven figures, each one a name, a legacy, or a threat.
Saed inhaled deeply, steadying himself. He turned to the small group of retainers who had accompanied him, their eyes full of silent questions.
"Stay here," he ordered softly. "In case something might happen."
The air between them was tense but understanding. None of them argued. They knew this meeting was a political dance first and foremost, but in a world like theirs, the line between diplomacy and bloodshed could vanish with a single misstep.
Clutching the sword at his waist, more for ceremony than out of real expectation of battle, Saed began the walk toward the table.
Two kilometers. The distance was short, but under the heavy, watchful silence of Anissar, it felt endless.
Each step he took pressed deeper into the weight of history, into the thousand unspoken duels that had taken place here. He could almost hear the echoes of past battles, could almost see flashes of armor and the glitter of old steel in the corners of his eyes.
When he reached the gathering, the murmurs among the other figures died down. Eleven pairs of eyes watched him as he approached.
Saed kept his head high but moved carefully, scanning the group. Recognition flashed through him, faint, uncertain. So many years lost in the shadows, away from the courtly life he once knew. His political instincts, once praised by tutors and scholars alike, now felt rusty, almost clumsy.
He could only recognize two of them.
And ironically, they sat nearly opposite one another at the grand table, fitting, perhaps, given the whispered rumors about their clashing ideals.
The closest to him was someone familiar. Saed's heart lightened slightly at the sight.
Akram Hosein.
A contemporary of his own age, and someone Saed could genuinely say he respected, perhaps even liked, in a reserved sort of way. They had met before, though not often enough to call it a true friendship. Still, there was a silent understanding between them, a bond woven through years of knowing glances and shared struggles as scions of fading noble houses.
Akram rose from his seat, his dark purple hair rippling slightly in the gentle breeze. His tall frame was relaxed, confident without being arrogant. Those striking green eyes, a deep, vivid mantis green, met Saed's scarlet ones without hesitation.
It was like two swords lightly tapping against each other, acknowledging the other's presence.
"Second son of Nafura," Akram said, inclining his head slightly. His voice was warm but measured.
"Eldest son of Hosein." Saed replied in kind, a faint smile touching his lips.
Tradition among the northern houses dictated that when representing their families, they referred to each other by house name, not first name, a subtle reminder that behind every word stood not just an individual, but a legacy.
Yet here, under the endless sky, it all felt a little too formal. A little too heavy.
The silence stretched between them, neither one willing to break it first. Saed found himself staring into those familiar eyes, feeling the weight of past expectations pressing down on his shoulders.
He was the first to give in, chuckling lightly.
"Ah, enough of that. We're too young to act like old men fencing with words."
Akram smiled back, a genuine curve of his lips that chased away some of the stiffness between them.
"Haha, true enough. We might end up dueling with the swords on our hips before the swords in our minds," he said, his voice carrying an easy humor. "But let's not get too philosophical. Not yet, at least."
Despite the levity, Saed could feel the unspoken currents between them. Akram was, without a doubt, the sharper blade in matters of politics and wit. If this were truly a contest of minds, Saed would lose. His own thoughts were too tumultuous these days, like a tree in the heart of a storm, its branches tossed by every gust of uncertainty.
He shifted his weight slightly, forcing himself to focus.
Akram, meanwhile, studied him with a hint of something else in his gaze, something harder to name.
Concern, perhaps. Or calculation.
"How fares your house, Nafura?" Akram asked at last. His tone was polite, but Saed caught the subtle pause before the question, the careful phrasing.
"I heard rumors. About... financial troubles. A shame, what the war did to the north's economy."
For a heartbeat, Saed's composure wavered.
The war of Dum, that monstrous conflict that reshaped the entire continent, had shattered more than just borders. It had shattered lives, legacies, dreams.
The House of Nafura had once thrived on lucrative land rights secured through alliances with the Empire of Rabi. But when that empire fell to the relentless advance of the Almam Kingdom, everything crumbled. Their rights, their income, their future.
Saed bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking too quickly, too rashly.
"We're managing," he said at last, forcing a grin that probably looked more confident than it felt. "Just a rough patch. We'll bounce back soon enough."
His eyes flicked briefly toward the vast table and the figures seated around it.
"Depending on how this 'Conquer the Island' game unfolds, of course."
Akram's eyes crinkled with amusement at Saed's open challenge to fate.
Saed knew the odds were against him. He wasn't the best swordsman here, far from it. If it came to pure combat skill, Akram would defeat him easily. He had seen the man fight once, long ago, and even then he could tell: Akram was a true prodigy, born with a sword in his hand and a warrior's instincts in his blood.
The north had always been proud of its scions : quick of mind, swift of blade, but Akram was exceptional even by those standards.
Plus, even though he was intelligent, he didn't have much experience when it came to battle or war tactics. In this field, houses from the west had the clear advantage, having to deal with the constant threats of the Almam Kingdom shaped their tactics.
Still, Saed had something few others could match.
A secret.
A hidden edge.
In general, most nobles awakened their Djinn, the spirit that marked their true potential, between the ages of eighteen and nineteen. Early awakening was a rare phenomenon, a blazing signal of talent and destiny.
Akram had awakened at sixteen. A feat worthy of song.
But Saed...
Saed had awakened at thirteen.
The fastest on the continent.