Year 266 of Azaria
Summer, Third Month – Temple of Abimalech – Zerdilla City
"Lenatzeach, Abimalech."
The chant followed Arshya Sadrakh through the temple corridor as he walked. It echoed softly against stone walls carved with ancient sigils, rising and falling in measured cadence. With every step forward, the voices grew clearer, more numerous, until the passage opened into a broad veranda.
The platform was square in shape. Ten long wooden benches stood aligned roughly twenty feet ahead. Every seat was occupied.
Men and women sat shoulder to shoulder. Elders bowed beside youths. Thick ceremonial tunics draped their bodies from shoulder to ankle. Heads remained lowered. Fingers interlocked. Lips moved endlessly, repeating the same invocation.
"Lenatzeach, Abimalech."
Arshya observed them in silence.
Between those kneeling figures, faint green light flickered. At first it appeared sporadic, then increasingly abundant, like oversized fireflies crawling across flesh. He knew that glow well. It emanated from green crystal fragments embedded within their bodies—along cheeks, throats, shoulders, foreheads, stomachs, thighs, knees, even soles.
A sudden breeze passed through the veranda.
Cool air flowed between bodies, easing nausea and dulling muscle pain. Tension drained from their posture. Shoulders relaxed. Breathing steadied. The light pulsed gently, soothing those bound to it.
Arshya's chest tightened.
Memory rose unbidden.
Years earlier, sickness had swept through his people. Bodies trembled violently, muscles collapsing until movement became impossible. Many could no longer stand. Others failed even to crawl. One by one, they lay helpless until death arrived, merciful only in its finality.
Yet Qaissara had not broken.
They had endured.
At the far end of the veranda, sixty feet beyond the benches, stood proof of that survival—a towering green crystal spire reaching nearly three hundred feet into the sky. Arshya had raised it alongside his followers, stone by stone, fragment by fragment.
A testament.
The Sky had not abandoned them.
As leader of the Qaissaran, it was his duty to ensure such devastation never returned. He would strengthen Abimalech's influence, as entrusted by the Sky itself.
"Father? Why are you standing still?"
A woman's voice broke his thoughts.
Arshya turned.
Behind him stood two women wearing long orange tunics layered beneath white mantles. Both shared red hair—one tied neatly, the other loose to her shoulders. Green eyes. Bronze skin.
They mirrored him.
His gaze settled on the one with untied hair, the speaker. A thin diagonal green crystal traced her right cheek down toward her neck.
"…I was remembering earlier days, Elisse," Arshya replied, offering a restrained smile.
"Is there still something to fear?" she asked gently. "At this moment, I mean."
"Netzaleh remains," he answered. "They have built another crystal tower. Their resentment toward the Sky burns openly."
"We are the people chosen to deliver rebellious Netzaleh to the Sky's greatness," Elisse said calmly. "Do not fear destiny, Father."
"I am not avoiding fate."
"…I hope that remains true."
"Do you still doubt me?" Arshya asked.
"You stand radiant among Qaissara," Elisse replied, "yet we see how sorrow lingers after Mother's passing."
Arshya's smile twisted. "Is a man forbidden from mourning his beloved? Is that how shallow women's judgment runs?"
"It is not her passing that troubles you," said the woman with tied hair. "It is the reason behind it."
Silence followed.
"…That cause remains a mystery," she continued. "Despite many of our people sharing the same end."
"They fell by the Sky's will," Elisse countered. "We belong to the Sky, Querijn. To it we return. Why suggest Father bears fault?"
"I accuse no one," Querijn said. "I merely repeat questions unanswered, including by Father. Questions that concern Qaissaran lives."
"…Your mother departed peacefully," Arshya said. "So did those you claim were slain by the Sky. Elisse is correct. Why burden ourselves with what destiny has already written?"
"The crystal plague that claimed Mother still haunts Qaissara," Querijn insisted. "Abimalech has not freed us from it."
"You wish to reopen this?" Elisse snapped. "What next—claim Isaiah's savage Netzaleh offers rescue?"
"There is opportunity if we open our hands toward Isaiah," Querijn replied. "A shared path may exist, one allowing survival against the Sky's crystal affliction—"
"Querijn!" Elisse shouted. "What Netzaleh madness has possessed you? Listen to your intoxicated words! The Sky may strike if you speak so recklessly!"
Her outburst shattered the prayer's harmony.
Murmurs rippled among the worshippers.
Arshya acted at once.
He raised his hand, calming gestures precise. Guards stepped forward, clearing a path. Without another word, Arshya guided both daughters along the veranda toward the orange crystal tower's base.
He placed his palm upon its surface.
"Lichsbosch, Abimalech."
Orange radiance bloomed. The wall dissolved into floating motes, forming a narrow passage. Arshya entered, his daughters following, their whispers sharp with lingering anger.
Light reassembled behind them, sealing the entrance.
The interior glowed orange.
Space stretched nearly one hundred feet across. Crystalline surfaces refracted illumination endlessly. Arshya moved toward the center, where a massive orange crystal formation rose almost to the ceiling.
He struck one side with his palm.
A foot slammed downward.
The crystal floor ascended, lifting them toward the tower's summit.
Arshya turned to face his daughters, confusion and curiosity etched across their expressions.
"The subject you argued over," he said quietly, "aligns with what I intend to reveal."
He gestured toward formations at the far end.
Elisse and Querijn stared.
Cries escaped them.
Within those crystal blocks lay people—Qaissaran, and even Netzaleh—eyes closed, bodies preserved mid-kneel.
Arshya struck the floor again.
Orange lines emerged beneath his feet, racing outward toward each formation. Light enveloped them swiftly. Crystals dissolved into radiant particles.
Those imprisoned sank into kneeling postures, heads bowed.
No breath moved. No sound escaped.
Thin orange veins traced along their bodies.
Arshya's voice remained steady.
"That is your answer, Querijn."