Jim Slevann never had the luxury of choosing when to leave Senedro or Earth. When the clock struck, he shifted—no questions, no delay. He usually played it safe, always made sure he was in bed—on either side—when time kicked in. That way, nobody freaked out when he vanished.
But this time… he missed.
And in Senedro, that was a big deal.
Denefremims didn't just collapse. So when Jim dropped like a sack of potatoes right at the gates of Zela, everyone lost it. Fast.
They rushed him to the healing quarters, laid him out on a silver-thread bed, and summoned Zeebal, the top healer in Zela—also known as "the lady who could fix your soul with a stare."
Shæz sat by his side, quiet but shaken. Jim wasn't bleeding, wasn't burned, he looked fine. Too fine. Which made it worse.
Zeebal touched his chest, pressed her palm to his forehead, tried to reach his essence—but hit a wall. That never happened. Ever.
"This is not a Denefremim," she said finally, her brows furrowed like storm clouds.
Shæz blinked. "What do you mean? He told me his name is Shean."
Zeebal turned slowly, like she was weighing every syllable. "Shæz… Shean has no beginning and no end. That name—if true—belongs to something else entirely. Something from the western beyonds of Senedro. I think he's… an entity. He has no soul."
Shæz just stared. Confused. Heart racing.
No soul?
But she'd seen him fight. Seen him protect. Seen him laugh and sleep—sleep!! Denefremims don't sleep that long. She always covered for him, made excuses when others asked. She figured maybe he was raised near the Miteons or had some weird childhood trauma.
But now? Doubt crept in.
"Could you do me a favor?" she asked quietly. "Don't tell anyone about this. Please."
"At your word, my lady," Zeebal nodded with full respect and slipped away like mist.
Shæz stayed. Alone. Thinking.
Had she been covering for a spy this whole time?
Was Shean even a Sedro?
Could he be… a sham, an Ozelean mole? Or worse—a Setrum spirit in disguise?
Zela didn't trust either group. And now, here she was, in faith, or something dangerously close to it—with a possible interdimensional lie.
The door creaked open. The Commandatee—her father—entered, quiet and stern as always.
"What did the healer say?" he asked.
Shæz hesitated. "She said… he's trapped."
He didn't flinch. Just nodded. "Yes. I've seen this before. The Miteons did this to my old friend centuries ago. It's rare—but not unheard of. He'll be back."
Relief softened her shoulders—but not for long. Her dad looked… off. Not worried about Shean. It was something deeper. Shæz saw it in his eyes.
He walked over, cupped her face gently, eyes heavy.
"Love," he said, "we're about to enter a war I don't think we're going to win."
"No, Commandatee. We're going to win. Right?" she asked, like maybe his answer would rewrite reality.
He didn't lie.
Instead, he pulled a star-shaped pendant from beneath his cloak. Soft, glowing. Ancient.
"Catch this star," he said, placing it in her palm. "It will guide you to a safer place. Find Geza. Join with them. Hennekas is coming."
Her breath caught. This wasn't just strategy. This was goodbye.
"Pa… why don't you come with me?"
He smiled, bittersweet. "You know I can't. I won't let Zela fall. I'll lead by example."
"But you're going to lose!" Shæz choked out, tears rising fast.
He pulled her into a hug, strong and warm, like when she was a child.
"No, love. It's a win to fight Hennekas. It's also a win to preserve the mission." He stepped back. "Follow the star, when the time is right."
And with that… he left.
Shæz sat in the quiet, clutching the pendant.
She knew she'd never hear from him again.
War was coming. Soon.
But she wasn't ready to run. Not yet.
Cowards flee. She wasn't raised like that. She was Zela.
She was fire.
And she still had a fight left in her.
If you didn't know Hennekas, then you didn't know war.
Not the kind they teach you in dusty scrolls or chant about in Zela's victory songs. Real war. The kind that cracks stars and tears at the threads of reality.
So when Hennekas and his 200 Ozelean warriors, all on oxeds arrived at Zela's gates, the city held its breath.
But he didn't attack. Not immediately.
Instead, he stood tall, voice clear as crystal thunder.
"Jeleam, my brother," he called out. "You're the last man I'd ever want to face in battle. Do you remember our days?"
Inside the fortress walls, the Commandatee—Jeleam himself—stood still. Then signaled, Gulutel opened the gates, slowly. It didn't look like the start of a siege. It looked like two old soldiers trying to settle a long-unspoken score.
"I'm not here to wage war with blood," Hennekas added as Jeleam stepped out to meet him. "Join me. Together, we can take the Setrums down."
The two met in the space between loyalty and temptation. For a long moment, there was no sound—just the whisper of wind carrying memories.
Jeleam reached him. Looked him in the eye.
They embraced like brothers—because they were, once.
Then Jeleam leaned in and whispered, "I understand you, brother. Truly. But do you remember what we always said when we were young?"
He stepped back, raised his voice for all of Zela to hear.
"My pride is now high!"
And then, louder—his words like fire catching dry grass:
"Hear me, Zela! We will fight! We do this for the mortals. For justice. As long as I live and wear this badge—I fight for what is right!"
The city erupted.
Cheering thundered from the walls and towers. Zela was awake. Alive. Burning with purpose.
Jeleam turned, hugged Hennekas one more time.
And Hennekas, soft-spoken now, whispered back, "Then I'm proud of you. You're going to die a hero. I love you, brother."
They parted.
Jeleam and Gulutel walked back through the gates, and the walls of Zela slammed shut behind them like a heartbeat sealing a vow.
Hennekas stood before his troops, eyes hard now. War was no longer knocking—it was kicking down the door.
"He wants us to break in," he said. "Zela has failed the Brotherhood."
He looked over his warriors—shadows in silver armor, waiting on a word.
"Let's do what we were made to do."
And just like that, the Ozeleans prepared to bring war to Zela's doorstep.
The gates of Zela were legendary—built not just to keep enemies out, but to buy time when time mattered most. And now, time was exactly what the Commandatee needed.
Hennekas and his Ozelean troops were hammering their way through. It wouldn't be long now.
Inside, the Commandatee had sealed the gates not for glory, but for mercy—for evacuation. To give the women and children a chance to escape.
This wasn't a fight for ladies. It wasn't a fight for the unready. This was war in its rawest form.
He turned to Gulutel.
"Find my daughter," he said firmly. "Make sure she gets to Geza. Don't fail me, my brother."
Then he saw it—the Ozeleans had breached the gate shield.
He stepped forward and raised his voice to the heart of the city.
"Zela! Hear me! This is not the end unless we choose to end here! Stand! For your homes! For your people! For everything we've loved and everything we've lost!"
The roar of Zela rose, like thunder from the bones of the earth.
But not all vulnerables had made it out.
Shæz hadn't gone with the women and children. She was still by Shean's side, watching over his unconscious form. The sounds of battle were now too close to ignore—metal on metal, screams, the collapse of walls and courage.
She crept to the small hole in the stone wall and peered through.
What she saw stole the breath from her lungs.
Brothers. Friends. Falling.
And then—her father.
The Commandatee, Jeleam, was on his knees, bloodied, exhausted. Hennekas stood over him, sword raised, ready to end it.
Shæz's heart cracked. Her body moved before her mind caught up. She ran back to Shean.
She pulled a thick blanket over him, wrapped him as best as she could, then started dragging him across the stone floor toward the escape tunnel.
The small side gate was barely big enough for both of them, but she forced it open.
With every step, she felt the weight—not just of Shean, but of grief, of panic, of loss. The sounds of battle chased her like ghosts. Her muscles screamed, her hands shook, but she didn't stop.
And even as she pulled him into the cold tunnel beyond the gate, she felt it—something following. Not footsteps exactly. But something.
Something she couldn't see. Something that felt like war itself had noticed her.