Getting off the carriage the first thing I notice, apart from little Ahayan offering us his little hand like a gentleman, is the immense shade of the sprawling architecture of the Lord's Estate. Surely it wasn’t this big when I had last laid my eyes on it, from across the street. 

Set against the vast, cracked expanse of the thirsty barren flats, stood the multi-storey high manor. Starkly charcoal black in contrast to the background, it relished in its brutalist architecture. The jagged spikes of its outline thrust at the air around it with a brutalistic accuracy, as if warning the very air from entering it. Only the caged contraption on the left of the entrance was allowed some semblance of softness, an eight by six coffin of cushion. Behind me the carriage rolled away, expertly guided by a burly guard.

At the steely black gates we are asked, with due courtesy, to submit our weapons before entering the premises, and so we did. A mist katana, a pair of stoneheart gauntlets, a hail halberd, an army issue sword, a flametongue dagger, an ember bow, and a quiver of firesticks sat tinkling in the ironclad collection vase, raising the value of the vase up to a fortune.

“This way please,” says the head maid as she guides us. We cross architecture of dark grandeur, spaces of minimal lights highlighting the rigid structure of the places to a harsh but pure beauty. We climb up four storeys before finally standing in front of a ruby encrusted door, guarded by heavily and magically armed guards. The head maid nods politely at them, and the guards give way as the door opens to an antechamber. Silently, we pass through, one of the guards offering the head maid a curt nod before closing the doors behind us. Inside, the antechamber was, surprisingly, of round opulence, as if finally offering the comfort of softness to those courageous enough to come this far, or to those valued enough to be provided such luxuries to. And even though the decor of the chamber was leagues removed from the best I'd seen, it still pleased me to again be exposed to such luxury, especially after three straight months of the rugged outdoors. 

“Lillova . . . *muffled speech* . . . not in my city!”

A single, loud clang cried from the room beyond. The head maid, standing in attention by the inner door, opened it with a practiced grace, ushering us in with a ‘please’ and a swirling wave of her hand. And so we went.

The room, in all its gothic glory, shone with all the pointed menace and rugged accuracy of a funeral home. Now, I'm sure the space was big enough for most, if not all, but in light of the dozen or so of us that filed into the audience side of the room, it felt rather suffocating standing there shoulder to shoulder. Even little Ahayan had filed in after us against all proper advice. The Lord, barely hiding his malice behind cross clamped fists, analyzed each of us in turn, his void black pupils resting on Ahayan for a second longer. And even though he did not say anything I could tell that he was saving that for later. Finally he spoke.

“Welcome, guests of the State. Peace be unto you,” he said, his voice tearing through the air like a thousand incised blades. “Which of you represents the whole of you?”

Silently, I step forth, take a seat opposite to him, say. “We’re here to clear our due payment from you.”

His brows raise. “Ah, cutting straight to the point. I appreciate it.” He reaches for his drawer, and is about to slide it open when a form rises out of the shadow. 

“Yahmil,” croaks the shadow, and going right up to him it bends to whisper in his left ear. The State Lord nods, slides the drawer back in. Grunting its thanks the shadow recedes back. An audible scoffing huff leaves Aunt Cass, and I begin to turn to her but before I can I hear Uncle Mal quietly hushing her behind me. I thank him internally and readjust my entire focus on the imposing Lord before me. 

The City Lord again turns to us, his hardened eyes harder still. “Do not worry, helpers of the country, your work is appreciated, and you will be duly compensated.”

“But?” I ask.

A small, surprising smile breaks out on the City Lord's stony face. He sighs, turns, and beckons the shadow up to him again. The shadow comes forth, out underneath the veil of darkness. What I had thought to be a leaning form turns out to just have been a stocky build. A pair of heavy rugged hands jut out of the sleeves to lift off the head of the black frobe, and a man of grey hair and hardened eyes is revealed. While his eyes were not as cold as the Lord's, they were harder still, like the base of a great burning pyre. The Lord speaks in his crackling voice, only a tad softer now, “This here is my old friend. The captain of the Shah's Army, the conqueror of Blood-field, and finally, most impressive of all, the man who got my sister to finally settle down; The Marquis Istifak Bin Ibnat. Tell him why you’re here, Marquis.”

The Marquis clears his throat quite forcefully, trying to hide an equally small smile spreading across his hardened face. “Thank you, Lord, for fluffing up my name more than your sister does her face when we go out for a banquet,” the Marquis says, smiling, and try he may the Lord also could not hold back a small smile---we smile with them. The looming Marquis then turns to us completely, his face serious again. “Now, guests of the State and helpers of the country, the reason I was sent to this borderland along with the City Lord by the Shah is of two folds, only one of which has to do with you guys. And even though I was ordered not to speak to you directly, I will, in the spirit of equal generosity. So I hope you will hear me out without interference,” he says this while pointedly looking at Aunt Cass, “and I will ingratiate you by answering any questions you may have at the end.”   

“Alright,” says Aunt Cass, sighing. “I'll behave. Go ahead.”

“As you know,” he begins, “the war between Lillova and Amanova is worsening by the day.” We nod, he continues. “Half a Jama'ah back the chieftain of the Koshwa tribe, the greatest of the tribes of the wandering tribes of Faad, had come to the king with a warning.”

“You only say they're the best because they've been good to the Guellan court. They're a true menace in their own lands.” Omar interjects. The Marquis, as if for the very first time, looks at him properly and is duly shocked at what he beholds. The City Lord says something to him quietly and he nods in understanding. Giving Omar a last glare for the unwelcome interjection, he continues. 

“He said, ‘The northern winds are burning, and the flames of Hell are descending upon the lands of Lillova and Amanova.’ The chieftain’s express advice for us was to look after our own.”

From behind me I hear Aunt Cass sigh sadly. “Not this shit again,” she says under her breath. Uncle Mal, apparently understanding the flow of conversation better than I, does not stop her this time. 

“So?” I ask, knowing I might come off as being naive.

A sympathetic smile crosses the burly man's features before he quietly says, “We must refuse the refugees you brought with you.”

‘No!’

I should have said that, or something in denial, but in this moment all my mind was occupied with were the images of a refugee camp finally happy with their settlement, images of a camp Elder pleading to me to make their life more stable, the image of the eyes of a sobbing rocking girl finally wide with amazement and hopeful with the new chances of a new land. “No,” I whisper quietly. 

“I understand, Miss.” The Marquis says this with the most sympathy and understanding he can squeeze out I'm sure, but it's not nearly enough. My headaches resume with their irritating pain, and I feel a burning behind my eyes. I feel a silent rage start growing within me.  

“The wandering tribes of Faad should never be believed. Most of their sayings are ploys in the name of their kingdom.” Omar repeats to the Marquis. 

“I do not understand this sentiment, but from what I've seen and heard about the tribe I can most confidently say they're people deserving of the praise I bestow upon them. Try not to defame them without proof, son, not in front of me at least.” Again the Marquis says this with utmost sympathy, but now with a tinge of pride. But I also know where Omar is coming from, where we are coming from. The Marquis may have gathered information from trusted sources, but we've dealt with the dark side of Faad, been hit by their fury, on multiple accounts, the whole of Eyjavo has, since the days of the Partition Wars.    

“With due respect sir,” Omar pushes on, “you may have heard about them but we have dealt with them first hand, and they're not even half as good as you credit them to be. Bastards and cowards, the whole lot of them.” Says Omar, supported by Aunt Cass. I hear Aunt Cass begin to tell her account when the Marquis, his face betraying his anger, clears his throat to interject. 

“Whatever it is,” says the City Lord, effectively wedging himself in as a third party, “Guella cannot provide sanctuary to refugees at this moment.” He says this matter of factly, but I keep nodding my head in the no nevertheless. “I do not care what you do with them but we cannot receive them right now. You guys will be paid in full and I would pay you extra to take the refugees along with you so that we do not have to throw them poor souls back out into the wars of the Ovas again.” Saying this he begins to slide his side drawer open, as if the matter is finished.

“NO!” I yell, shooting straight up. I slam my hand onto the table before me so hard that it shakes. The City Lord, eyes wide, glares up at me, his eyes growing colder. But I do not budge, will not budge. “You WILL take them in, you will give them sanctuary.” I say, my voice rising in tandem to my rage. “They will not be made to suffer again, to have to travel through the harsh lands of Faad to who knows where.”     

“Dear Miss,” the Marquis coos now, “we understand the pain you're feeling, they're feeling, but our hands are tied right now. We are simply the executioners, the decision lies with the Shah. Convince him otherwise and we have no problem with it.” he says, his hand resting on the City Lord's shoulder. 

I visibly relax, Uncle Mal places a hand on my shoulder. He comes forth, stands beside me, says in his deep rumbling voice. “I think we all need to take a step back, reel in the anger a little.” Saying this, he gently pushes me down into my seat. I sit, ramrod straight, so that I can jump right back up when needed to. “I think what Miss Amani is trying to convey to you is that we've grown very sympathetic to the plights of the refugees. So much so that we’d even agree to a pay cut if that will allow them to just huddle in a remote corner of your City.”

Brows pulled up in confusion, the Marquis begins, “But the-” 

“Old man, speak to me of my lands, not to my brother in law.” growls the City Lord. “These are my lands, my property, and I shall run it how I deem fit. And I deem it fit for all of you to get the fuck off my property.”

“Motherf-”

SWISH

THUD

“Put the spells away, boy,” warns the Marquis, his hands clasping Omar’s hand in mid air. Omar unwilling to follow. The Marquis slams Omar’s fist into the table below with a loud thwack, snuffing out the yet forming spell. He then releases Omar, spreads his hands wide while backing off a little, blocking the menacing stare I hold with the City Lord. “Look,” he says, “this truly is out of our hands. We, no, our Shah will not ignore the chieftains words, and why should he when the chieftain has never been wrong before? He says we will be engulfed in the flames of Hell if we do not close our borders and so we shall close those borders. No foreigners allowed.”

I see red again. This talk of the scam chieftain aggravates the throbbing pain in my head. Grinding my teeth I stand up, ready for a final proclamation. Words I know not trickle into my mind. I slowly begin to grow numb, as if I'm out of my body and my mouth runs on its own accord.

BZZT. THZZ.

“I'll give you another prophecy, and this one will be true.” I yell, my voice booming in the tiny black room. “If you do not give them sanctuary, I WILL BRING DOWN THE FIRES OF HELL ON TOP OF YOU.”

“HAH,” shouts the City lord. “I'D LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY, LITTLE GIRL.”

“SO BE IT!” I yell, chopping my hand through the air. “JAHANNAMA AAG IT IS.”

VTOOM!