Published at 9th of September 2025 9:53 am

Book 4: Chapter 43 The Coming Storm

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The blind man who falls into the river blames the river for being there, yet forgets it was his own steps that brought him there.

- The Book of Wise Tellings from the Land of Streams.

The path to glory was almost clear, with only one opponent standing between me and ultimate victory. Just one more challenge remained before I could bask in the full patronage of Holder House. This quest chain had been long and convoluted, and I was eager to see its conclusion.

The fighting arena was being prepared—the stone tiles scrubbed clean with fresh water, and the priests sanctifying the grounds for the final match of the Festival. While they carried out their rituals, I rested in new quarters, a precautionary measure to avoid another assassin's blade. Not that I needed any protection, of course.

One small concern lingered: I had requested an audience with Aelayah, only to be rebuffed. I could have forced the issue, but it seemed wiser to play along for now. After all, I had slain her favored Shadow, or whatever that creature was meant to be. The girl really should have chosen someone more skilled.

I nibbled on a piece of fresh Tantan fruit, its tartness refreshing, then washed it down with cool water. The servants had mentioned it was known for its intense sourness, typically dried to soften its sharp, astringent bite. I had no idea what they were on about—I much preferred it raw.

Waiting, so much of life was lost to waiting. Minutes here, ten minutes there, an hour, a day, a week, all slowly eroding the span of our lives. It felt foolish, yet here I was in the midst of dead time while awaiting my summons. The air itself seemed heavy with the waiting.

And so I waited. In these moments, I found myself wishing for someone to talk to. Speaking with the servants had been nothing but a frustrating exercise—simple, uninformative answers devoid of any useful details or opinions. Even after lightly beating one of them, they remained polite if tight-lipped. They would have me believe they knew nothing beyond their immediate duties.

Patience, they say, is a virtue that can be cultivated in the art of waiting, but it was one that had always eluded me. Having neither the patience nor the desire to develop it, I never subscribed to that way of thinking.

More than this, I had a feeling that I missing something or had forgotten some important, but small, detail.

As I resigned myself to the continued waiting, a sharp knock echoed through my chamber door. Whoever stood behind it did not wait for permission to enter. The door swung open, and the faint scent of jasmine entered like a tentative guest.

“Good afternoon, Lady Aelayah,” I greeted casually, setting aside the piece of fruit in my hand.

She trembled, her face flushed with emotion. "What have you done?" she shrieked, her voice sharp and strained—a wild contrast to the delicate fragrance that lingered in her wake.

I let her words hang in the air as I shifted my gaze to the man who followed her in. Farzan, her captain of the guard, stood composed beside her, though the tightness around his jaw betrayed his simmering irritation. He was always more composed than her, more careful. But today, I could feel the cracks in his calm facade.

“I believe," I began, slowly, savoring the moment, "I defeated a so-called 'unbeatable' follower of the River God—a master of the Flow of Time itself, no less. All in a day’s work, if I may say so." My voice dripped with faux humility, an echo of the man I had defeated. "And soon, I’ll win this little competition."

Aelayah's eyes blazed, her chest heaving with fury. I glanced at Farzan again, hoping for some explanation. But he carefully avoided meeting my eyes, as though his loyalty demanded he remain as neutral as cold stone.

"Do you have any idea how long I spent raising that boy? Do you know nothing of the value of a loyal follower?” Her voice cracked, but it was anger mostly, not true grief, driving her.

"Ah, the boy who tried to kill me... what was his name again? Adad? Asad?" I asked, my tone deliberately flippant.

Her scream was sharp, filled with venom. “Don’t you dare say his name, you foreign cur! My father took him in when he was just a child. He was like a little brother to me... and you killed him, just like that… on a whim!”

I had no care for Asad’s backstory, no sympathy for her sentimental outburst. But ‘foreign cur,’ I took umbrage with that.

"On a whim, you say?" I took a step closer, my eyes locking onto hers. She flinched, but I could see the stubborn fire still burning. "Your precious 'little brother' tried to kill me, blinded by his own jealousy. A man with a knife does not need a reason to be dangerous—whether he's a child or full-grown."

Farzan remained still, as though he had learned his place in these confrontations. He might as well have been a statue for all the good his presence did.

“If you’d had better control over your pet," I continued, my voice low but sharp, "this situation would never have occurred. You may as well have killed him yourself. And lest you forget, Lady Aelayah, I am newly sworn to you. Am I not under your protection? Is that not the reason I have had to win my way here with fist and feet?"

I paused, letting the weight of my words settle in the room like a blade slowly pressing against her throat. "So tell me, how do you intend to take responsibility for this? Because it seems to me that I am the one who has been wronged here. Not you."

Her strange eyes flickered with something unspoken, but still, the light of understanding had yet to dawn in them.

“He was my Shadow, you ignoramus! My unseen shield!” she snapped, her voice growing shrill.

“Well, perhaps you should have considered relieving him of that position earlier… He didn’t exactly do a stellar job, coming at me the way he did.”

“He probably thought you were a threat…” she stammered, her anger starting to lose direction.

Annoyed as I was, I took a moment to take in the Lady’s appearance. As usual, the Holder princess wore garments that skirted the edge of impropriety. Her dark dress, with one shoulder exposed, drew attention to her delicate neck, while the side slits revealed a glimpse of her shapely legs.

I coughed. “As I said before, Lady Aelayah, I defended myself. You now have two choices: either admit that he acted wrongly and brought dishonor to your House, or concede that he was so incompetent he failed at his task—being your ‘Unseen Shield,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean. I assume that entails staying close to you for a start.”

“He was meant to…” she blurted.

“If I wanted you dead, Lady Aelayah, the Place of Dancing Water would have been stained with red,” I stated gravely. “I will not apologize for defending myself. Do not test me on this,” I concluded gravely. “This is unseemly for a person of your position.”

At this, Farzan’s eyes narrowed, but something finally registered within her brain. Perhaps if I were lucky, even in the emotional female mind, logic and reason might prevail.

“My Lady Aelayah,” he began, his voice crawling with caution, “Bashir was always your devoted man. Too devoted, if there is such a thing. Gilgamesh only did what any man in his place would have done. By all accounts, the boy… your Shadow, forced his hand.” He hesitated before adding, “Forgive me for offering my humble opinion.” His words were as slippery as the man himself, taking advantage of the shift in mood like a vulture circling over the battlefield.

Aelayah’s expression turned cold, her voice hollow and distant. “You had better win this, Gilgamesh. My plans are already coming undone, and too many complications have arisen this late in the game. Do not lose, and do not break your promise to the Salahaem.”

I raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “That promise was made to you, not to your House.”

Her eyes snapped to mine, a flicker of anger. “You would split hairs over this? I am the Salahaem, Gilgamesh. Just win, and I might find it within me to forgive you.”

With that, she turned her back on me, and our conversation abruptly finished. Farzan lingered for a moment, giving me a look that spoke of weariness and resignation, before scurrying after her like the dutiful servant he was.

The brazen arrogance of the woman.

*****

Here I was at last—the final stage of this barbaric spectacle. The last bout of the Festival of Saints. But there was nothing holy or saintly about it. The gods, as I had long ago concluded, must be cruel by nature to revel in and endorse such a bloodthirsty event. If I ever gained enough power, I swore I would tear them from their lofty thrones and force them to roll, wallow, and struggle in the mud and dirt like the rest of us.

They were not worthy of being called gods. Within me, the voices whispered, echoing their agreement.

It was nearly evening now. Perfumed torches had been lit to illuminate the arena, their flames mingling with the fading light of the setting sun. They resembled votive candles in a church—fitting, I supposed, for the occasion. The scent of burning sandalwood rose with the smoke, a luxurious display that spoke volumes of the Council’s wealth. Had I been a lesser man, I might have felt intimidated.

Once again, the universe sought to try to humiliate me. Before me was a woman who, no doubt, by her strength and skill, had made it this far. But there was a problem. Society saw things thus: if I lost, I would have lost to a girl, and if I won, I had only won against a girl. It was a very bad place to be in.

No matter the outcome, it would probably leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

Through the thin soles of my shoes, I felt the lingering warmth of the arena’s stone floor. How many lives had I claimed over the past few days? A score, maybe two? Their faces had already blurred into the haze of memory, the encounters fading like distant dreams. Yet, for all my time and sacrifice, I had still not reached the next level. How much more must a man do?

Perhaps the battlefield would hold the numbers I needed to sate my hunger for raw experience. I didn’t just want to advance—I needed to. It had become a gnawing obsession, an itch I couldn’t scratch, driving me mad with compulsion.

Sighing deeply at my travails, I looked at the next one to stand before me. Yet another who would think themselves my equal. I judged this one, a scion of Holder House like Aelayah, they could have been more different.

Young, she was of an age with me. While Aelayah possessed a certain feminine strength—an imperiousness born of her command and certainty—Kanaia of House Alim, as the official had introduced her to the treacherous crowd, was an entirely different beast. A long dark braid trailing down her back, she radiated a martial aura, a strength far more direct, far more masculine in its presence. Not that she was manly, no—her body was lean, muscles coiled under her skin, promising speed, agility, and power. But her form was still undeniably feminine, with curving hips and a full bust that left no doubt she was a woman.

Were I generous, I might have made an offhand comparison to Fen, my late teacher.

The official’s sword came down, signaling the start of the finals. The arena fell into a respectful, solemn silence.

Out of a sense of chivalry, I decided to remove my face coverings. Yet, the reaction was not what I had anticipated—no gasps, no whispers, just a rather anticlimactic, muted response.

I expected to be attacked almost immediately, but Kanaia spoke first, breaking the silence. In that, I found a small victory. A sneer, or perhaps a grin, or something caught between the two, curled on her lips.

“You’re not as handsome as the minstrels and bards make you out to be,” she said, her voice deep and steady for a woman’s, yet not unpleasant.

I met her words with a calm reply. “I must say that I am flattered that I’m spoken of in verse and tale.”

“A flowery one, are you? I wouldn’t have pegged you for that. Had we met under different circumstances, I might have mistaken you for an unassuming scribe by the looks of you. But clearly, you possess some strength to have come this far. This far, yes, but no further. But before that… what is it called, your strange way of fighting?” she asked, laughter dancing behind her eyes.

“The art of eight limbs,” I answered in my most deadpan voice.

“How interesting. Won’t you tell me more? As the head of my House, like your dear Aelayah, I can not travel and long for tales outside the city. Be a gem, won’t you?” Kanaia of House Alim insisted with a playful smile.

She ran a hand, still smooth and unnaturally uncalloused, through her dark hair. “I think I will take you. Should I win, how about you serve me instead of that wallflower, Aelayah? Surely I would make a better liege. I do not know how you can stand to look at her…”

Her words bit a little too close to the bone. “Let us make things interesting, if I should win, I will have you as a broodmare. To mount whenever I please. Pleasing and rutting with a man in the sheets is a more suitable thing for a woman such as you… Head of your House, do not make me laugh,” I answered back with a smirk of my own, imagining for a moment such a scene. To run my hands across firm, but smooth flesh…

“Why you…” she snarled, all playfulness disappearing from her expression and tone in an instant. I had successfully gotten under her skin. Women, it seemed, could be as easily manipulated as men.

I laughed in mocking challenge, the solemn quiet of the arena seeming to swallow up our exchange.

Shivering with barely-contained fury, actinic energies crackled and surged across her arms, serpents of pure lightning, their jagged arcs dancing over her skin. The smell of ozone filled the air, sharp and biting, as the raw, primal force of it coursed through her veins. Her face twisted into a mask of pure rage, and when she pointed at me, the very air around her seemed to hum with power.

The cheating whore. She had used our exchange, our verbal sparring, to summon the fury of her magic, to channel the wild storm that now blazed across her limbs. The lightning flickered and snapped, coiling up her arms in shimmering tendrils, the raw stuff of nature itself bent to her will. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

I cursed myself for my arrogance and lack of foresight. In my need to score verbal points, I had not even bothered to cast an Identify on her. I had not seen the threat for what it was. Caught off guard, I prepared for the storm to come.

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