Chapter 232: Seth’s Boredom

Casually strolling around, Seth watched the city with an indifferent look, his immaculate butler uniform not matching the lazy posture he carried himself with. Although he no longer needed to wear the butler uniform, having only donned it during his time serving under Tyrak, it was comfortable and not terrible for travel, of course, only possible because he was the one who made it himself, not allowing someone else to make him subpar clothing.

Looking up at the sky, at the midnight moon, he sighed in boredom. Crafting artefacts could only hold his attention for so long before he needed to do something else to calm his mind; the strain at his level was overwhelming. Yet Danmor, for everything it had, was also incredibly dull. The Vine Tower was filled with things he probably already owned or could make; the colosseum hosted blood sports that didn’t pique his fancy, and the rest of the city usually relied on Lessers, something he didn’t enjoy too much.

Looking around, he shook his head and came to a stop on the road, sitting on a bench, watching the empty streets, spotting the occasional person or horse-drawn carriage pass by. Around him, none of Justinian’s people followed him so late, likely not having realised he even left the manor.

"War again." The word fell out of his mouth as he looked back up at the midnight moon, his mind thinking back to when the city first revolted. Although he hadn’t seen the time before, he remembered the stories his teacher spoke about it. The mass slavery and blood sacrifice, an empire built in servitude for a few cities in the core region. Even now, he could remember his teacher’s praise for the Old Kingdom and Megath, finding their advancements in the arcane and technology magnificent, accepting the human cost for such a thing.

The revolt itself, however, was something far different. Although Danmor and the other cities that rose up had no hope of ever touching the core region of the Old Kingdom, the war for the cities themselves was a bloody affair, one where all humanity was lost. His mind paused, and, grabbing his chin, he narrowed his eyes.

"They always felt far too coincidental. Every city rising up almost simultaneously just when the core regions were on the brink of finishing their utopia." At the time, he never questioned it, instead simply supplying the rebels with items because it felt right, but the years following it had been a constant question in the back of his mind.

How did they all rebel at once?

The answer he always arrived at, and one he had to force down, unable to believe it was true, was that the Old Kingdom manufactured it themselves. The reason why wasn’t possible to answer. To rid themselves of the dregs of their economy. To destroy all the lives they no longer needed to fuel them. Because they wanted to. Many more. The reason could have been any one of them or all, but it was unacceptable.

"Whatever." Sighing, he pushed the thought out of his mind. It was a question he would never get the answer to, nor one he really wished to know. It had been so long that he no longer really cared. Megath and the Old Kingdom had changed as well after so long anyway. The cruelty they ran on still existed in some ways, but for most people of the Old Kingdom they were more than happy to live in abundance and hedonism, leaving the running of things to the few who wished to actually do the work.

Looking back at Danmor, the fall from grace was what really annoyed him. He had helped end the system they rebelled against, and here it was years later, following the path of the Old Kingdom, albeit on a smaller scale and trying to hide the brutality of what they really wanted behind a hypocritical theology.

His hand reached into one of his inner pockets, and pulling out his blue pen, he began to play with it, twirling and twisting it like it was an extra limb. The world felt different when he held it. Everything was a canvas on which he could draw runes. Whilst he was by no means as good as his teacher, he could easily create the runes to bring down a building if he wanted to; he just needed time.

"Bring down a building." His body froze, and slowly he turned his head to look towards the Pantheon, more specifically at the statue of the titan atop it, held down by chains. Twisting and playing with his pen, a small smile crept onto his lips, but quickly vanished. He could do what he wanted, but if anything he did was traced back to him, he wouldn’t be the one punished, but Isis.

"Well, the brotherhood will likely be acting out now. I can’t imagine they would sit still with such a clear chance to cause trouble. I can just blame them." Throwing his pen up and catching it, he stared at the statue and rose, clicking his fingers and smiling, before walking towards it, humming an old tune he could still remember.

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Candlelight burned on an altar at the centre of a dark hall. Kneeling before them, holding incense, a woman draped in white quietly prayed, their veil covering every section of their head as they lifted and lowered the incense over and over before placing it amongst the candles of the altar. Only after a few moments did they stand.

Beyond the silence of the hall, a fervent chant echoed in the distance, one filled with cries of worship and screams that sounded both pained and terrified, yet their intent was purely focused on worship of their God.

Turning, the woman in white saw someone approach: a man in black robes much like her own, a thin veil draped over his face to hide his appearance.

"Shar-mon." His voice was strange; although more masculine, it sounded as if two people spoke at once, harmonising with itself, the second tone a woman’s. Lowering his head towards the woman in white, he placed his fingers together, creating an O shape with his hands. Although her face was hidden, her posture was relaxed, a smile seemingly visible.

"Bar-mon." Her voice harmonised with itself, sounding both male and female as she repeated the action towards the man; he stepped past and grabbed one of the incense sticks that had yet to be lit and placed it in the candle. Raising it, he spoke a prayer.

"Da shar li kotari." Lowering it, he looked up at the statue that watched over them. A monumental piece of art that towered so tall the top of it was hidden by shadow in the darkness of the room. The carving of the stone was so fine the silk the figure was wrapped in looked real, as if it blew in the breeze. In one hand, a scythe pierced into the darkness above, the blade wrapping around the statue’s neck before lovingly curling around as if hugging her. In the other, she held out an orb that resembled the world, her hand holding it possessively. "De shar, li etti." Finishing the prayer, he added his own incense to the altar and took a deep breath of relief before walking forward, the woman following behind.

"Kar Latish ettila." The man said, getting a soft, delighted chuckle from the woman.

"Kar roth juntas ettila." She corrected and paused, falling into thought. "Kar roth juntas... kar latil hin trebal."

"Shar-mon. Li etti de hempal." The man replied, making her nod.

"Kar latil hin trebal." The woman said again, her tone stern. When the man seemingly ignored her, she paused and shot a sharp glare at him. "Kar Lastish es-ettiel."

"Shar eik ecole," the man said afterwards, getting a nod from the woman. "Kar latil es-trebar." Breaking eye contact, they walked past the altar towards the giant statue that loomed over them, judging. Their steps became slower as they got closer, and just as they reached the steps up towards it, both of them paused and fell to their knees.

In perfect movement, they continued to lower themselves, trying to become as small as possible, nearly curling up into balls, trying to honour and respect the source of their worship but feeling like they never could.

"Kar Sharish Morish." The man spoke, his voice shaking with joy to even utter the sentence. The woman next to him trembled hearing his words, a pure, unfiltered joy at hearing the title.

"Korettiel Kar Sharish Morish." She said with utmost devotion and, like herself, felt the man next to her tremble. The two stayed curled in silence, afraid to look up, quietly muttering to themselves prayer after prayer, begging and pleading with the being. Outside, the chants of worship that acted as a backdrop got louder, the cries of women screaming in pain and reverence echoing far louder, as the two’s prayers got far quicker, their tones more intense.

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I beg everyone to read the author’s note if you care at all about the language I have invented and wish to try and understand it.

Now then some hints about the language:

Shar-mon= sister

Bar-mon= brother

Lastish= The Latish of the first prophecy

Kar latil hin trebal= The faithful must be ready

Kar Sharish Morish= the official name for Lady Death in their language. Due to how the language works, there is no one-to-one translation, and it can be understood as The Lady who Rules Death, The Lady Beyond Death, The Lady Who Controls Death.

Anything like those phrases works so long as it includes the words The, Lady, and Death; hence, Lady Death