The Phoenix stared down at the priestess, but she did not waver.
“Then it is you,” the Phoenix said, and so it was done. Her Eternal Fire rose in answer to its new master and wrapped around the arms and limbs of the priestess. It enveloped her, covered her, welcomed her. The Phoenix raised Her wings, and a beam of light erupted from the heart of the fire to the sky above. The armies below saw it. The whole world saw it.
The Prophet was chosen.
With a wave of her hand, the Prophet unleashed the rage of the Phoenix. A fierce inferno tore down the mountainside. Those who resisted perished. Those who begged for mercy perished. Those who simply sank to their knees in defeat perished.
There is no forgiveness in the eyes of the Phoenix.
When the last king had burned to ash, the Prophet turned to the priests.
“There will be no more wars for this land,” the Prophet declared.
And so it was done. The flames pushed past the mountain to the land beyond, burning rivers, streams, trees, birds, and men alike. The priests watched as the land transformed from a fertile, green forest into an arid desert that shielded none from the unforgiving gaze of the sun. Only the deep forest that clung to the edge of the mountains continued to exist.
The Phoenix saw this and more.
She spread Her marvelous wings again, and in each glistening feather, the Prophet recognized the colors of the world—from the dark depths of the sea to the warm shades of a sunrise. And as she saw these colors, the Prophet felt her body morph. Her limbs grew and her eyes changed.
The priests say her eyes melted into the eternal gold of the Phoenix; her veins pulsed with the heat of a fire; her hair unfurled into curls of smoke; and her lips, which once sang hymns, became small and hard.
When she spoke, she spoke with the multitude of her former reincarnations.
“This fire will protect the land. Do not let it die.”
And so the Eternal Fire came to live in the heart of the temple. The priests watched as the Prophet and the Phoenix rose as one, growing brighter and brighter until the priests were forced to look away. When they finally reopened their stinging eyes, both were gone.
Only the flame, bright and unmerciful, remained to see all that would come.
CHAPTER 11
YASSEN
Jantar’s shining city of brass, Rysanti, was created five hundred suns ago by Rydia the Tyrant. When workers complained about the bright reflection of the sun on the brass fixtures, she ordered them to wear visors. Hence, the Jantari began to lose the color of their eyes.
—from chapter 33 ofThe Great History of Sayon
Yassen awoke to someone banging on his door.
He groaned, licking his dry lips. Needles of pain pricked his arm. He rolled onto his knees and winced, trying to move toward the door when it burst open, and Samson marched in.
“Dragon’s tit! What are you doing on the floor?” he demanded.
Yassen leaned his head against the wall. “It’s comfy.”
Samson took in his unkempt clothes and tousled hair. He squatted down and gripped Yassen’s chin.
“Did you pass out?” he asked, a genuine hint of worry in his voice.
“She kicked my ass,” Yassen replied.
Samson turned his face side to side, squinting. “Actually, I think she improved your looks.”
Yassen snorted and turned to the window. The sky was already growing dim, the twin moons beginning their nightly watch. He vaguely remembered a storm, but only a few stray clouds remained now, looming on the horizon.
Samson straightened. He surveyed the room, taking note of the untouched clothes laid out on the bed.
“Is it your arm? The gamemaster informed me. I said I would tell Elena myself.”
