The Third War Part 2

The purification ritual is, in fact, a very sinister, although efficient, practice. The person, still alive, is surrounded by fabrics marked with magical formulas. Then, it is tied to the fire. While the flesh is incinerated, the clerics verbalize mystical chants, and all the negative charge accumulated by the victim is reverted to their soul, which is cursed. Not infrequently, hell is the destiny of sinners, but some end up wandering in limbo, where they remain indefinitely.

"I stayed away from them," continued Adnari. "I was afraid they would cut my silver cord and separate my soul from my body forever, but they did nothing."

Revenge. Shamira knew the nature of ghosts well.

"Do you know why Nimrod captured me?" asked the sorceress, now more comfortable in the presence of the servant.

"I have no idea. He may be wanting the help of a necromancer against the tribal priests. There are no necromancers here in Babel."

"I don't intend to work for Nimrod."

"Don't say that!" Adnari was startled, gesturing for her to speak more quietly. "The king kills everyone who opposes him."

"If he tries, I will use my magic on him," replied Shamira, intentionally dramatic to impress the little girl, but the sentence had no effect.

"The blessing of the goddess Ishtar keeps him away from curses. It is the same force that prevents him from being injured or dead. No spell has worked on the Immortal."

Invulnerable, immortal, and resistant to witchcraft. There must be a breach in the king's defenses. He couldn't be completely invincible.

"Then perhaps it will take more than magic to get me out of captivity," commented the woman. Her mind was now a sea of questions, much larger than the puddle of doubts she had intended to clarify before projecting to the astral.

For another half hour, Adnari and Shamira stood there, in the shadows of the world, talking about many matters, most of which were of no great importance. Then, the two agreed that they should return to their physical bodies. Astral projection is a tiring process, and the necromancer needed time alone to rest and digest the content of the revelations.

The girl, in turn, also told a little about her personal life. She said she belonged to a tribe called the Children of Shem, a community that was annihilated by the Babylonians. Survivors, like her, were made slaves and brought to Mesopotamia. Adnari's mother was a tribal witch, knowledgeable in high magic but instructed in the ceremonies of her village.

Back in the material world, Shamira saw, through the window, the moon high in the sky and calculated that it was close to midnight. Seven of the ten oil pyres had already gone out, leaving the room in pleasant gloom.

Stretching her body across the cushions of the sumptuous divan, the girl tried to close her eyes, at least until the dawn awakening in the east.

An indestructible king, a tower that rises to the heavens, a goddess imprisoned in the dungeon.

Shamira couldn't sleep.

Revelation in the Bread Crumb

The sun rose, and the big city woke up—for some. For others, it never slept.

The noise of chains now divided the streets with the citizens' walk, invaded the avenues at the first rays of sun, driven mad by the fever of unrestrained consumption. Standing at the window, Shamira observed, from the ziggurat, the movement on the central roads. She had been super active all morning, walking around the room without falling asleep for a single moment.

An indestructible king, a tower that rises to the heavens, a goddess imprisoned in the dungeon.

Around eight o'clock, the temperature warmed, following the common desert cycle, to become really caustic by nine. In the central square of the metropolis, visible from the palace gardens, an obelisk had the function of a pointer, projecting its shadow on the terrace and thus indicating the hours of the day, like a gigantic sundial.

Returning inside the room, the sorceress noticed that the water falling from the fountain and flooding the pool changed from hot to cold, refreshing the previously icy, but now scorching, environment. Tired after long hours of waiting, the necromancer bathed again, this time in the refreshing pool, reviving her body and clearing her mind.

At ten o'clock, Adnari entered the room, accompanied by two adult slaves who were carrying trays of silver metal. They brought breakfast—bread, cheese, milk, drinking water, dates, eggs, and some kind of herbal tea. The girl said nothing, fearful of the seekers, but the two exchanged conniving glances. They could not, under any circumstances, demonstrate empathy or suggest complicity, even away from the presence of the guards.

The little girl arranged the cutlery on the table and aligned them in a way that was irrelevant to foreigners. The majority of the villagers or peasants never used spoons or forks at meals.

"It's made from wheat from Media, the best there is in this world," said the girl, referring to the bread. "It would be good if you ate everything," she suggested, and left the room with her assistants.

When Adnari and the slaves left, Shamira sat at the table and tasted the sweetness of the milk. She ate one of the boiled eggs and, always vigilant, separated the crust of the bread with a knife, revealing the crumb.

A parchment!

Inside the bread was hidden a rolled-up parchment, the details of which, at first, the sorceress couldn't decipher. Then, when she was sure that no one else was looking at her, she stretched the roll under the table and viewed the content.

A map. A plan of the deep dungeons of the royal palace, with a dozen secret exits.

How could little Adnari have obtained such a confidential document? Who would have designed the project? Where did those escape routes run?

Then, for a moment, Shamira smiled at the irony. It would have been better if she had been placed in a dark cell, from where she would most likely be able to escape.

Memorizing the entire map, she hid it inside one of the silk cushions. She was used to recording still images and rarely forgot them. What she needed now was to be sealed in the dungeons, but how could she convince the soldiers to take her underground without raising more suspicion?

She drank a sip of water, finished a glass of milk, and swallowed two dates. At the end of breakfast, she tore a strip of her own clothing and used it to tuck the bread knife under the sleeve of her tunic.

Armed and provided with a good escape plan, the necromancer was ready to come face to face with the king of Babel.

The Immortal King

At noon sharp, according to the sundial in the central square, four royal guards entered through the bedroom door, tearing the brown curtain that marked the threshold. They were armed with copper-tipped spears and long iron knives and carried rectangular shields. These elite soldiers were led by a thin, tall man with dark skin and an elegant posture. He looked like a politician, due to his slender constitution and refined gestures. He had a thin nose, a pointed beard, and emanated a suffocating presence. His almond-shaped eyes were outlined with blue pencil, and his hair was greased with scented vegetable oil. His clothing was similar to that of aristocrats, but a leather vest closed the tunic set, displaying the coat of arms with the bovine head.

"My name is Zamir," he introduced himself. His speech was calm and confident, like that of the most influential patricians. "I'm one of the seekers."

The king's seekers. The advisors to the Immortal.

"Follow me," he invited. "Great Nimrod awaits you on the raised platform."

Shamira didn't question it—she knew the right time to act. She walked up to the most vigorous of the guards and offered her fists to the handcuff, but the seeker shook his head no.

"That's not necessary. Babel's power is great, and its strength is not just the energy of weapons. The city is an immortal organism, just like its sovereign," his words were cold and polite, without much emotion. "We are safe here."

Obediently, the necromancer followed her escort through the ziggurat's corridors. There, she saw wonders she would never forget. She contemplated passages bordered by golden pilasters, internal gardens with crystal roofs, artificial lakes and rivers, rooms of silver and ivory, floors of rubies and emeralds, statues of diamonds, and endless staircases.

For half an hour they walked, until they stopped in front of a long, very high ramp, which certainly led to the passage to the terrace, due to the intense brightness of the sun overhead. The climb had no steps, but the hull of a longboat was aligned to a shaft in the middle of the ramp, pulled up on a rail by a system of gears.

The sorceress, the seeker, and their guards arrived at the garden on the penultimate floor and walked along the external staircase to the pinnacle, and from there to the base of the golden throne. The view from the top of the Silver Pyramid extended far beyond the walls of the great city, reaching the deserted horizon.

Impassive, Nimrod watched in silence as the Sorceress of En-Dor approached, surrounded by her elite bodyguards, while stroking the neck of the saber-toothed tiger, attached by a collar to the side of the seat. Stimulated by the feminine scent, the feline growled, and Shamira was afraid that the beast would advance, but the predator was no longer as fierce as its wild ancestors.

The Immortal maintained his penetrating, dangerous face as Zamir and the guards knelt to salute him. The necromancer noticed that the seeker was an evil but reasonable figure. If she tried to negotiate her release, it would be with the counselor, not with the exalted monarch.

"I see you already know Zamir, the Brilliant," said the king. His voice was thick and imposing, and his tone was not friendly at all. "My subjects told me of a necromancer who lived beyond the Salt Sea. I didn't expect her to be so young," he fired in contempt, but the prisoner wasn't shaken.

"I come from En-Dor, in the land of Canaan..." began the woman.

"Spare me your useless presentation. Your tribal protocol is not needed here. I know who you are; otherwise, you wouldn't be at my feet. The seekers investigated your miserable trajectory in the world before you were captured and traced your origins to the village of Knossos, across the Great Sea."

Shamira swallowed and said nothing more. Just when she thought she had turned the situation around, the Immortal had thwarted all her plans, proving that he knew as much about her life as she did herself. In truth, Nimrod could do much worse than simply kill her. The necromancer feared for her people, for the villagers and fishermen of En-Dor—poor peasants who never wanted to harm anyone but who were now threatened by the fury of a deranged king, a cruel slaveholder who had proclaimed himself the greatest man on earth.

"Like you, Zamir is also a sorcerer," continued the Immortal, and the girl froze. Magic was her only advantage and guarantee of life. Without it, Shamira would be nothing more than a helpless girl before these sinister usurpers.

The counselor bowed and took two steps toward the woman.

"I'm a summoner," he said to the captive, already anticipating her doubt. "Do you know what this is?"

The sorceress did not respond. She felt like the last of creatures, the most useless of women. In her village, she was adored and respected as a young prodigy, but there she was nothing more than a newcomer.

"I imagined it," the counselor resumed, understanding the confusion. "We, invocators, study a field of magic different from that of necromancy. We seek to channel our spells into natural elements. We manipulate fire, water, air, and earth, as well as paraelemental substances, such as lava, smoke, dust, and steam. I am not skilled in the matter of the dead, and that is why you are here."

"So what you need is someone instructed in the spiritual object," she ventured, pleased to finally notice that she was essential.

"Don't think you're invaluable," Nimrod made a point of saying. "If it weren't for you, it would be another necromancer."

"Unfortunately," Zamir added, "most great necromancers live beyond the second Nile cataract. Canaan is closer to here and more accessible."

True?

"Our magical tradition," continued the seeker, "dates back to the times of the glorious city of Enoch, the Beautiful Giant. It is from Cain that we Babylonians trace our ancestry, which is why we are destined to always win."

"Not even if we have to shed blood, whether tainted or innocent," concluded the Immortal.

"And will they suffer the same fate as their ancestors?" dared the woman.

Upon hearing the unacceptable blasphemy, the sovereign's face flushed with hatred. The guards retreated, fearful like foxes hiding in the storm.

"May the celestials send another flood," he roared, exalted, raising the golden scepter in the air toward the tower under construction, "and I will avenge my ancestors, for my tower will still rise higher than Mount Ararat. No god will take this city away from me!" he shouted violently. "Let the armies come! Let the angels come! Let the spirits come! Nothing can defeat the splendor of Babel."

"Yes," supported the counselor. "We are invincible."

"Bring the ark!" shouted Nimrod to his sentries. "My revenge begins now."

The curses were followed by fatigue, and the sovereign returned to the throne, foaming with anger at his bearded mouth. He took a long breath and placed his face between his brown fingers.

How crazy! Shamira thought, worried about her fate in that city of madmen. Nimrod would not hesitate to torture her, or even kill her, if he deemed it necessary.

Then, while the Immortal was meditating, Zamir approached the necromancer and whispered sideways:

"There is no way to oppose our power. Be prudent and collaborate. Do right, and all the knowledge of the ancient world will be at your fingertips. Decline, and you will slowly die. You have more to gain than to lose."

Knowledge of the ancient world.

But, at that point, it wasn't just power that the sorceress thought about. She was still young, and perhaps it was her youth that freed her from temptation. At 20, she hadn't had much time for life's adult disappointments. She was a dreamer and cultivated fiery ideals, stronger than wealth and glory. She didn't want to end her life immersed in a pool of gold, serving as an advisor in the court of an insane monarch. She wanted to love, have children, and be happy with someone. Beneath the hell hag's mask, there was a woman like everyone else, who saw the true pleasure of living in simple things. She wanted to sit by the campfire and listen to stories until sleep came. She wanted to walk through the countryside, bathe in the river, listen to birdsong, and taste the touch of her loved one.

And, however simple her dreams were compared to the power of money, Shamira did not intend to abandon them.

To the beat of the drums, two guards brought to the terrace a chest of pure ivory, carved on the flanks with the heraldry of the bull's head. The soldiers placed it on the platform at the end of the steps, and Zamir walked towards it.

"Cush, progenitor of our Immortal King, was killed by the enemy. We believe that his spirit can show us the way to the rebel camp."

The counselor lifted the lid of the chest and reached into the darkness of the box. Nimrod was still sunk on the throne, quiet, autistic, dangerously silent. The girl was afraid that he would explode in another attack of rage and attack her with the metallic scepter.

Then, the sorcerer took from the box a blackened skull, visibly human but singed by the heat of fire.

"The Sons of Japheth sent us this," showed the counselor, stretching out the burned skull. "Do you know why?"

"The body was subjected to the purification ritual, of course. The bones now have no use."

The summoner examined the skull once more, like a teacher suspicious of children's lies. Meanwhile, the Immortal awoke from his trance and ran to the platform.

"You will invoke my father's soul into matter, and we will have our victory."

"I can't," the woman confessed. "Your father's soul is now wandering in the abyss and cannot return. I doubt any necromancer will be able to rescue it from the great void."

Having said this, the saber-toothed tiger growled, and the sovereign followed his anger. He brandished the adorned scepter and rushed into the attack, full of mortal hatred. Surprised, Shamira tried to dodge, but the blow hit her head, and she was thrown against the floor of the stairs. Then, she was kicked in the stomach and dragged by her hair.

The Immortal threw her like a toy at the base of the throne, with all the violence of a warlord. There, her delicate face met the silver floor, opening a thin cut above her forehead.

The Sorceress of En-Dor faced her attacker and noticed the murderous will in his red eyes. Nimrod would not spare her—not after her prompt refusal. She would be crushed there, at the pinnacle of the Silver Pyramid, to serve as an example to future prisoners. But what could she have done? The reversal of the ritual was unfeasible, even for the most powerful of magicians.

Raising the scepter above his head, the ruler prepared the final blow. But when the woman closed her elbows to protect her head, she felt the sleeve of her tunic weighing down and remembered that she had hidden the bread knife there. She hadn't intended to take it out so soon or have to use it in combat, but she had no other option. Faced with the reality of death, she drew her dagger and, with all the vigor of a cornered prey, attacked. She was a necromancer, initiated into the secrets of life and wise in the studies of anatomy. She knew every vessel in the human body, every organ, every critical point of the vital carcass.

The dagger ran, and with a well-aimed thrust, tore the Immortal's tunic, reaching his flesh. A splash of blood accompanied the wound, and the blade sank deep into the heart.

With the red fluid staining her hands, Shamira turned away from the staggering king, startled by her own strength. She rejected all types of murder and cruelty, but her action was instinctive. Now, the sovereign would slowly die on the top of his beloved palace. No man, wizard, or warrior could withstand that fatal stab.

But instead of advancing, as any sentry would do, the guards did not move, copying the tranquility of the seeker, who remained proud on the platform. His commander was in agony, dying, and the soldiers were still staked out!

It was then that the impossible happened.

Sprawled across the throne, wasting away in a pool of blood, Nimrod was still breathing, fighting like a raging bull for the last spark of life. The monarch let out a terrible howl, an inhuman and guttural sound, like a baleful prayer to the lost gods. He slid his hand to the hilt of the knife and, trembling with pain, finally ripped it from his chest.

In a fantastic feat, worthy of the great heroes of the past, he stood up and laughed sinisterly, lunatically, at the same moment that he opened the vest of his tunic, revealing the clotted cut.

The wound regenerated on the skin!

"May Ishtar be praised!" exclaimed the counselor, raising his palms to the sky. The guards imitated, throwing spears and shields to the floor.

Recovering his scepter—and also his perfect health—the Immortal spat out a smear of blood and addressed the fascinated Enchantress of En-Dor.

"That's how my people are, invincible," he said, showing off his toned chest. "We do not fear the wrath of God nor the attack of the angels. I challenge you, O Yahweh!" he took advantage, braving the deep light of the sun. "You who flooded Enoch, the homeland of my ancestors. I deny you, O Effulgent One, for I am Nimrod, the legacy of the great Cain."

And he pointed the staff at the witch, completing the sentence.

"You will be spared, woman, so that you can study the ritual and learn how to convert it. He still hasn't accepted the fact that the enchantment was irreversible."

"Now take her away from here," he shouted to the guards. "Throw her in the dungeon, in the cellars of the ziggurat. Under the earth is the abode of necromancers."

The sentries handcuffed her, but before she was tied up, Zamir fired another one of his despicable pieces of advice.

"It would be best if you were in a position to perform the ceremony by dawn. I would not displease Nimrod again."

From there, Shamira was dragged down the stairs to the garden, and from there to the dungeons deep inside the palace. But, before she disappeared down the steps, she saw the sovereign, half dazed, looking for the helping hand of the sorcerer.

"Zamir, I need to talk to the goddess."

Through the Eyes of the Mouse

Nimrod was not the least bit foolish. When thrown into a damp, flooded, dark cell full of rats, Shamira understood that the special treatment she had received the night before had a purpose. The Immortal King had not put her up in a luxurious room because he was worried about her health. It was a tactic—a maneuver to show the prisoner the best and worst that was in Babel.

It was obvious that after spending an entire night in the ziggurat's dungeons, without water or food, she would do anything to return to the marble room, dive into the heated pool, and taste the delights of the abundant banquet. Even the strongest of men, whether king or slave, would succumb at one time or another to vital needs and the pleasures of the flesh. And that was the intention of the Immortal and his sorcerer.

Nimrod and Zamir knew that the necromancer would bend like any other captive, but they were unaware of the fundamental piece that overturned the strategy: the dungeon map, given to the prisoner by the girl Adnari. Shamira had left the parchment in her bedroom but had memorized every detail of the underground project and remembered perfectly the location of the secret exits. The challenge now was to overcome the walls of the cell, blocked by a thick iron door and locked by three classes of braided locks. The sorceress didn't have much time to act. She estimated another six or seven hours until twilight, and then seven more until dawn.

The cell where she was placed was tiny, stuffy, and the only light came from the torches in the corridor, penetrating through the crack in the doorway. The silence was interrupted by the drops of water that ran from the stone and the occasional screams of prisoners being tortured. Not all alone, the damned had the company of rats, who at first were startled by the knocking on the floor but then, hungry, lost their inhibitions and often attacked.

After a while, already adapted to the darkness, Shamira saw the approach of the rodents and stepped away. A delicious lunch awaited them in other alcoves, where the corpses of prisoners stayed for days until the slaves collected them.

As a human, the sorceress could not leave. The door was too strong to break down, but the rust had corroded the corner of the hinges, creating small cracks in the iron, where rats and cockroaches entered and exited. It was time for Shamira to use her magic again. There was a wound on her forehead, but she could still move, speak, and cast elementary spells. The components would be her only cellmates, the same ones who wanted to devour her with their sharp teeth.

She improvised a glove, making two folds in the fabric of her tunic, and grabbed one of the rodents that crept in through the rust. With her right hand, she collected some of her own blood, which flowed from her wound, and marked a magical rune on the animal's back. Then, she plucked a strand of hair from the animal and stuck it under her tongue.

"La Mashmashti! Kakammu Selah!" she recited, looking into the creature's tiny eyes.

The animal consciousness charm is a most basic ritual, taught to young sorcerers as an instrument of espionage and exploitation. Through the spell, the magician is able to extend their consciousness to the animal and see through its eyes. As long as the blood remained fresh on the rat's back, Shamira could also control its route and visualize its path.

Releasing the animal on the ground, the sorceress closed her eyes, and the vision began.

Compared to humans, rats' vision is blurry and monochromatic but extremely efficient at night. The bulging pupils contribute to a panoramic perception of space, helping in the detection of movement shadows at very wide angles.

That was how Shamira saw her route—a dark, tenebrous passage dotted with the discolored glow of the torches, which continued endlessly down the corridor. The animal advanced north, looking for the stairs on the upper level, and found two jailers who, indifferent to its presence, talked in front of a wide arched doorway. Ahead, the path gave access to a spiral staircase that went up and down in opposite directions.

Dodging the guards, the mouse jumped onto the steps and climbed one after the other, looking for the next level. But then it froze, as it noticed the shadow of two figures descending. It retreated to the nearest crack and waited there in silence. It was then that the necromancer, through the animal's eyes, identified the passers-by as none other than King Nimrod himself, leaning on his seeker! Trembling, the Immortal walked, dazed, exhausted, dejected.

Shamira wanted to run away, but she couldn't resist the mystery. Indecision between staying or running, the sorceress took the trail of her enemies. She let the Babylonians go ahead and, through the eyes of the mouse, followed the route. Zamir and Nimrod descended to the deepest level and entered through a narrow passage, almost a tunnel, which culminated in a single iron door reinforced by copper sheets.

The rodent watched as the two men slipped into the chamber—a room lit by pyres of fire—and crossed the floor before they closed the way. It found a large, round room, centrally dominated by a type of amphitheater with circular steps and bordered by cylindrical pilasters.

The animal lifted its snout, catching the scent of blood, and in her distant mind, the sorceress watched a scene that she would never forget and that contained all the secrets of ancient Babel.

The Goddess of the Inner World

Locked in her cell, unable to leave, Shamira squeezed her eyelids tight and bit her tongue in horror as the mouse crossed the passage.

Suspended by chains from the ceiling was a beautiful woman with fair skin and an apathetic face. Her hair, long, blond, and wavy, lay on her back, indicating her most absurd feature—a pair of long wings with white feathers, marked by streaks of blood.

The goddess! The goddess Ishtar. The goddess of the inner world. The goddess of Nimrod!

The condemned woman was not actually a woman but a celestial entity, like those described in the Book of Magan, one of the ancient compendiums of mysticism whose authorship is attributed to the wise men of the extinct city of Enoch. These celestials, as far as anyone knew, were created by the light of the Almighty and served as heralds in its creation. They were the first race in the universe, and long before the creation of man, they already roamed the stars, exploring infinity.

But who would have captured such a majestic creature, and why?

It was impossible, even for a necromancer, to be sure whether the winged woman still lived, due to the severity of her injuries. Not only the wings, but the entire body was covered in injuries and bruises, like those of soldiers returning from war.

But then, as the mouse circled the pillar, Shamira herself shuddered at the sight of the Dantesque spectacle. Using a magical ritual knife, the sorcerer Zamir ripped the goddess's ribs, letting the blood of the poor hanging entity flow. Meanwhile, kneeling at the feet of the celestial, Nimrod sipped the red fluid, ardently swallowing the drops of plasma.

Drinking the blood of the goddess!

Human blood is the food of many spirits and is often used as material in witchcraft rituals. But the necromancer had never heard of a man who had tasted immortal blood and had no idea of the effects resulting from such a ceremony. It was true, however, that the sons of Nod (who lived in Enoch) did much research on the angelic nature. If the seeker really had the ancient tomes of sorcery, he was probably an expert in the occult properties of celestial anatomy, and then the sorceress inferred the most logical thing.

It is the blood of the goddess that makes the sovereign invincible.

The hideous situation disconcerted the woman, who wanted to vomit but stopped the urge. The concentration faltered, and the spell was broken. In the room, the rat, freed, fled into the darkness, and the profane figures advanced with their macabre orgy.

In the dungeon, a lone figure walked through the alcoves and stopped in front of Shamira's cell. He grabbed a set of keys from his belt and unlocked each of the three locks.

Who will it be? the woman was scared. What if the wizard had detected her animal awareness spell? What fate could he plan for her, other than execution? If Zamir knew the secrets of the ancestors, he would certainly know how to curse her, converting her into an inhuman creature, like the wizards of Nod.

The door opened, and Shamira saw not a guard but a slave, a tall, dark, and strong man who worked as a servant in some wing of the palace. He carried no weapons, just a common dress, and did not seem aggressive.

"I'm a friend of Adnari," he clarified, and the girl's heart almost jumped with relief. "The girl told me that you know the way out."

"A slave around here... and alone?" she murmured, still a little shaken. No guards were around through the corridors, and the dungeon seemed unguarded.

"You have to hurry. The king and the seeker descended into the lower chambers. Whenever this happens, the sentries are ordered to leave the prison. The temporary evacuation allowed my entrance."

Zamir and Nimrod were careful to preserve the mystery, although Adnari said that some slaves had come to contemplate "the face of the goddess." In fact, the physical presence of the deity was not a taboo, but rather the ruler's dependence on her blood. If some aristocrat discovered the source of the king's invincibility, they would certainly try to steal it.

"What's your name?" she wanted to know, finally coming to her senses.

"It would not be safe for me or you for me to reveal my name. I am part of a circle of slaves that organizes an insurrection. Many would lose if I were exterminated."

And, without further questions, the two ran along the northern path and climbed the staircase, now empty, to the access arch to the next level. The sorceress stopped at the threshold and told the slave:

"I'll stay here. This is the way to the secret exit."

"Good luck," wished the conspirator, ready to continue his route back to the palace.

"Listen," called the sorceress, certain that she could help with the insurrection. "The goddess Ishtar..."

A continuous noise interrupted the conversation, and the fugitives distinguished a shapeless shadow rising up the steps.

"Go," insisted the slave, rejecting the silhouette. If the prison had been emptied, then only two free people were roaming the underground.

Nimrod and Zamir.

Terrified by the possibility of meeting them again, the girl ran down the corridor almost like a cat in danger of being hunted, looking for the exit tunnel.

The Secret Passage

Shamira walked down the corridor until she turned a curve to the east. The passage seemed very similar to the lower dungeon, flanked by hundreds of locked cells. The walls were still filthy, but there the lighting was more regular. From the ceiling hung bronze lamps, not torches, powered by charges of oil and marked with royal heraldry.

Three hundred meters beyond the entrance, the path ended at a slimy wall, and in front of it was a stone well, lonely at the end of the alley. It was a water hole, an underground source of supply. The hole was not deep, and an arm's length separated the mouth of the well from the water line. Shamira reached for the cistern and tasted the liquid.

Water.

That was the exit, certainly, according to the map's guidelines.

Filling her lungs, the girl dove into the freezing water and opened her eyes in the depths. She distinguished a submerged tunnel, ringed and round, and entered it, without really noticing where it led.

The pipe was slippery and narrow and rose at a gentle angle until it emerged into the air.

With her chest burning, the Sorceress of En-Dor rose and breathed in the precious gas, choking on her excessive effort. The thin outlet was reminiscent of a sewage drain, but the water was pure. Inside, the darkness would be total if it weren't for a golden glow at the end of the passage, a thousand meters away, which guided the crossing.

A long distance to cover crawling—but not exactly painful. The joy of having left the dungeon was such that the sorceress forgot the throbbing of the wound on her forehead and didn't even mind scraping her knees on the sharp gravel.

So two whole hours passed.

Exhausted, the sorceress listened to the sound of the wind and made out the exit ring. She hurried her route and finally felt the scent of the earth when the tunnel opened into a tiny cave, connected to the outside by a small crack. A trickle of water ran from the mouth of the pipe, creating a tiny puddle on the sandy ground.

Free!

The Enchantress of En-Dor had managed to escape. She was free from the dungeons of terrible Babel and the harassment of her enemies, but where had she escaped to? Certainly, the tube advanced under the walls of the capital and went up at a slight incline, to end up in a safe corner, away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

It was night when Shamira came out through the opening. The desert around her gave life to an irregular and mountainous, stony region, which outlined a labyrinth of rocky passes, gorges, and pointy hills. This was an infertile and uninhabited land, known to the Mesopotamians as the Sea of Rock. The full phase of the moon illuminated the mountains, and from the valley, the necromancer saw the most obvious path, which led to the center of a wide gorge.

Then, as she wandered along the trail, Shamira heard repeated blows shaking the canyon.

Horses.

The sorceress was being sought!

The king and the seeker soon discovered that Shamira had fled the hitherto insurmountable dungeons of Babylon, but how would they have tracked her course? The tunnel, in fact, was not an exit for prisoners but a secret route built by the Babylonians themselves as an alternative evasion in the case of a siege. Therefore, it was obvious that the sovereign knew each of the pipes and their respective destinations. As a house slave, Adnari had access to the seekers' archives, and there she stole the map, with the best intention of facilitating her friend's escape. But the girl didn't count on the counselors' acumen and did not even expect that Nimrod and Zamir would be climbing the ladder at the exact minute the witch left the cell.

The necromancer ran through the valley, lost. She looked for a hiding place but found no cave that would serve. The sound of hooves increased, and the girl noticed the misfortune of geography. The curves and walls of the Sea of Rock confused the view and prevented observation from a distance. At any moment, a soldier could jump out of the cracks and overpower the sorceress with his spear.

During the race, the sorceress lost perception of the most serious noises, and her heartbeat overcame the footsteps of hunters. With swollen feet, Shamira forced herself to sit down. She heard the neighing again of the horses and noticed a guard at the top of the gorge. The moment the soldiers burst into the valley, the sorceress was sure that, sooner or later, she would be discovered. She then distinguished the extreme corner of the gorge, an exit to the plain—a fissure in the wall, which crossed a path and led to the desert.

The hunters pulled the reins, and the vanguard squad dismounted. There were close to forty keen-eyed warriors, and at least ten of them began the search at the base of the slope. They lit lamps and poked sticks at the holes. It was then that, with no alternative, Shamira ran, attentive mainly to guards armed with bows.

The softer sand delayed her shooting, but the guards didn't notice her until she ran into the fissure, and a sentry raised the alarm. At the sound of the horns, the horsemen set off in pursuit.

When she entered the gorge, Shamira heard the sound of metallic gears and immediately recognized ahead a two-wheeled cart, pulled by a pair of black steeds. Its charioteer was a tall man with a thin nose and a pointed beard. His dark skin was well made up, and his hair was treated with an oily solution.

It was Zamir, the sorcerer.

The Vigilante of the Elongated Mountains

Trapped between a horde of fighters and the wizard's cart, Shamira retreated to the valley, in a vain attempt to climb the slope. Knowing the real importance of a complete victory, without failures or deviations, Zamir decided to demonstrate his fantastic skills and thus achieve the perfect triumph.

Always calm and orderly, the sorcerer suddenly transformed, incorporating a mask of infernal ardor. He raised his arms and shouted a prayer to the ancient powers.

"Yes Dag! The Day! La Margolgbabbonnes! The Twin! The Send Suhrim Suhgurim!" bellowed the counselor, contorting his fists in profane gestures.

And so the sand rose around the woman, forming a spiral wave, like a small tornado. The hurricane sucked in its victim, and Shamira was thrown back and forth in the heart of the cyclone, finally being thrown to the ground with abysmal violence and brutality. Choked by the earth and dirty with limestone dust, she rolled to the edge of the valley, stopping a meter from Zamir's car.

"Unfortunately, you discovered the power of a summoner in the rudest way," said the counselor, resuming his aligned posture.

The Sorceress of En-Dor simply could not speak. Her mouth was bleeding, and her chest hurt. The soldiers, in turn, were equally scared. Everyone in Babel was accustomed to fantastic myths, but they had never witnessed the invocation of such a magnificent spell. They would never doubt again the legends about the Immortal.

"The king doesn't usually leave the city," clarified the seeker, "but he wants you to live, so that you can be performed in front of the tower. Understand that you were the only one who ever escaped the ziggurat dungeons. We cannot leave you unharmed."

In the man's coldness, there was a peculiar neutrality. Zamir didn't exactly seem cruel, despite his actions. It was as if Shamira's extermination meant nothing to him, a wizard whose ambition lived far beyond worldly reality.

"Beat her!" he finally ordered. "Save her face, so that she may be recognized by the people in the streets." And he added, making the command official:

"And the Immortal's desire."

Three men got off the horse with short whips. A fourth advanced armed with bronze sticks.

Already consigned to ruin, Shamira lost all hope and accepted her fate. But at that moment, the guards fell silent at the sound of firm footsteps reaching the valley.

Who? Who in their right mind would venture into the haunted canyon, even more crowded with armed warriors, born in the greatest of all nations of their time?

The scouts, and even the wizard, were surprised when a stranger appeared walking behind the platoon. With surprise, the soldiers opened the way, and the man went through the troop to stand in front of the girl. He was wearing a heavy tunic made of brown cloth, worn by the long journey. A dark hood covered his face, but the necromancer could see the gray eyes in his tawny goatee. He carried no weapon or shield. His expression was reckless, curbing the assault of the fighters.

For a long minute, no one said anything, not even the seeker. The traveler knelt down to help Shamira, oblivious to the squad's presence. He examined the wound on his forehead and felt the broken bones. Outraged, Zamir demanded:

"Hey there, stranger! Who are you, who undermines our defenses?"

After the shock, the guards covered the front, preparing their spears and pointing their bows. The foreigner looked at the wizard, and Shamira saw that he had very light skin. He was tall, robust, and kept all the toughness of a well-versed warrior.

"I'm a traveler, but I already know these parts a little," he replied, his voice strong. "I followed the path to my sanctuary when I saw the squad in pursuit of the woman. And why so many people?" He looked around, indicating the crowd of infants.

"She's a witch," justified one of the officers. Only the hermit's safety prevented him from being shot.

"Well..." he argued, rising from the ground like a killer tiger. "She doesn't seem that dangerous to me." He turned away from the sorcerer. "Your night hunt is over." He hardened his words. "Your prisoner is almost dead, and I will take her with me."

The soldiers retreated, but the wizard did not seem defeated.

"You won't get it that easy."

"I thought not," reacted the traveler.

Thus, determined to eliminate any obstacle to his nationalist demand, Zamir signaled to the fighters, who strung their bows and aimed their arrows.

The gorge was not very wide, and only seven men made up the front line. The others were right behind, but they were the first to aim their arrows. The majority were on foot, including the archers, who had dismounted to search the gorge.

In the precise act of shooting the guards, the stranger threw up his cloak, deceiving the shooters. They launched arrows into the sky, aiming at the empty garment.

Turning their gaze to the ground, they noticed, astonished, the lone warrior, who was coming toward the troop like a catapult projectile. The foreigner attacked with clenched fists, but instead of punching the captains, he attacked the ground in a premeditated strike.

The punch produced an extraordinary shock wave, which rushed forward in a cone shape, knocking out the entire squad. Stunned, the guards collapsed, but neither Shamira nor Zamir were reached. To the rear, the horses fled, horrified by the jolt.

At that moment, the unshakable Zamir weakened. He thought he was insurmountable, but now he had found an opponent he could not beat. And it wasn't just that. In the sorcerer's countenance, the necromancer read the mask of terror, as if the traveler had awakened in him the memory of a buried dread.

Sunk in despair, the wizard tried one more of his bizarre charms, but the stranger jumped on him, like a lion on the hunt, and snatched him out of the chariot. When they both fell, the walker lifted himself by his shirt, facing away from the moon. Upon contemplating the face of his attacker, Zamir trembled like a child and aborted any reaction.

"It seems that the courage of the Babylonians fails at the first sign of danger," said the stranger. "Does the divine strength of Nimrod's armies only work against injured girls and malnourished slaves?"

"Forgiveness!" pleaded the seeker, overcome by irrational panic. "Forgiveness! It wasn't my idea. It was the king who persuaded me. Mercy, I beg you! Don't take my life!"

"Calm down, man," replied the foreigner, not quite understanding such sudden cowardice. "I don't mean to hurt you."

So the lone traveler released his grip, and the witcher slid into the desert, leaving behind the carriage, the steeds, and also the unconscious squad.

Silence returned to the gorge, and Shamira felt herself being lifted into the arms of the vigilante of the elongated mountains. She didn't see anything else afterward, just the pitch black and the comfort of sleep.

The Man Without a Soul

Shamira woke up to the pleasant aroma of cooked fish, a particularly pleasant fragrance that always carried her to the past, on Saturday afternoons in En-dor, when all the people rested from the work of the week and prepared the community banquet.

The body no longer hurt. She opened her eyes, but the indirect sunlight hurt her retina. Little by little, she looked around and distinguished the contours of a small cave, heated and open to the north by a round exit. A fire, in the center of the cave, cooked a marine soup — a mixture of fish, algae, and squid.

At the southern end of the cave, a metallic object gleamed, embedded in the heart of an alcove. The most prominent feature looked like an altar, highlighted by a long sword, which lay embedded in the stone. Its blade was made of a material different from iron, much brighter and more massive.

And, on the other side of the gallery, close to the opening in the stone, the stranger was meditating, sitting with his legs crossed. His blonde hair reached shoulder length in a ponytail at the back of his neck.

Hungry, the witch tasted the stew, separating a large portion into a clay bowl. She didn't want to bother her savior or take him from his rest. In the days of Babylon, chivalry was not a common attitude, especially among travelers. A captured woman could expect the worst — rape, death, humiliation, or torture.

Shamira returned to her bed, a rustic bed of fabrics and hay, and continued her well-deserved meal, discovering slivers of palm heart at the bottom of the dish.

"Don't give too much importance to taste. I'm a terrible cook," surprised the wanderer. "I saved some water in that bottle," and indicated a clay pot.

"There is enough for several days."

Shamira hadn't had anything to drink since she was thrown into prison, or so she thought. Her lips were cracked and dry, but the wounds had healed, all of them, and the broken bones had fallen back into place.

The young hermit walked to the fire. The sorceress had never seen a man like that — handsome and imposing, but also simple, direct in his actions and objectives. He couldn't have been more than 30 years old, but his gray eyes projected an ancestral wisdom, descended from an era before the making of the world.

Since she was a child, Shamira had always excelled in mystical abilities, even before learning the art of the dead. Some of her abilities were innate and did not depend on magic formulas or symbolic runes. One of these abilities was to project herself to the astral plane, and another was to contemplate spirits. The necromancer could see the ghosts, the wandering specters, and consequently could also see the soul of the living, trapped in the incarnated body.

The stranger's astral silhouette, however, was terribly blurred, and the woman retreated. If he didn't have a soul, he wasn't truly human, but then what was he?

"Who are you and why did you save me in the Sea of Rock?" she stammered.

"I think it's in my nature to help the helpless," he replied, a little off guard. "But I'm not exactly a hero, maybe just the opposite," he smiled, relaxing the tension. "I am just a traveler, a lost warrior, a deserter from my own army."

"And what is this place? Why did you bring me here?"

"To treat you, of course, in a safe environment. This is a sanctuary, a kind of temple that I built myself, a bit simple, as you can see. As a soldier, I was never attached to luxury."

A sanctuary? Dedicated to what god?

Instinctively, the girl's eyes turned to the altar, to the sword stuck in the rock.

"This is the Holy Avenger," he explained, proud as someone presenting a son. "It's the last splendor that I carry with me, since I was purged."

"You said you are a deserter?" asked the sorceress, intrigued by the story. She hadn't heard of any army of white men in those desert parts, nor had there been news of legions in battle.

"A renegade, a stray perhaps. Just like you, I am also a fugitive. Who knows? That may have been what led me to defend you in the first place."

"And what happened? I don't know of any foreign army crossing these neighborhoods."

"My army does not travel on land, but across the vastness of the blue sky, above the clouds and beyond the common reality," he revealed. "It is not a worldly army, nor an earthly troop, but an invisible legion."

Recovered, but still confused, Shamira slid to the mouth of the small cave and glimpsed the exit. The opening did not lead to the desert or some other plain, but to an indescribable precipice, higher than any formation in the Mar de Rocha. The cave, in fact, was located at the top of a colossal mountain, and its slope was so smooth that it could not be climbed by even the most dexterous mountaineer.

And only then did the Enchantress of En-Dor understand that her savior was not human or ethereal, but a celestial entity, an ancient figure, older than any living person.

The mountain where Shamira was taken was the infamous mountain of Mashu, the former stronghold of haunted spirits, but now absolutely peaceful. In the past, the formation had been home to the terrifying serpent-spirits of Kur, a horde of slithering monsters worshiped by the primitive villagers of old Sumeria. The region was then invaded by celestials during the Ethereal Wars, ten years before the birth of Nimrod, when all ophidian entities were annihilated by the legions of the archangel Michael.

The cave, a corner impenetrable to ordinary men, looked north and was so high that, from there, one could clearly see the Tigris River, to the east, which, with the Euphrates, closed the borders of Mesopotamia. An arid plain stretched to the north, and to the west, another formation rose into the sky — the Tower of Babel. The Sea of Rock was kilometers to the south, in the direction of the city, and almost invisible to the eye from this inverted angle.

The hermit who saved Shamira was not a mortal man, but a renegade angel, a cherub who, according to himself, had been expelled from heaven for defying the authority of the merciless archangels. Both—the angel and the witch—talked for hours about many subjects, material and sublime, until the Canaanite was convinced of her new friend's integrity and his intention to help her. He revealed his name—Ablon—translated into the earthly language and told a little about his winged origin.

As the sun sank below the horizon, the fugitives sat down at the cave entrance. The evening landscape traced a blue line above the surface of the Tigris, surrounded by the green strip on the riverbank.

"You saved my life, and I can't thank you enough," said the necromancer, in the light of the golden spectacle. "But I don't see your soul, if you even have one, and that scares me. I am a sorceress, and I've always depended on my abilities to survive in this world."

"The soul is a human property," clarified the renegade. "And a gift from God to the Children of Eden, as we angels call the mortal species. It is in the soul that resides the capacity of men to guide their destiny and command their own will."

"But how can someone, even a celestial, not have a soul? What is the energy that moves them, that remains active in the cosmos?"

"We all have a spirit: humans, gods, animals, and even plants. The spirit is the vital energy that feeds living beings, but spirit and soul are distinct elements, although few know it. It is the soul that makes humans special in the universe. And the strength of the soul that makes them conscious, autonomous, which gives them free will, the gift that was denied to winged entities."

"And how do you govern your life, if not by the route of the heart?"

"The celestials are not led by their own desires but by their divine nature. In the sky, we are divided into castes, each with its own function. There are warrior angels, scholars, protectors, judges, and also those who govern the elemental provinces."

"Are they like summoning wizards?" asked the woman, at the traumatic memory of her stay in Babel.

"Not like them. We would never be magicians, because magic comes from the strength of the soul, the soul that we never had. Our powers, which we call divinities, are born from the potency of our pulsating aura, a supreme energy that is the essential breath of angelics."

"If you are spirits, pure and simple, how do you manifest yourselves on earth? It seemed obvious that the home of spirits was the astral plane, and that alone."

"Unlike most astral and ethereal entities, angels are capable of materializing in the physical plane. To do this, we form an avatar, a carnal envelope with which we act through the fabric. But the renegade angels, like me, were cursed and forever trapped in the material body. We can no longer dissipate our avatar and return to the spiritual world, much less return to paradise."

"Some priests in Canaan told stories about fallen angels, terrible monsters that hide in the shadow of infinity."

"The fallen angels and the renegade angels are two different groups. The fallen carried out a true war in heaven, and for their cruelty, they were thrown into Sheol, a place of horror and suffering, a dark dimension. Today, they are demons of despair, eternally clinging to the same hatred that knocked them down."

When the sun finally went down, all the heat went away, and Shamira preferred to return to the cave, little comforted by the cold winds of the altitude. There they stayed awake for a while longer, and the girl spoke about her life story, about her magical initiation in En-Dor and about the lineage of her family, who had arrived in the East fleeing a fratricidal war that had shaken the Mediterranean three hundred years ago.

Around midnight, the fire died down, and sleep tightened. Shamira could not resist the call of the night and fell soundly asleep, covered by the woolen patches.

Ablon resumed his vigil at the entrance to the cave, but he did not fear attack from guards or sorcerers.

In fact, his enemies were much more fearsome.

Glosses on Creation

The next morning, Shamira woke up agitated. Her sleep had been interrupted several times, with the repetition of the same nightmare, which recalled ziggurats, dungeons, sorcerers, and goddesses imprisoned in stone dungeons. Every now and then, she opened her eyes in the darkness, astonished, but the sober presence of the celestial calmed her heart. Ablon was like a protective falcon, a bird of prey that defends its nest, always alert. Crouched at the entrance to the cave, he didn't get tired, he didn't move, he didn't waver, he never slept.

Before getting up, the Sorceress of En-Dor stretched out on the bed, still sore from the blows she had suffered on the way to prison. Later, the renegade would reveal to the girl the period of her healing torpor. From the assault on the Sea of Rock until her first view of the cave had been two weeks, a time during which she had been fed exclusively with herbal extract—a greenish, pasty preparation, rich in vitamins and minerals, and especially recommended for the sick. There were, in the cave, at least twenty clay vessels, with lids and handles, suitable for storing water and food, but the supply would not last forever, and the necromancer trembled at the possibility of having to climb the rock.

It was during breakfast that the celestial told about the existence of a spring at the top of the mountain, fifty meters above, in which the contents of the vases would have to be replaced as soon as possible. He invited her to climb to the summit, from where they would have a broad view of the entire Babylonian country.

"The spring is hidden between two sister rocks," said Ablon. "It sprouts in drops from a small fountain and then returns to the belly of the rock."

"I would never be able to climb the wall, up or down," resisted the woman. "And it's very erect, impossible to climb, even with a hook on your feet."

"I can take you with me," he offered. "I have climbed this mountain many times, and on the last occasion, I brought you with me."

"And it's very steep. Physical support is minimal."

"And how do you think you got here?"

"I don't know..." she got confused. "I thought that angels... I always imagined that celestials flew like birds in the sky."

"During materialization, our wings are incorporated into the flesh, disappearing entirely into the physical body. Expressing them is tiring and painful, and not very smart for a fugitive. For all intents and purposes, I am a human traveling through the desert, not a winged one."

Before noon, therefore, Shamira agreed to participate in the venture, certain that the one who had saved her would not be the same as sacrificing her life or exposing her to unnecessary danger. Surprised yet confident, she watched as the general used a rope to tie her to his back, like a living backpack. He attached another cable to the leather belt, connecting its end to the handles of the vases inside the cave, so he could pull them out later.

Then, squatting on the plateau at the exit of the cave, Ablon jumped into the void, as if throwing himself to his death, and for an instant, the sorceress thought she would fall onto the rocks, with her suicidal savior. But the renegade had jumped up and jammed his fists into a tiny crack, invisible from a distance. From there, hanging from the even slope of the mountain, he climbed like a spider, taking advantage of the rare supports and producing support gaps where they did not exist, with his powerful fingers, capable of drilling into the limestone. At a certain point, he jumped again, reaching a platform, almost at the height of the elevation.

Then the path flattened out into a trail, wide enough for a man to pass. The passage went around the slope and ended at the peak. There, at the highest point of Mashu mountain, the path opened onto a natural square, surrounded by pointy megaliths.

As Ablon pulled out the pots, the necromancer gazed across the land. She tried not to look to the west, to the cursed city, but curiosity forced her, and she saw the silhouette of the terrible Tower of Babel.

"It's not a very pleasant scene, this one in the west," commented the celestial, noticing the fear in the girl's eyes. "I would prefer that Enoch had never been razed. Their descendants, the Babylonians, have no idea who their ancestors were."

"But I thought all of us humans were somehow heirs to the ancient men of Nod," argued the woman.

"And they are. All human ethnicities come from the same ancestral branch. Even before the founding of Enoch, in the times of Adam, mortals spread throughout the world, building towns and villages, some very far from the capital. The Babylonians are the heirs of this central people, the successors of the fundamental clans that decided not to emigrate."

"What about the people of the legendary Atlantis?"

"The Atlanteans were as human as the children of Nod, but their race originated from an independent branch. In any case, none of them survived the flood."

Shamira wanted to know everything. As a sorceress and scholar, she never tired of asking about the most varied objects, and many of these questions not even the celestial was able to answer. But Ablon wasn't bored with that. He admired her human vivacity, her creativity, and her intelligence, traits common to youth.

"Tell me everything," she asked. "Tell me about the universe, about the things you saw while you wandered by the shadow of space. Reveal to me the aspect of God."

"But I know very little. Only archangels know the true mysteries of the cosmos. I'm just a warrior, an executioner, or at least I was..."

But, upon noticing the disappointment on the necromancer's face, the renegade amended:

"I can tell you what I know, what I heard from the malakíns, the wise angels who live in the Sixth Heaven and live to study the ancient secrets."

The Enchantress of En-Dor leaned back against the rock, already fascinated by the story that would follow. A pleasant wind blew overhead, softening the morning heat.

"There was a time, long before the dawn of the universe, when infinity divided into two provinces, the province of darkness and the province of light. Darkness was then governed by a hideous deity, Tehom, the chaos goddess. This cosmic monstrosity was attended by several lesser gods, among them Behemot the Horrible, with his black blade, and he controlled most of the vast void. His opponent was the god of light, the resplendent Yahweh. On a certain occasion, Yahweh and Tehom went to war."

"One god, against many?"

"To help him in this fight, the Shining One gave birth to the five archangels, beings of fabulous power, who fought at his side against the gods of darkness. Yahweh and his heralds won the confrontation, to which we refer to as the Primeval Decks, and they cast the corpses of their enemies into hell. With Tehom defeated, the Heavenly Father took over both provinces, commanding both light and darkness and consecrating himself omnipotent over all things. Invincible, he had time to begin the creation of the universe. With a snap, the Almighty gave life to the angels, all at once, populating the space with the celestial legions. Then, a spark of light produced and the creation of the cosmos began."

"And about God, what do you know about him?"

"Just feelings and energy. The Lord was never accessible, even while shaping the infinite. Only the archangels spoke to him, and I don't think they spoke much. Yahweh was like a busy father, a father who gave great importance to his work. But we could feel it in our hearts, and deep down, we were not alone. A fool is a son who depends on his father, who relies on his security and gives up on exploring the world for yourself."

"And then, what happened?"

"Over billions of years, the Creator cultivated his work, dividing his project into days. Each of these holy days corresponds to thousands of human years. On the first day, he created the sky, the sun, and the first stars of the firmament. He built a myriad of moons and planets, until he discovered his world perfect. For countless centuries, the earth was the home of animals, the breeding ground of angels, until, at the end of the sixth day, men appeared, the greatest of all God's works. Delighted by the end result, Yahweh gave them a soul, completing the task of creation. Then, exhausted and fulfilled, the Shining One fell into lethargy. He flew to the Seventh Heaven, to his sanctuary at the top of Mount Tsafon, and there he fell asleep, leaving the service of governing in his name to the archangels. Thus ended the sixth day, and the seventh, which persists to this day."

"The seventh day?" repeated the woman. "And when will it be completed?"

"It's impossible to say. The archangels, and also the malakíns, maintain that the Most High will awaken in the future, to punish the unjust, and that will be the time of the Apocalypse, a universal event that will end the last day. Michael, the Prince of Angels, holds, on the pinnacle of his fortress, in Sion, the Wheel of Time, an incredible artifact that supposedly marks the continuity of the seventh day. When your cycle is finished, the Almighty will rise again and establish a kingdom of peace. But this is just prediction."

"And you?" she asked. "Why are you here? Why do you travel by land and not with your kind in the sky?"

Ablon paused dramatically and stared at the brightness of the sun, which was now descending along the western route. He replaced the vases in the fountain sink and sat down in front of the girl.

"Yahweh was always very dedicated to his creation, which saddened the archangels, who disputed his attention. Then, when the Shining One gave the soul to man, the archangels, and also many angels, were filled with jealousy and anger. Thus, the moment the Almighty fell asleep, Prince Michael began his policy of destruction. Claiming to speak in the name of God, he warned that the Father was fed up with human cruelty and had decided to eliminate every mortal person from the face of the earth. With this, the era of major catastrophes began, the worst of which was the flood."

"The flood that buried Enoch and Atlantis," the sorceress accompanied.

"The cataclysm outraged half of paradise, but the angels were not yet prepared to react nor to challenge the authority of the Winged Monarch. So I decided to create a conjuration."

"You?" Shamira was surprised. "I thought you were just a warrior."

"It is in the army that the power of revolutions resides, but your surprise is justifiable. I was a general, a consecrated military leader, but subordinate to the head of my caste and logically to the archangels also. Alone, I would be crushed."

"And what did you decide to do?"

"I formed a circle of conspirators, all of them trustworthy, composed of eighteen cherubs, who would never betray. However, I needed support against the boring Miguel, and for that, I turned to another archangel."

"And who was he?"

"Lucifer, the Morning Star. Even though he was an archangel, Lucifer was always in favor of the human cause, even if just to challenge his brother. He was the only one who had the power to defeat the Celestial Prince and was perfect for the context of the conjuration."

"What was his response?"

"He accepted my plan, and I thought that together we could put an end to the hecatombs and perhaps strip the tyrant. But not everything went as expected. Centuries after the flood, men returned to multiply, which greatly angered the dictator. His fury then fell upon the city of Sodom, a land that prospered and grew. Miguel decided to devastate the place and summoned all the angels to an assembly, with the intention of announcing his decision. After a lengthy speech, he confirmed the extermination not only of Sodom but of all the cities in the vastness of the plain. Angry, I conspired, we raised the floor, and everything would have been no more than discussion if the cunning Lucifer had not betrayed us. There, before the council, the Dark Archangel betrayed us, revealed the conjuration, and then we took up arms. A violent struggle ensued, until the pillars of paradise cracked, and we plummeted. Fantastic and insurmountable is the power of the sinister Miguel; he cursed us, condemning us to the worst sentence that could be given to the celestials. He imprisoned us in our physical bodies and expelled us to the earth. And so we were relegated to the material plane."

"But why did Lucifer prefer to betray them, if Michael was his true enemy?"

"The Morning Star did not desire our alliance. He didn't really care about the preservation of humanity, but only about opposing the tyrant. He wanted to take the throne and then ascend above God himself, establishing his palace in Tsafon, the Mount of the Congregation."

"It's difficult to conclude which of the two is worse, a murderous dictator or a cunning villain."

"Reporting the conjuration gave Lucifer influence and prestige, power he used to engineer his revolution itself. He attracted millions to his side, promising a government of peace and an end to tyranny. Some good angels joined his revolt, disillusioned with the prince's ministry. Shortly after the purge of the eighteen renegades, a bloody war shook paradise, but the rebellion was defeated. The Devil and his angels were thrown into Sheol, a dark and dismal dimension, and they remain there as demons of despair."

"How did you know all this, if you weren't already in heaven at the time of the battle?"

"By Orion, a fallen angel who mistakenly accepted the terms of the revolution. We were friends in the days of old Adântida, and he came up from hell to look for me. He told me about the war, and he told me also that Lucifer had placed all the blame for his defeat on the renegades, who would have been the start of it all."

"The rope always breaks on the weakest side."

"Orion came to warn me that the Morning Star had appointed hunters to harass us. And, for one detestable irony, Michael, in heaven, had done the same, maintaining that the conjuration had sown the fruit of revolution. Although we never had anything to do with Lucifer's insurrection, both sides needed to find a target to vent their anger. Already anticipating persecution, we, the renegades, preferred to separate and scatter around the world."

"A risky decision."

"As soon as we arrived on land, we went to the only place we knew: Enoch, then a ruin submerged in the desert of Nod, populated by the ghosts of those who died in the devastation of the flood. There, the Brotherhood of the Forsaken remained hidden for centuries, studying the works of art, architecture, and human foods. And at the end of this period of exile, we decided to leave alone, because together we would be found and killed at once."

"And what brought you to Babylon, anyway?"

"My encounter with Orion happened after the dissolution of the brotherhood, when I was wandering alone across the Sumerian prairies. Now, it's my mission to regroup the fugitives and warn them of the danger that lies ahead."

"And have you met any of them yet?"

"One day, during my wanderings along the banks of the Tigris, I noticed a tremor in the fabric of reality. And a technique known to the celestials is the practice of sending messages through the membrane. In effect, it was an alarm, a cry for help, a signal launched by a renegade cherub: the warrior Ishtar."

"Ishtar!"

Shamira paled. Could this be the same Ishtar of Babel? The goddess she had seen imprisoned in the stone dungeon, the winged entity, imprisoned in the dungeons of the ziggurat? What if it was? Should the sorceress reveal the secret or omit it for the general's safety? Could Ablon penetrate the capital Babylon, defeat her armed army, and defeat the Immortal and his advisor? She bet no. He imagined that, in the cursed city, Zamir would be invincible alongside the king. If it weren't for that, he would never have captured the goddess and used her in his nefarious ceremonies.

"What was it?" the general noticed, and the girl's blood ran cold.

"Suddenly, I found myself thrown back into the nightmare," she disguised, deciding to risk her friend's life. "Tell me what happened next," he avoided.

"The message suggested that Ishtar had discovered something very big, a matter that required my immediate attention. I scented your trail throughout Mesopotamia, and my search led me to the Sea de Rocha," he pointed southwest, indicating the rocky labyrinth. "But I got there too late. Among the rocks, I saw the fighter in combat with an incredible creature, a dark angel with black wings. His aura was confused, dirty, and a metallic helmet covered his face. I didn't know if it was demon or angel, but realizing that I would not reach the mountain in time to save the celestial one, I threw myself against the wall, and the whole hill collapsed. I don't know what happened to the duelists, but I would have been killed if I hadn't destroyed the mountain at the precise moment. I find it difficult to believe she perished in the collapse, considering her immortal resistance. Since then, I have been scrutinizing the Mar de Rocha in its search, but without success. My hypothesis is that she roared north."

Ishtar did not die in the hill's collapse, Shamira calculated. Maybe it just turned off, which, he certainly facilitated her capture by the Babylonians.

Competence or opportunism? What, in fact, would have allowed the goddess's imprisonment?

"Why don't you travel north then?" ventured the woman, trying to keep the renegade away from the hated capital and the wizard who could probably subdue him as he did Ishtar.

"Not yet. The best thing to do is to wait. If the warrior is here, she will find me."