A Dream of War

As you climb up the steps of the Sun Diver, every step reveals a hidden ache, and every twist of flight is a small agony. Collapsing into bed, you hear the distant sound of Nib typing away at the central console, plotting a course for the Crucible, and that sound sings you gently into sleep.

We see Dawnshore, the central bubble to the Burning Archipelago. It’s on fire. Efreeti soldiers stomp through the gardens in front of the Radiant Cathedral, marching to the distant gunfire and explosions inherent to war. The camera swerves, following a towering Efreeti over one shoulder. His ashen hair falls down a bare, blood-smeared chest, a flaming greatsword hanging from one arm. You recognize him from your dreams -- General Khaim. He looks out among the wreckage, a tight smile on his lips, and then tilts his head down. The camera follows, and we see Pin -- hair burnt and matted with blood, her eyes devoid of emotion, but her lips turned down into a frown.

Pin: “You’re going to lose. When my boyfriend gets back he’s going to mess you up!”
Khaim: “Is he now?”

Pin begins to speak, but then everyone on the field pauses, cocking their heads to the side as a psychic message is broadcast across the sun. One of the junior officers adjacent to Khaim gasps, but his commander smiles. Khaim turns to the shadows, where a hooded figure with snow white hair is pulling himself from the dark. The Gorgon. Although we cannot see her, we hear Pin gasp, a loud exhale that fades into a whimper.

Khaim: “Excellent timing. I assume your private contract is complete?”
Gorgon: “More or less. Things got complicated from what I’ve been told, but I am available for hire.”
Khaim: “Your memory?”
Gorgon: “The usual. But I remember our deal. My payment?”

The Gorgon gestures to Pin, a flash of hunger in his eyes, but Khaim holds up a hand.

Khaim: “After the issue is dealt with, as we agreed. I suggest you hurry -- your team has eight hours before they arrive at the Crucible. My men are ready, but they have never encountered a group with divine support.”
Gorgon: “Duly noted. But don’t worry…”

The Gorgon steps back towards the shadows, and the darkness reaches out to swallow him.

Gorgon: “The Jestyr sends one of his best, General. Nakira and I will handle it.”

We cut to a vision seen once before, shown to Chad via the gift of prescience. A silvery ship pulls into the docks of the main dome of the Crucible, greeted by Azer dockworkers and an Efreeti officer. As the hull door opens, the camera follows Nakira, pointing towards her left side, listening to her teeth grind as she walks down the stairs. Slowly, the view rotates around her face -- revealing a nasty, purple burn scar, which exposes teeth and the roundness of a flaming, angry eye.

We zoom in on that flame, into the core of entropy itself, where chaos howls for the end of days. Static rattles the edges of our view, as if corrupted by some kind of digital signal, and the clear picture devolves into a series of cuts. We see a mountain roiling with magma. The Palace of the Malikah. A throne made of burning metal. The Malikah atop it, her eyes now black and reflective -- like polished obsidian -- with blood pouring endlessly from the edges. A pair of ivory hands caresses either side of her head, nails painted red with ichor. A distorted image then dominates. A woman with those same, bleeding eyes, haloed by unnaturally perfect features, and black, gossamer wings. The Angel of Desolation, Szuriel. The Horseman of War.

Szuriel: “Hello, Zandeer.”

The dream is snapped under the strain of her words, and you awaken with a jolt, covered in a film of cold sweat.