Zonith waits until he feels the crushing grip of his leader on his arm before he begins to step forward. He contemplates if he should keep his head down for only a moment, as he leads Zulith to his seat among the council of shadow leaders. The Zintonians have ignored the callings for months, initially under the guise of rooting out insubordinates, but the time has finally come for them to reemerge.

The sharp intake of breaths is telling enough. Few people have seen Zulith’s face since the night his daughter died. He bares new scars. Deeper scars. The amono’s once bright blue eyes are nothing more than hallow pits, their depths filled with smoothed obsidian stones. He lost his eyes the same day his lost his final child.

As customary of those suffering deep loss, Zulith had carved two new runes into his face, just below the burnt and puckering skin surrounding his eyes. Zonith guides Zulith’s hand to the arm of his chair, then positions himself just behind him. “It has been a while since the amonos have had representation.” A throat is cleared. “I see now that you all were handling internal affairs.”

Zonith notices Zulith’s fingers tense around his spear. “Yes,” Is all he says. The blood on his eyes hadn’t even dried before amonos were standing, ready to challenge him. Some thought that the loss of his sight meant a loss of his power or divine right. Those that attempted to overthrow Zulith soon found out that he had been hiding more power than anyone had considered. His grief had only served as fuel for what seemed like endless challenges.

“Right, well, you’ve called us here today. On what grounds?” Dwin Cols is the representative for the Oks, a group of big and obscenely loud earth creatures. Most believe that they aren’t a big enough influence, and as such, they shouldn’t have a seat on the council. Surprisingly enough, he is likely the most human of all the council members present today. He has always been the one to mediate more drastic conversation.

Zulith stands, the line along the middle of his face stretching. “I have nothing but distressing news to bring to you, friends.” His face, now mutilated with scars and ink, has gone hard. Hotri Fion steps forward as well, the subtle implication of the motion clear enough. “War is coming to our lands, and I am the curator of it all.” Whispers follow the declaration.

War?

Here?

We haven’t fought external forces in millennial!

“War?! With the mainlands?” Cols is the one to put a strong voice to the confusion.

A sigh, long and tired, falls from Zulith’s mouth. Regret charges the air around the leader. Anyone with eyes can see the toll this message has brought to the once unvexed divine guide. “It is more than just war with the mainlands.”

“It is war between the gods of the old and those of the new,” Fion delivers the revelation, and chaos explodes. Shouts of heresy, threats of retribution, and gasps of disbelief fly throughout the council room. “Men! Listen! You must listen!” Fion tries and fails to grab their attention.

“You speak nonsense!”

“Death! You force death upon us!”

“Listen!”

Shoulders are shaken, claws are exposed, and blood is so nearly drawn that even Zonith wonders if this is when the shadow council falls. Then, suddenly, the ground begins to tremble, dust filling the spacious cavern. Zonith immediately pulls Zulith’s hand to his shoulder, should he need to guide him out.

But just as quickly as the shaking began, it ends. Fion groans from beside Zonith, his fingers rubbing harshly at his temples. “Just listen.” He begs. There’s something wrapped within the undertones of his normally soft voice. It’s the cousin of despair and the sister of dejection. Zonith can’t help but feel for the man. He is the voice of the gods of war. He has been blessed as their messenger, but as such, he sees and hears far more than any earthbound being should.

That responsibility alone must be heavy.

The dust settles, and with it, the heavy hearts of the cavern’s occupants. Hesitantly, councilmen sit, wary of disturbing what seems to be divine ears listening in. Zulith, Zonith, and Fion are the only ones left standing. Zulith swallows. “As I’m aware some of you know, my heir was a halfling, born of this land and the new lands.” No one misses the past tense. “We were investigating her for crimes against the tribe and came to find out that she was marked by the Dark God.”

The murmurs that fill the air this time are much quieter, yet somehow almost deafening. Zonith still can’t believe it. Zalish was a good woman. She was strong. Never once had she bent to temptation, and there were many. He hadn’t believed the crimes she was being charged with, that’s why he helped her escape.

That’s why he had let her evade him for so long.

His fingers curl into his palm, his nostrils flaring. “My daughter died the day of this discovery, but in the chaos that followed, her body disappeared. In its place was a message written in her blood. It was Sul.” The amonos wear runes sprawled across their faces as a rite of passage. Their rugs have protective runes woven into them; their pottery is painted with ones meant to grant excellent health.

All throughout their archives are runes and their meanings. But no matter how long anyone searched, there was never a physical portrayal of Sul to be found. Not until that day. The history of that rune is passed down orally, for fear of invoking its creator.

The rune is a combination of two spirals, one opening upwards and the other opening downwards with three stitches holding them together. “It’s the end of days.” Having said all he needs to, Zulith drops to his seat, unable to speak of what it truly means.

Sul isn’t just a rune, it’s one of the four keys to the under world. Sul has never been drawn in the mortal realm because it requires a heavy sacrifice to be completely bound. It requires the blood of the divine.

Zonith’s jaw clenches, his head filled with the image of Zalish’s torn neck and empty eyes.

Most know that the Zintonians are blessed by the gods, but very few know that they are a direct line of descendants from Minyo, the god of war himself. Whoever drew that rune had a deep understanding of their history and very dark intent. If they don’t find out who did it, it’s possible that this person will sacrifice more people to draw down more gates.

And if those gates are allowed to open, not only will the damned be free, but the Dark god and those that sided with him will rise as well. It won’t just be a war between continents. It will be a war between gods.

It will be the end of everyone.

“We have to find the keepers of the other keys,” Cols murmurs, his green skin pale. Nods of acknowledgment wave throughout the room. Only one key resides on this continent. The other three had been displaced by the gods long ago. “We have to consult them. Which means we need the witches.”