THREE AND A MAN

Play and play, yes and yes

Lose and lose,yes and yes

Yourself and you, yes and yes

Deceived and deceived? Utterly deceived

Play and play, yes and yes

Take and take, yes and yes

From them and them, yes and yes

Good and good? Utterly rejected

On the outskirts of the famous Namrud region, a place known to many as a ‘locked land’, stood a humble rural hut that, from the outside, looked like a rejected loner, excommunicated from the bustling city life. The hill it stood on arrogantly turned its back on the city and faced the setting sun. Near the entrance of the hut, a sign was placed that read ‘BEWARE OF THREE THAT CALMLY KILL MAN’. The hill was green to the brim with life and a sense of abundance. An old, frail man stood at the back of the house looking at the glamorous city one more time as he whispered,

“You have delayed me for a long time but it is all over now, I will leave to seek the truth.”

Putting his little bag on his shoulder, the man departed never to return again. Though many like him will appear, it is unsure if they will, like him, survive the clutches of the hideous three that never let go.

****************

On a bright and bustling day, Namrud welcomed a great army to its palace. The gates of the magnificent city were wide open and the ululations of the crowd were loud and cheerful for these heroes. The general of the army, a man full of energy and yet to see many moons, stood tall and unmistakably victorious against the damned nomads of Gashka. He and his army drove the unfortunate and humiliated among the Gashka in chains-a gift to the King. To their dread, their misery had not even started.

“Imbaru, a great welcome for a victorious bunch eh?”

The youthful general turned to his mate Savas and could see from his expression that despite his upbeat tone, the mission had its toll on him. Hell, it left a scar on all that it didn’t kill. The Gashka’s tenacity and their knowledge of the sandy terrain completely overstretched the mission. They were indeed a fearsome and loathful bunch but now they were decimated into two; a dead group and an enslaved one.

Today however, was a happy day of return to a vast and welcoming homeland. Yes, today the citizens of Namrud were welcoming him as a very important guest- a hero. IMBARU-MALIK, the slayer of KHAR-DAGAL, had returned. The notorious bandit and his clansmen had plagued the surroundings of Namrud making travelling a nightmare and increasing the dread sense of insecurity. Now, the monster was no more. The young, well-beloved general Imbaru made sure of that- he entered the city gates hoisting the head of the greatest enemy these lands have had the displeasure of knowing.

As jubilations and songs of praise for the youthful hero filled the air, he could be seen on his mount gleaming with happiness and admiring this great city. He definitely missed it. Two long and tenuous years he and his forces had been away battling that monster but now, not only was he back, but he returned victorious and in his mind, rang the promise the King had made to him. It was time to collect. He had returned to Namrud not merely to be its champion, but to finally claim the seat at the table he felt the world owed him—a position of weight that would ensure no one would ever dictate his house’s future again.

The horde of welcomers walked with him and from a distance looked like an oncoming undeniable wave that looked to absorb all in its might. The horde, in its centre the hero, approached the gates of the King’s palace to find it wide open. The red and blue leopard flag of Namrud was hoisted in the middle of the court and danced gracefully in the wind. On both sides of the flag pole stood the advisors and the noblemen who were closest to his majesty, in two lines welcoming the hero. Imbaru smiled as his eyes locked onto a specific noble with long dark hair and a radiant gleeful smile on her face; his own mother Teresa. He alighted his horse, hoisting KHAR’s head, squeezed through the crowd and as tradition dictated, walked towards the flag two steps at a time saying out loud, ”Oh Great Rainmaker, accept our gratitude.”

Upon reaching the flag pole, he threw the head onto the floor and went into deep prostration and all who stood behind him-noble and citizen alike-followed his lead and fell into prostration. As Imbaru lifted his head, he could feel the sun’s warmth vanish as heavy, gathering clouds stole the light. He returned his head almost immediately and pressed it against the unforgiving stone of the court. In the suffocating silence that descended, a rhythmic, metallic clicking of high-heeled sandals began to echo through the corridor, each strike cutting through the stillness like a serrated blade until the sound transitioned onto the elevated stone dais positioned directly behind and above the central flag. The clicking ceased with a deliberate finality, followed by the sharp, cold, and meticulously composed clearing of a throat that resonated from high above the sea of bowed heads. It was the King’s Hand—the matron of the palace—who stood there, her silhouette cutting a severe line against the gloom.

When the woman finally spoke, her voice descended upon the assembly like a physical weight that vibrated against the very ground Imbaru knelt upon. There was a chilling, analytical precision in her tone, as if she were peering down from her height not merely to announce the King, but to weigh the sincerity of every soul in the court and judge the very quality of their worship, finding it wanting before the words even left her lips. Thus she spoke;

“Nobles and citizens of NAMRUD, WELCOME YOUR KING; HIS EXCELLENCY, HIS MAJESTY, THE SON OF KING RAZAN, THE GRANDSON OF KING HASHAM, THE 13TH KING OF NAMRUD AND RAINMAKER, KING NARAM-SIN!”

As the final syllables of the Hand’s decree lingered in the air, the silence in the court became a physical weight, pressing against the very ground Imbaru knelt upon. Then, the threshold darkened. King Naram-Sin stood there, framed by the dying light of a sky he was already commanding. His voice drifted across the hall—melodic, terrifyingly clear, and possessed a top-down, primordial authority that made the air feel like a tightening snare and rendered the very concept of obedience a foregone conclusion.

“A new contract. All of you. You are heavy with your bowing, and I am weary of watching the dirt. Rise!”

Imbaru slowly lifted his head and looked up—far up. King Naram-Sin rested upon a grand, high-backed throne of dark wood, upholstered in deep, heavy velvet, the color of dried blood. Intricate gold filigree, shaped like winding riverbeds, traced the armrests and climbed the legs of the chair. The seat rested on an elevated dais. From that height, he held an air of quiet gravity that commanded the room. He sat in composed repose, his posture steady and disciplined, providing a sharp contrast to the nervous energy and waning vitality of the assembly below, who stood humbly in his shadow. Above his head, the iridescent red and blue feathers of his crown caught the light, mirroring the colors of the national flag. In his hand, he held his staff, topped by a golden orb that gleaned with shine.

His face was striking, defined by a clean, sharp symmetry that felt entirely intentional. His skin was pale and clear, like polished alabaster, catching the light in a way that made him stand out against the gloom of the court. His cheekbones were high and defined, casting just enough shadow to sharpen his features, while his expression remained perfectly still, untouched by the fatigue or uncertainty of the world around him. He possessed a youthful, timeless quality—the sort of visage that seemed immune to the passing of time. Most arresting of all were his crystalline blue eyes; they remained fixed on a distant horizon, calm and detached, looking past the people before him as if he were watching the storm clouds gather in his mind. He didn’t need to assert his presence; his composure alone made it clear that he was in total control—truly a Rainmaker who was already manifesting his will upon the world.

“IMBARU-MALIK son of TERESA and MALIK, noble and hero of our lands,” the king spoke clearly, “We welcome you back from your long escapade with the knowledge that you and your constituents have done us proud and are deserving of great reward and appraisal.” He stood from his seat and his sharp yet calm gaze strangely hooked the crowd in as he continued with his speech.

“Today is indeed a day of victory and deserved celebration. Thus, today we will have rain!” Screams of sheer happiness boomed across the entire city and the weight of the darkening clouds graced the congregation. Naram-Sin smiled as his tone softened into an almost child-like hysteric voice, lifted his hands to the sky and his words echoed, “ I command the sky to rain!” As soon as words left his tongue, a downpour of unparalleled mass started.

The crowd stood there as they were showered by this bountiful blessing. It had been a while since they had rain as it was mostly reserved for times of absolute despair or joyful days like today. Imbaru looked up and his green pearly eyes met with Naram-sin’s. He smiled back at the King who was childishly hooraying. Suddenly, he could feel a sharp gaze on him and as he turned his head realized it was the King’s Hand. He had seen her once or twice before he left for his mission and he could’ve sworn that she seemed far more weathered now than when he saw her back then. Two years is indeed a long time, he said to himself dismissively, as he zoned off to a far away place.

“My dear son has become the hero we have always expected from him,” Imbaru was shot back to reality by his mother’s words and as she got closer to him, she wrapped her hands around his back in a warm embrace, “Your father would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

“Mother!” he said gleefully, “It is so good to see you!”

The sense of pride was very visible in Teresa’s eyes. Her son has just raised his own name into an esteemed league of heroes of this nation. On top of that, the House Of Mist has gained favour so great with the King, by her son’s actions, that it was almost palpable. Naram-Sin, as she knew him, was a man who did everything to its complete and most perfect state- He punished severely but he also rewarded handsomely. Ever since Malik’s untimely demise, their house had been mediocre at best and was overtaken by the other two great houses. That situation though, has been irrevocably changed by her son. She looked at him with a smile and nudged him saying,

“What did the King promise you?”

Imbaru looked at his mother and held her hands tight as the rain fell more abundantly. He cleared his throat and just as he was about to reply to his mother, the King stood and spoke out in a voice so deep and tantalizing that it grabbed the attention of the bunch as his words rang in their ears,

“I COMMAND THE RAIN TO CEASE!”

The rain that was pouring for a healthy amount of time, abruptly and in an unnatural manner ceased. The dark clouds lightened and hurried back to their abode just as fast as they had formed. King Naram-Sin stood there as the first rays of the sun re-emerged and glistened his crown. Attention heightened and panned back to him from the murmurs and happy jubilations of rainfall.

“Our heroes are tired and are deserving of rest,” his authority peaked, “You and your constituents should rest up and meet us in the great hall before the setting sun.” Looking directly at the hero he added, “ Don’t forget to bring that barbarian’s head with you and oh!,” he paused, smiled mischievously and continued, “ IMBARU you should note that secrets are better kept until the appropriate time.”

As the King turned back and went towards his palace, the Hand addressed the crowd,

“Citizens of Namrud, go and enjoy this wonderful day and celebrate to your heart’s content, you are all dismissed!”

The people went back to the streets, hand in hand with each other and in full spirits as laughter engulfed the city. Imbaru looked at the fading crowd as the gates were being closed and smiled cheerfully as memories flooded his mind of the many happy days this city had provided for him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE GREAT HALL OF POWER

As the setting sun and the fresh scent of the departed rain absorbed the outside world, the curtains fell on a very private and high end meeting in a hall that put all others to shame- the hall of power of Namrud. The corridors that led up to it were long and adorned with set jewels the likes of which few have ever seen. Frames of the revered and deeply praised kings of this great land were attached to the walls in order of their reigns.

Imbaru walked in leading his constituents and in his hands, as he was ordered, the shamed head of Khar that strangely felt as if it was getting heavier than before. He had come to this hall before with his father in the long reign of the previous monarch, King Razan. His eyes drifted as his mind, just like in his previous visit, struggled to comprehend the sheer size of this hall. As he made his way into the main hall, he could see prestige the likes of which would be branded as fairytale by an outsider.

The hall stood tall, its architecture constricting, as if the room itself guarded ancient secrets from the uninitiated. This gave it a strange, disorienting architecture; it appeared vast from the horizon, yet felt unnervingly small and intimate from the inside. The ceiling was lost in a perpetual, velvet shadow, save for where massive, suspended chandeliers of gold caught the dying rays of the sun. There was no sound of wind or life here; the air was thick, pressurized by the silence of centuries. Every footfall echoed with a heavy, metallic resonance that died instantly, as if the hall itself were hungry to swallow the sound of any dissent before it could reach the throne. The floor was a mirror of terrifying clarity, catching the wearer’s reflection with such precision that it felt as though it could read the hidden anxieties of the mind.

The King’s throne stood tall and majestic, centered against the sheer, unadorned wall of the palace. The three great houses were each assigned places to stand: To his right stood the House of Light; to his left, the House of Mist, both cast in their respective shadows and glows and the House of Vaught—the people’s beloved pride—stood below three steps directly before the King’s eyes, where they bore the heaviest burden of his scrutiny. Few words were spoken in this hall, as each soul was supposed to know and internalize their roles, anticipating the King’s will before he breathed a word of command.

“Lost in a trance are we, hero!”

Imbaru was snapped back to reality. Khasm, the eldest son of the House of Vaught, approached him as he made his way into the hall. Tall, lanky and arrogant is how Imbaru always described this individual in his mind. From the sly expression Khasm had on his face, Imbaru was glad that he hadn’t changed. The thought of a more humble Khasm crossed his mind and he laughed it off.

“Did two years in the desert make you forget human speech and turn you into a barbarian,” Khasm sneered and continued, “Well in all honesty, you were not that far from a barbarian Mr brute strength.”

“Your birdbrain probably thinks we are equal now after your little victory so let me explain to you the difference in our stature, you half barbarian,”

Imbaru forced a chuckle as Khasm continued to babble on about the heights that House of Vaught reached that Mist could not.

“Take advice and humble yourself Imbaru, this hall has its people and the sooner you realize your role the better for you.” With that Khasm was off as Imbaru watched him zoom to his assigned place beside his father Shajr.

“Come my son, it is time let’s take to our places,” Teresa held her son’s hand as they walked to the left of the throne.

They put their feet firmly and watched all the chatter die down as the Hand, Madam Vau-Gant, made her way into the hall.

Enter the King, soon after her, adorned in rich and soft to the touch floor-length mantle of deep, blood-crimson wool. It was rumored that the wool had been soaked in the ichor of fallen stars, granting it a weightless, flowing grace. Beneath the mantle, he wore a tunic of fine, bleached linen that provided a sharp contrast to the weight and color of his outer garment, ensuring the focus remained on the royal red of his mantle. The edges of his mantle were bordered with heavy, gold-threaded tassels that swayed with his stride, a clear mark of his absolute authority. He made his way and calmly took his seat at the throne.

His highness possessed an unsettling stillness that bypassed the need for movement. His gaze was the true source of the dissonance; it did not track a person in the way a human eye does, with its micro-adjustments and wandering focus. Instead, he looked at people with a chilling, fixed intensity, as if he were seeing not the man or woman standing before him, but the skeletal architecture of their intent, or perhaps the triviality of their short lives. Naram-Sin existed in a register of reality that was entirely his own—a state of being that made him utterly unreachable. People found themselves instinctively stepping back, not out of fear, but out of a sudden, hollow realization that they were not interacting with a peer, but being cataloged by something that couldn’t relate to the world of men.

His voice boomed, shattering the tension that had held the hall in a vice-grip.

“Oh people of this hall, as you all know, I don’t like to indulge in more words than necessary. With that being said, Imbaru son of Malik, hero son of hero, killed the brute that thought he could scale the heavens. It was a case of a frog in a well thinking he encompassed the world,” he paused as he turned his gaze to his right side and looked at Aysh, the leader of the House of Light, “For the better part of the last decade, I had been repeatedly assured he’d be dealt with by our very own Aysh of Light.” His tone grew more asinine as he hissed at Aysh,

“You promised you’d take care of him , didn’t you, dear Aysh?”

Aysh nodded with feelings of embarrassment clouding his face as he looked down. His two missions to defeat Khar had ended in historic failures.

“Well in any case it has been handled and no need to burden Aysh with failures of the past. However, the rightful places of the houses must be re-arranged,” he said as he pointed towards Imbaru and his mother, “You two and your constituents move to my right side.”

His order was carried out quickly as the two houses almost instantaneously swapped standings.

“We are a nation that rewards excellence. Continuing ahead, today is a day of celebrations and rewards. It’s the day of Imbaru and House Mist. Come forward, my hero!”

Imbaru-Malik walked towards the centre and bowed down before his majesty.

“Ah! The head of the barbarian.” Naram-Sin didn’t recoil at the sight of the head. Instead, he reached out his long, pale fingers and brushed the matted hair away from Khar-Dagal’s dead eyes. He studied the face for a beat too long, as if searching for a familiar shadow, before his expression curled into a thin, unbothered smile.

“You did well to kill him as he was no longer useful and did not serve any important purpose. Servitude, like the rest of his clansmen, would have been too merciful.” He stood up, stepped down the small three stairs and grabbed Khar’s head, lifting it high for all to see.

“Dear Imbaru, before you left for this cause, I had promised you wealth and a huge chunk of the land to the west. However, you have truly made me exceedingly happy and what king would I be if I rewarded you beneath what you deserve. See, this journey you took has shown me that Namrud lacks in men like you who simply go and do what they are to do without failure, delay or any disappointing result.”

He walked around and looked at Vau-Gant, smiled at her and continued on,

“ The wealth and the land are yours. On top of that, the mines to the east are henceforth in the care of House Mist. Aysh, you and your ilk are to move out of them as quickly as mortal sluggishness allows!”

The revelation hit those in attendance in two varied ways. To the right of the King, happiness reigned supreme. It was the first time they gained reward since Malik died five years ago. On the other hand, the House of Light was hit hard by the order. Since the reign of the fifth King when the mines were opened, the House of Light was in charge of it. Aysh watched Naram-Sin go back to his throne. He had been in this hall for a long time and unlike a lot of his ilk, he understood that the verdict was temporary. Rewards and punishment are all attached to the King’s pleasure and that was something none could have permanently. As such he remained unbothered. He and his house simply needed to get back to the good graces of the King.

“Rise Imbaru! Come forward dear child!”

The youthful hero stood tall directly before the King. Vau pulled him with force to the right side of the throne,

“Insolent! Don’t stand before HIS MAJESTY like that!”

“Calm! Calm dear Vau,” Naram-Sin playfully said. He stood back up and as he grabbed Imbaru’s hand he exclaimed,

“I, King Naram-Sin and Rainmaker, son of Razan and Hasham, announce in this esteemed hall that Imbaru of Mist, son of Malik and Teresa, will become my hand!”

The air in the hall turned from brittle to nonexistent. The transition was so sharp it felt as if the King had reached out and pinched the windpipe of the room itself.

Imbaru stood frozen, his pulse thrumming in his throat like a trapped bird. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. He had expected his house to be given greater standing, a medal and plots of land. Instead he was exceedingly named the King’s Hand? To be pulled from the dirt of the battlefield and thrust into the viper’s nest of the court? His mouth parted slightly, his eyes wide as he looked up at Naram-Sin, his breath hitching in his chest. The magnitude of the appointment was suffocating; he could feel the collective weight of every noble gaze in the room boring into his back, burning like acid.

Naram-Sin’s grip on Imbaru’s hand was firm—not the grip of a man congratulating a hero, but the proprietary hold of an artisan admiring a tool he had finally polished to his satisfaction. The silence that followed his announcement wasn’t merely the absence of sound; it was a physical weight that forced shoulders to hunch and breath to hitch.

Even Aysh, who had steeled himself for the loss of the mines, felt his knees threaten to buckle. To move a house was politics; to elevate a common hero to the King’s Hand was a seismic shift in the hierarchy of Namrud. It was a declaration that the old order—the order of heritage, of long-standing alliances, and of the established noble bloodlines—was no longer the foundation upon which Naram-Sin chose to build his legacy.

Naram-Sin turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting to the shadow beside the throne where the current Hand Vau, the aged and sharp-featured loyal custodian of this very hall, stood completely motionless.

“Imbaru,” Naram-Sin turned his focus to the boy, his tone shifting into something instructional. “You are a creature of the blade and the field. You know how to end a life, but the court is a different kind of beast. You will shadow Vau. You will learn the ledger, the law, and the language of the court from her. Take her wisdom, boy—I have high hopes for you, and I would hate to see that spark of yours dulled by a lack of polish.”

The House of Mist stood tall. For five years, they had lived in the shadow of Malik’s ghost. To see their scion suddenly vaulted to the right hand of the Divine King was an amazing promotion. Teresa’s face, however, was a mask of shock, her knuckles white as she gripped her robes—her triumph already curdling into the realization that her son was now tethered to a master who would chew him up if he faltered.

Aysh’s peers looked as if they had been struck by an unseen blade. The loss of the mines was a financial wound, but the appointment of a “Hand” from a house they considered beneath them was an existential catastrophe. A collective tremor ran through their ranks; those who had spent decades currying favor now stared at the floor, acutely aware of how quickly they could be erased.

Directly below the steps, the atmosphere shattered. Shajr and Khasm, who had spent the entire morning radiating a smug, self-assured pride, stood as if turned to stone. Khasm’s arrogant smirk didn’t just vanish; it withered, his face draining of all color. They had viewed themselves as the king’s primary instruments—the ones who stood closest to his scrutiny and therefore his favor. Seeing a “barbarian” vault over their heads to become the King’s Hand didn’t just offend them; it rendered their entire existence as the “beloved pride” of the hall dangerously obsolete.

Naram-Sin didn’t care about the earthquake he had triggered. He looked down at Imbaru, his eyes still holding that chilling, unblinking intensity, now tempered by a strange, proprietary pride.

“The session is at an end,” Naram-Sin said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet it forced the room to lean in. “Go. Process the shift. Adjust your loyalties. The world moves, and I have little patience for those who choose to stand still.”

With the grace of a predator returning to his den, he turned his back on the court and settled into his throne, already detached from the chaos he had sown.

As the attendees began to file out, the silence of the hall was replaced by the frantic, muffled vibration of a crumbling status quo. The House of Light moved with the leaden gait of the condemned, their influence stripped away in a single breath. The House of Mist drifted in a daze, drunk on a sudden, dangerous power they were entirely unequipped to wield. And the House of Vaught, who had built their identity on proximity to the throne, stood anchored in a hollow, stinging humiliation—their pride shattered by the rise of the very “barbarian” they had mocked only moments before.

Imbaru remained at the center of the floor, the hero of the hour. The land and titles he had secured for his house’s legacy were everything he had fought to earn, yet they felt like a gilded cage now that he was tethered to the capital. He stood tall before the King, wearing the mask of humble gratitude, but beneath his armor, his spirit was already mourning the loss of the front lines.

He had spent his life defined by the adrenaline of the charge and the clear, honest violence of the battlefield; now, he faced a future of administrative ink and endless diplomacy, a duty that felt profoundly alien compared to the only life he had ever mastered.He stared at his calloused hands, wondering if they would soon grow soft behind a desk while the steel he had wielded with such purpose rusted in the silence of his new estate. The pride of his promotion was merely a veil over the crushing realization that he had finally won everything he ever wanted, only to lose the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

He turned toward the threshold of his new existence, walking away from the only world he had ever mastered and stepping into the silent, shifting uncertainty of a future he hadn’t asked for.