The Desert Mirror
The air in the Desert Mirror did not just feel hot; it felt angry.
This monoclimatic reflection of Middle Earth was a wasteland of shifting sands and relentless sun. Here, the Celestial Lantern seemed to hang lower, its golden wheels spinning with a punishing intensity that bleached the color from the world.
Agyenim Davu crashed.
The Flying Mat, exhausted of its cosmic charge, skidded across a dune and unceremoniously dumped the Authority on Propaganda into the sand.
Agyenim spat out grit. He stood up, dusting off his indigo Modi waistcoat. It was ruined. The silk was torn, the embroidery stained. He looked around.
"Charming," he muttered. "No wonder the Mufarikha are so irritable."
He was miles from any portal, deep in the territory of the Brotherhood of Dust. He checked his internal compass—his Makoma. It felt scrambled here, distorted by the high concentration of Utupu (Nothingness) that permeated the mirror world.
"You look lost, scribe."
Agyenim turned.
Rising from the sand like a mirage were a dozen figures. They were wrapped in grey rags that blended perfectly with the heat haze. They were Mufarikha—those who rejected Ubuntu.
The leader stepped forward. He was a man with skin like cracked leather, his eyes devoid of any warmth.
"I am not lost," Agyenim said, straightening his spine and attempting to summon the arrogance of the High Table. "I am Agyenim Davu. I am the one who signed the ledgers. I am the one who gave you the city."
"You gave us a market," the leader corrected, his voice dry as a bone. "We took the city."
He gestured to the horizon.
Agyenim looked. In the distance, rising from the salt flats, was a structure that shouldn't exist. It was a tower made of black obsidian, pulsating with a dark, oily rhythm.
"What is that?" Agyenim asked, his Indigo Aura flaring with sudden unease.
"A conductor," the leader said. "You wanted a story, Authority Davu? You wanted to scare the King? We are writing a finale."
He began to walk toward the tower, his men surrounding Agyenim.
"The tower calls to the Dildillaac," the leader explained. "It is a lightning rod for Iku. When we activate it, we will not just lower the spiritual barrier... we will shatter it. The Kifofirists will not merely rain down; they will flood."
Agyenim stopped walking. "No."
The leader paused. "No?"
"The plan was destabilization," Agyenim said, his voice rising. "The plan was to force the King to return to the Table. If you shatter the barrier, you kill everyone. Manomis, Akins, the children... everyone."
"Yes," the leader smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. "That is Utupu. The ultimate detachment. The final freedom from the burden of existence."
Agyenim stared at him. He realized, with a sickening jolt, that he had made the classic mistake of the intellect: he thought he could use fanatics as tools. But fire was not a tool; it was just fire.
"I will not pay for this," Agyenim said, stepping back. "The deal is off."
The Mufarikha laughed. It was a sound like shifting gravel.
"Your gold is already spent, Yellow Hammer," the leader hissed. "And you are no longer the patron. You are the sacrifice."
The men drew jagged knives made of black glass.
Agyenim reached for his Flying Mat, but it was spent dead. He reached for his mind—his Masani telekinesis—but the oppressive heat of the Desert Mirror made his thoughts sluggish.
He was trapped in a world that hated life, surrounded by men who worshipped death. And the worst part was, he had paid for his own execution.
Middle Earth, The Resource Wing – The Sanctuary of Prisms
Azure Oba did not knock. He simply walked into the sanctuary, his presence displacing the air like a physical object.
Arora Lakshmi sat in the center of the room, surrounded by floating crystals. She was meditating, her Prismatic White Aura casting rainbows across the walls.
"Get out, Azure," she said without opening her eyes.
"He is gone, Arora," Azure said, his voice heavy with the Severity of his weapon art. "He went through the Portal of the West. We tracked the residue of his Flying Mat."
"Then let him go," Arora whispered. "He is scared."
"He is dangerous," Azure countered, stepping into her circle of crystals. "He gave the Mufarikha Imperial codes. He gave them funding. He thinks he is playing a game, but he has handed a loaded gun to a toddler."
Azure knelt in front of her. The sheer size of the Sanguine warrior was overwhelming, but he moved with surprising gentleness.
"I need you to find him," Azure said.
Arora opened her eyes. They were wet with unshed tears.
"I cannot," she said. "If I find him... you will kill him."
"I am an Akin," Azure said simply. "I am the edge of the sword. I do what must be done to protect the Empire."
"He is my... pair," Arora confessed, the words tearing out of her. "My Makoma points to him, Azure. Even now. Even after what he did. I feel him. He is terrified. He is in the hot place."
"He is in the Desert Mirror," Azure nodded. "We suspected as much. But the desert is vast. We need coordinates."
"If I give them to you," Arora said, gripping the Vajra bell at her waist, "you sever the thread. You leave me alone in the universe."
Azure looked at her. He saw the pain of the Ifunanya bond warring with her duty.
"Arora," Azure said softly. "If he stays in the Desert Mirror, the Brotherhood of Dust will find him. Do you know what they do to Masanis? They don't kill them quickly. They peel their minds apart to extract the codes."
Arora flinched.
"If I go," Azure promised, placing his large hand over her small one, "I will bring him back. I cannot promise he will not face judgment. But I promise he will face us, not the Mufarikha."
He squeezed her hand.
"Let me save him from the monsters he hired."
Arora looked at the warrior. She saw the Red Aura of the Root Chakra—survival, grounding. He was brutal, yes, but he was honest.
She closed her eyes. She tapped the Vajra bell.
Chime.
She reached out with her Prismatic White Aura, scanning the vast, metaphysical spectrum of the world. She pushed past the physical realm of Aye, past the barrier of the Mirror Worlds, seeking the specific Indigo frequency of Agyenim's soul.
She found him.
She felt the heat. She felt the despair. She felt the circle of knives closing in.
"He is at the Obsidian Needle," Arora whispered, a tear finally falling. "Coordinate 4-North-Alpha. The Dune of Silence."
Azure stood up. The Severity returned to his posture, sharp and lethal.
"Stay here, Arora," Azure commanded. "Do not watch."
He turned and strode out of the sanctuary.
Arora stayed on the floor, clutching her bell. She had just given the man she loved to the executioner. But in the twisted logic of the High Table, it was the only act of love left to her.