The Illaryian Vow

The year 7700 BCE

Aingeals filled the hall, gathering at the bottom of Ismael’s dais.

From here, he could see the slew of Bookkeepers, Awakeners, and Winged Fortresses gather below him. His heart thudded against his chest. He couldn’t quite pick at it, but something was bothering him. It wasn’t the affairs on Earth—that’s why he’d called the meeting.

Earth was in a horrible state, and things were only getting worse. But it wasn’t that. Ismael just couldn’t put a finger on it.

He sucked his lower lip and slid deeper into his chair. The window right next to him was the only window here, its open framework letting in both the light and the soft wind. It was large enough for an Ancient God to stand inside of it, but Ismael never minded.

It was how he got in and out of the Fort.

He looked out the window, trying to steady his palpitating heart. There was no reason to be this nervous.

It’s just a meeting.

Soft wind blew inside, tickling his skin. It had to be more than just that. Maybe it was Kireh.

It had to be. Earlier, Ismael stopped by the Summer Palace, but never found a trace of the ehol. He’d intended to keep the meeting at Kireh’s palace, but when he discovered the ehol wasn’t there, he had to change his plans.

So, the meeting had to be held right here in Kidul. While the warriors never minded, the aingeals in the north didn’t like the sudden change at all. It meant they had to take the High Lines, and the aingeals despised taking the High Lines.

At best, they would’ve taken nearly three days to get here by flight alone. The warriors and higher aingeals might have cut that time down to a few measly hours, but even they would’ve groaned the entire flight.

The High Line was the fastest way here when Ismael alerted them of the sudden change. The ehols would get here in about fifteen to twenty minutes, and the High Lines took just over an hour.

Ismael should’ve probably rescheduled until he heard from Kireh, but he’d convinced everyone the meeting was urgent.

It was. But maybe just not worth the sudden change of plans and fleet of upset aingeals who stared at him with disdain in their eyes.

He sat right here on the dais looking over the hall as aingeals filled below. It was getting cramped since the room was too thin to accommodate so many of them, but with a little discomfort, everyone could fit.

He slid further into his seat. Adriel and Eros still weren’t here. And neither was Yugi. What was taking them so long?

The hall was filled now, and still no sign of any of the ehols.

Strange.

The Awọn Mimọ got here even before they did. They’d donned their ceremonial black coats, while the Councilors wore their finest silks and linens.

The last people to arrive were the Elders, and they were always fashionably late. Yamal strutted inside first; his face twisted when he saw the jampacked room filled with what he’d probably considered smelly aingeals. Then followed Andres, his dark golden curls bouncing about as he squeezed through the tightly packed room.

And Lastly, Yamanda. He hadn’t seen them since he left the Divine Palace. This was the first time in eons he’d seen them in nearly two hundred Eholic years.

He was having a hard time with the time conversion. Ever since Xhian and Earth merged their time, things haven’t been so smooth. When someone said the word ‘year’ it was hard to decipher whether they meant the standard Eholic year or an Earth year. Ismael would have to repeatedly ask.

Most of the other aingeals dreaded the conversion as well, but they found a way to keep their thoughts to themselves.

It was only six hundred Earth years ago since the Divine Throne officially changed Xhian’s time to match Earth’s.

Compared to most other galaxies that floated by in Kotak, Earth was pretty insignificant—at least, to most aingeals.

To Ismael, it was the greatest thing ever created; the Divine Creator’s personal project He’d fought wars over. And here it was coming to life. It was a cause for celebration, but Ismael remembered the anger on the aingeals’ faces as they swore they were being replaced. And He’d watched as the Divine Ones let the commotion go on without addressing it.

Even now, the memory haunted him.

Ismael was getting used to it now. The humans reminded him of the Illaryians—Earth reminded him of Illaryia and the regions around.

He wondered if the Creator had missed His first home—His very first creation. Through all the stories he’d been told, the ones of His brothers stood out most to him. All fifteen of them lived in Illaryia, charged to be guardians of the sirens and sanyas who lived there.

Things had changed by the turn of the first Ezekazi in Odunti Ọnwụ, but those memories were engraved in Illaryian islands.

“Ismael.”

He jumped, turning toward the open window. Eros stood in the center, sweat drowning his face.

“It’s Kireh. He’s fallen.”