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A single 'Lunn walked through the eerily quiet streets of Al-Khadir. His eyes scanned worn posters advertising a rebellion, proclaiming a new start. It was laughable, wasn't it? To think the lives of so many people were ruined due to one senile old man's false sense of justice, for a cause he couldn't fulfill. He laughed, a strange echo flowing through the empty streets of this supposed New Dawn.
He brushed his hand over one of the posters, gently tearing it off from where it hung and adding it to the litter scattered across the street. Disgusting. His name sullied for a rebellion that held no purpose. Though he didn’t mind it, it was for a brighter future, right? He looked around, his head held high, as he scorned the once-bustling streets that now only carried the light breath of the wind. A brighter future, right? He clicked his tongue, and his face contorted in utter disgust as he continued his march.
To think the turning point for rallying the people would be the message he conveyed to Esebius. He thought him wise—someone who could hold an ounce of respect for his own words. His intentions may not have been pure, to say the least, when he visited Esebius, but they weren’t wrong by any means. A story predicted, a future foretold. His own words, were they not? His own vision that he shared with Esebius before informing him of the Sultan's disappearance. If someone 'unworthy' took control of Anjyarr, history would simply repeat itself. And what's happening now? Exactly that. He laughed, a bellow that put his earlier one to shame.
His walk continued, his strides becoming more purposeful with each step. It was in sight now—his goal. He rummaged through his pockets; the sound of jingling was heard as he held on tight to whatever he was searching for.
Disgusting. These so-called rebels are nothing but parasites. All of them. From the ringleaders to the word-bearers and those who blindly followed an already doomed path, blood was shed on these streets, lives were lost, and propaganda was spread. And for what? Nothing? For chaos? For the death of a nation? Utterly disgusting. Esebius proclaimed change, proclaimed peace, and proclaimed reform. Yet reform, peace, and change have only worsened the nation.
He looked up, his heavy steps coming to a halt as he stared at the door in front of him. He was here, and he made it. He brought out a pair of keys from his pockets, unlocking the door. When he first entered these very doors, he was awed and amazed by the marvels they held. Though now, it was only a sarcophagus filled with the dust of a failed dream, filled with the scent of death. His hand traced across the walls, only a few steps now, each fingertip picking up a host of dust and decay.
Marvelous. How marvelous. He was here. He made it. This nation's blind faith only led to its destruction, its decay, and its rotting. His footsteps turned light, almost hesitant as he made his way across the grand hall, his eyes set upon the seat ahead of him. Empty, alone, not even a guard in sight, let alone a leader. Perfect for the taking, right? He walked closer, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped, stared, and laughed once more. His face twisted into a grin, a horrid smile that shook his own soul. He could fix this. If no one else would stand up, if no one else would revolt once more against the deceivers that led their nation, his nation, into disarray, then he would.
"Ralvvon Menaharian"—"Sultan of Anjyarr." His voice echoed through the halls, and his smile crooked on his face as he turned and sat down upon the throne. One leg crossed over the other, an elbow resting on the armrest, his own head resting on his hand. If he could not save Anjyarr from Esebius' failure, then Anjyarr can burn.
