Chants rang and bellowed through Zola, thousands of voices chanting as one, emanating from the city center in a wave that pulsed with feeling, with power, with life. “In the life of Watn,” the chant said, the voice of voices bellowed slow, “in the souls of Attastatn, Samvastatn, Niovolin. In the shade of Anakinr. In the light of Dezmedetem. Zivold of Zola, welcome us. Zivold of Zola, forgive us. Zivold of Zola, save us.”

Hadr’s voice was one with the city. A song of songs, a prayer of prayers, worship of a thousand voices. The song of glory. Of sadness.

Of surrender.

Zola had long seen the Keshkak of Ganyatihuta as it’s guarantors of peace, fertility, and sovereignty. The Paroxl of Zola, Shahanalpayuk, had been subdued long before Hadr had been born. Statue removed, temple reworked to have Shahanalpayuk and the image of Ganyatihuta stand together as one standing atop the temple. A human figure with long robes reaching past its feet. Two thin, straight arms outstretched to welcome the eastern rising sun. Hair standing up in a circle around the face, with each thick strand ending in a curved, wicked scythe. The face had no features on it, smooth save for one mouth. It smiled eternally toward the rising sun it would never see. Shahanalpayuk, Paroxl of the new day, cursed with blindness for once trying to keep it to herself. Etched into her robe was what Zola depicted as the image of Ganyatihuta, a king thin snake with letters etched into it too small to tell from this distance. Letters Hadr knew told the story of Zola’s defeat and subjugation. If it’s righteous surrender.

Today was a special day much like that one. So many settlements and towns and even cities around Zola had recently come to the heel of the Keshkakan city. One day the whole Luzum would come under. Hadr could only hope he would be alive for that glorious day.

The Zivold of Zola walked out of the temple. His arms were outstretched much like the temple goddess above, billowing thick robe flowing with each stride. His robe was a cloak covering a shirtless frame with a heavy pleated skirt. Each piece of clothing was etched in red and yellow and blue, fringed with stones and the occasional stone of obsidian.

As he walked the chanting ebbed and stopped. He began his great speech, telling the story of Ganyatihuta’s warm embrace of Zola, of the grace of heaven that had come over the city and the Luzum, and how the world would soon come under Keshkakan warmth. Then he introduced the Zivolds and Linzeolds of the villages and cities that had come to pay homage.

One by one throughout the day the walked to the Zivold and prostrated in front of him. They each spoke the same words of fealty and pledged their life to that of the Zivold. Each time, the Zivold repeated their pledge and announced his own pledge to Ganyatihuta. To Zola the countryside would be loyal, and to Ganyatihuta would Zola be loyal.

That was the way of the world now. An image of things to come. Hadr smiled.

—————————- Context: the Qet Savaq grow strong on the Luzum