ground zero

The thunder screeched. The rajah was back at Ground Zero. The black and white squares seemed to have dust swirling around them. It began to rain. It avoided the small invisible dome around the board and the players. It turned yellow and sizzled and burnt as it touched the shadow rajah. He put back his head, chest out, face facing the sky, and let out a magnificent roar. His chest rose and deflated. The shadows around him scrambled, and then sped inwards towards him, seemingly absorbed by him. He didn’t change size, he didn’t get bigger, but he felt scarier, more frightening. The board let out a radiant purple light. By the glow of its light, the world seemed mancing, scary. Frightening. Everything was upset. The order was all upset.

The shadow rajah was now silent. The girl was gone. The boy had fled. He could not find him. But the boy had found the power within him, and Azazil only knew of one other that had. He knew beings walked the earth that were far more powerful than anyone could suspect. All their legends, all their myths. Nothing could prepare people for the creatures that walked the earth. The ones that looked like you or I. The shadow rajah knew that. But he had never met one that was like him. And Hur, it seemed, had found that. He flicked two shadowy, waving fingers and dozens of shadows sped outwards. He whistled, and hundreds of shadows came hurtling towards him, hundreds of thousands would keep coming. They touched him, almost reverently, and then just as quickly, sped outwards. All had one singular purpose. To find the boy. Soon, he was the only one left, standing still, his shadowy body no longer flickering, just still and feeling solid, quite unlike it had felt before. Never before had there been no other shadows, they had always stood here, since the beginning, sentinels of this place. Minions of Azazil. Meant to keep this place from prying eyes. Meant to protect, and guard it from those who may seek to oppose him. It no longer mattered. One of the three was dead. The second was on the run, he would soon be found. Unless… what if- no, he shook his head and dust fell from the charred trees, no, that could not be. And the third, well, the third was him. Three was the number told in all the prophecies. The only things of importance in this game were in threes. Him, the girl, the boy. The board, the two men. He would not be bested. He could not be bested. It was all here for him. He would win. He had to. He must. Because if not, all had been for naught. And he could not bear the idea.

For now, he folded his arms, he stood, unbothered by the discomfort of the rain falling and burning on him, unbothered by the thunder that cackled dangerously near the ground. Unbothered by the fact that the world was being rent apart. Because it must. It must.