Ezrae falls Ill: “The Fickleness of the Human Psyche.

Ezrae sat with his head between his knees, his body trembling under the weight of grief and anger. The aftermath of the thief's rampage had left their small community… shattered.

Shelomith, Divora, and Reyna huddled around him, their gentle touches and soothing words offering solace, amidst the chaos that enveloped them.

Caleb, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, frantically dug through the debris, desperately seeking any sign of life from among the trapped Israelites, hoping against hope that at least one of them survived.

The once bustling market square was now a scene of devastation. Buildings lay in ruins, their walls reduced to piles of rubble, while smoke curled from the remnants of stalls, and the acrid scent of destruction hung heavily in the air.

Everyone present was paralyzed by shock and disbelief, their eyes filled with horror at the magnitude of the tragedy that had unfolded before them.

Amidst the silence, broken only by the soft weeping of children and the distant rumble of crumbling structures, a figure emerged from around the corner. It was Amon, his expression a mask of impassivity, his eyes ablaze with an intense fury.

Dragging the thief by his neck, Amon approached Ezrae, the thief's limp body leaving a trail of crimson drag-marks across the sandy ground.

With a brutal motion, Amon flung the thief to the ground, his face landing in the sand at Ezrae's feet. The force of the impact causing a spray of blood to gush from his nose, and soak the sand.

Then, without a word, he delivered a ruthless, powerful kick to the thief's jaw, the force of it eliciting a sickening crack. It was clear that Amon was not holding back.

Bloodied and broken, the thief lay motionless, his fate, seemingly sealed.

Amon, however, crouched beside Ezrae, their eyes locked in a fierce and fiery gaze.

In a voice nearly devoid of any emotion except pure, unadulterated anger; he spoke to Ezrae with a chilling, homicidal resolve. "Here he is, Akha. He's not going anywhere. I severed the tendons in his heels, with this blade."

Amon raised the knife between them, its wicked gleam reflecting in the harsh sunlight. Its stained edge whispered tales of violence and retribution.

The eerily glowing Jade was a dark, and yet beautiful, compliment to the deep black of the Zirconium. Ezrae was almost enchanted by the beauty of the blade. He shook his head and gently pushed the blade away from him, however, saying, "no… no… Amon… I can't…"

In response, Amon placed the knife into Ezrae's trembling hand, and he continued speaking in that low, and dangerous voice.

"He'll die either way, Ezrae. Show him no mercy. He WILL be put to death, for the crimes he has committed. Look at what he has cost the Pharaoh… Look at what he has cost you…

He took your grandfather's life, and the lives of ten other slaves! He caused immeasurable destruction, and he stole away the remnants of your very own existence! He doesn't deserve your pity!"

Ezrae's gaze shifted from the glinting blade to Amon, taking in the bloodstains that marred his friend's form. This was not the Amon he knew—the playful companion and protector.

This Amon was darker; he was a version of himself, hardened by anguish, and driven by anger. Those blood-soaked hands bore witness to the merciless actions he had undertaken.

But as Ezrae's eyes lowered, they fell upon his grandfather's staff lying just to his right. Where the dagger seemed to emanate a cold chill of vengeance, the staff seemed to emanate warmth and forgiveness.

The memories of Amitai flooded his mind, and his gentle voice seemingly echoed in his ears.

"Pick it up."

Without hesitation, Ezrae released the dagger, letting it drop blade-first into the sand, and reached for the staff. It was an ancient artifact, passed down through many generations.

The wood, weathered by time, felt warm against his palms, resonating with an ancient power. Intricate carvings adorned its length, markings from its previous owners who wanted to leave a piece of themselves.

As Ezrae grasped the staff, a surge of energy coursed through his veins, revitalizing his spirit, and filling him with a profound sense of peace.

Turning away from the fallen thief, Ezrae faced his friends once more. His voice, calm yet resolute, rang out with unwavering determination, and an almost arcane power…

"No. If I take his life, I become no better than him... No better than Cain..." His words carried a weight that silenced the onlookers.

"I am not a murderer… Achi, Bachuri… We are not murderers.

Today, no one else dies, please. Let the law decide his fate."

A flicker of admiration and awe danced in his friends' eyes as they beheld Ezrae's transformation. The pain, the fear, and the grief that had consumed him, just moments ago, had given way to a solemn tranquility.

It was a fleeting moment of respite amidst the chaos; a glimmer of hope in the darkest of times.

And then, as the group stood united, a sudden disruption shattered the fragile calm. Before anyone could react, a blinding light, light blue in color, erupted from behind Ezrae.

The next thing he knew, he felt a colossal force crash into him, and then a blinding pain in his head; as the world around him went black, and the screams of his friends echoed, from all around him.