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In the ninety-seventh year of Emperor Nio Beumeut’s reign, Izra Dziove’s visions ceased to be anything useful. From the cradle, Izra had been gifted dreams from his god, Suoduny, He Who Weaves Our Fates. Violent things, usually; portents of war, or threats against His Excellency, the True Commander’s— person—forewarnings useful to an emperor with a crumbling hold on his nation. But that year, for many months now, Izra had been dreaming of one thing only. A man. In the dream, Izra stood pressed up against the cold glass of the window, watching his persistent visitor disappear into the sunset. Every time he had this dream, Izra was powerless to stop the man’s retreat. Then, when at last the sun would dip below the horizon, the frigid landscape would be set ablaze. The departing man would be caught in the glare and seem to light up from the inside, his russet-brown skin turning honey gold. He would looked back at Izra once, but the brilliance of the sun concealed his face. It was always this way. All his features were blotted out by the sunset’s final flare. Izra did not know the dream man’s name, but felt like he knew him as well as his own soul. Even after years of having the same dream, Izra had no explanation for that contradiction. He only knew it to be true. Each time Izra saw him—his nameless man—he was overcome by a feeling. A pull in his heart, in the very depths of his soul; this urge to step forward, to run after him. Izra knew in some other life, the gods had made that man his.
