WAR OF EMPİRES: ANCİENT REQUİEM

Everyone at the table had their eyes on Ilterish; they were all curious about what he would say next. Ilterish satisfied their curiosity.

"I believe that sect that attacked us recently also has ties to the Nabi."

Balamir furrowed his brow, Mukan slightly bowed his head, and the other council members continued to listen in quiet curiosity.

Ilterish chose his words carefully as he continued,

"Because among those attackers, there were those who used stones. It resembled an esoteric discipline directly derived from Nabi teachings."

Then he turned his gaze to Balamir and Mukan.

"We need to deal with them as well. They are secretly growing, organizing, and traitors within us are opening doors for them. They are not just a sect... They could be remnants of a much older, much more ancient structure. Perhaps they are being reshaped as another power in the hands of Gılgamısh or Caesar."

A chill swept through the room.

Ilterish finally leaned back in his chair and added in a clear tone.

"If we ignore them, one day they will destroy not only our walls but also our faith."

Almila nodded slightly. A few in the council exchanged worried glances. Now there was more than one enemy. Shadows were creeping everywhere. Almila suddenly stood up. In the heavy air of the chamber, her swift motion turned every eye toward her.

She stood at 1.70 meters tall, with a well-balanced and graceful figure. Her thick black hair flowed down to her back, swaying harmoniously with her every movement. Her facial features were elegant and measured—neither too harsh, nor too soft. In her eyes burned both nobility and a striking sense of resolve. The finely woven tunic she wore clearly reflected her high status as a princess of Tengritugen, emphasizing elegance over extravagance.

Almila was Attila's twin, and though only twenty-five years old, her stride and gaze gave her the air not just of a noblewoman, but of a warrior. There was a quiet, commanding authority to her. She carried her title not merely by birth, but through the force of her character.

And now, with that poised yet firm stance, she held the full attention of the room. Whatever she was about to say, it was clear—it would not just be a statement, but a stance.

Almila stood tall, her eyes gleaming with determination.

"Let me deal with the cult personally, I want to see this darkness with my own eyes and tear it up by its roots. I would carry out this mission with great pleasure."

As her words fell, the chamber sank into a brief silence. Ilterish tilted his head slightly and looked at her with a sigh. Then, with a serious expression, he added,

"I was already considering giving you this mission. I need someone I trust…"

After a short pause, he turned his gaze toward his father, Balamir, and asked without looking away,

"By the way... any word from my brother?"

A deep shadow crossed Balamir's face. The silence returned—this time heavier.

Then, the doors of the hall opened softly. A man entered wearing a green robe. Everyone at the table froze. A green light glowed on the man's forehead. With each step he took, grass and flowers sprouted from the ground. It was as if the essence of nature had taken form and flowed silently into the room.

He spoke with a voice both gentle and powerful.

"Don't worry. Your brother is safe. He's on his way to Miroma."

At those words, a commander suddenly leapt to his feet. Grabbing for his sword, he shouted.

"Who are you?!"

A small flower bloomed on the stranger's shoulder. Pollen drifted from it toward the commander's face. Within seconds, the man stumbled and collapsed to the floor unconscious.

Mukan slammed his hand on the table and stood with fury. His face bore a mixture of rage and disbelief.

"Enkidu! You bastard! How did you get in here?!"

Enkidu remained unfazed, answering in a mocking tone.

"Good to see you too, Mukan. Also… really? Are you actually asking me that?"

Ilterish rose abruptly as well, his eyes blazing.

"What are you doing here?!"

Enkidu strolled slowly toward the table. He reached out and took an apple from the fruit bowl. His eyes scanned the room, coolly assessing everyone. He bit into the apple. The crunch echoed through the tense silence like a drumbeat. Then his voice followed—sarcastic and velvet-smooth.

"Relax, everyone… I'm here for peace. I think."

All eyes were on him, but Enkidu seemed completely unfazed.

He was Gılgamısh's right hand—the silent legend. Many had heard the name, few had seen the face. From palace halls to alley whispers, his name traveled like myth: "The man who walks with secrets."

He stood at 1.76 meters, yet his presence felt far larger. His blond hair framed striking blue eyes—eyes that could either draw you in or drive you back. Within them danced both mercy and menace.

He was handsome and lean—not fragile, but refined. Like the calm of an ancient summer day, ready to ignite into a storm. Though his face retained the softness of youth, his gaze carried the weight of thousands of secrets.

He rarely entered battle, but when he did—be it a giant or a man—they all fell the same. He didn't need to display his power; his presence alone was enough.

This was Enkidu: the man from the shadows, bringer of peace or herald of ruin—no one truly knew.

Enkidu turned his head slightly, his eyes locking with Almila's. There was a flicker of familiarity in them, and his voice came smooth as silk.

"You grow more beautiful with each passing year, Princess Almila."

His words drifted gently through the room, but a subtle spark lay hidden beneath them. Almila said nothing. Her eyes locked with Enkidu's—like two former confidants staring into each other's silence. Yet the emotion concealed in that gaze wasn't coldness or anger; it was a deep, undefined tension.

Enkidu's body trembled slightly—not from fear, but from something instinctive, stirred by memory, by an old touch, by something unfinished.

A faint, mocking smile crept across his lips.

"Do you really have to scare me like that?"

His voice remained soft, but laced with a biting wit. His words poked at the past while giving a sly nod to an ongoing, silent war still simmering between them.