There was only one purpose to the joyless stone room beneath the Mountains of Zagros, and that was to birth a hero. Within that windowless room was a single stone bed that would otherwise be shrouded in darkness were it not for the dim flames of seven wax candles and the glowing red engravings of an intricate ritual circle carved into the floor.

  The candles flickered and the red glow deepened as the wails of the woman upon the bed reached a crescendo, and gave rise to the first cry of a newborn child. Though for what ought to be a day to welcome new life, that small stone room remained eerily tense.

  “A son.” An old midwife said as she wrapped the newborn in cloth.

  "Give him to me." Ninsun demanded, as traces of anxiety dominated her expression through the pain.

  As Ninsun cradled the infant tightly with great care, the midwife turned her emotionless gaze to the only other person in the room. The man was middle-aged at a glance, though he had the bearing of someone older. Long, matted black hair hung neatly down the back of his shoulders and a thick braided beard covered much of his weathered bronze skin.

  He would otherwise be normal were it not for his eyes. Slightly sunken and opened eerily wide at all times, it made for a haunted, stoic expression that did not match his priestly white robes.

  Unsettling enough to distract from the banded shepherd's crown of ancient times he wore atop his head, and the amulet of a white sun upon black metal that hung from his neck.

  Lugalbanda said nothing for a tense moment. He merely stared at the crying child. "There is no Light."

  “No!” Panic spread through Ninsun’s face as she pulled her child even closer into her embrace. But the midwife was undeterred by her desperate plea and reached for the boy.

  "Gilgamesh!" Ninsun blurted out, and shock spread across the midwife's face. "His name is Gilgamesh…"

  Her shock gave way to agitation, and the midwife turned to Lugalbanda for direction. But the man merely stood by as he always did, stoically and silently. The child's crying grew louder as the tension in the air sharpened enough to jab at his soft skin.

  “The name was given.” Ninsun spoke with as much boldness as she could muster, as if to confirm what had just happened.

  Lugalbanda remained for a time, mere moments that seemed to weigh upon the world for far longer. And then he left without so much as another word.

  Trembling relief overcame Ninsun. Tears flowed from her eyes as she tried to console the boy. “I’m sorry, my son… I promise you will have a good life. I promise…”

  Quiet tears flowed more in the dark, stone room, filled only with the sound of crying.

  ~~~

  Fire tore through his mind like wretched claws, but Gilgamesh endured. He stood, barely, within a small stone room illuminated by hostile torches, clutching a crystal ball that served as the medium for this petty ritual.

  He was different from the others at a glance. Wrapped head to toe in white bandages that covered every inch of his body aside from his eyes and mouth, the cause of which could be gleaned from what little of his skin was visible.

  Darkened, withered, and scarred, like cursed leather. Such a state could only derive from the occult, proven further by the unsettling red of his eyes. Piercing eyes with a subtle intensity that many would mistake for emotion.

  He wore nothing else but the loose purple robes of a priest, tied at the waist with a simple cloth sash, and shoes made from soft leather tied by a string at his ankles that more resembled narrow pouches.

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  Though it could not be told from his concealed face, his height, build, and poise suggested that the man was no more than 20 years of age.

  "Hnnnnnaaaaahhhhhh!" The bald man standing opposite him let out a strained groan and the veins bulged in his temples as he pressed the attack. He clutched in his hands the same kind of crystal ball and donned a similar set of purple robes, albeit of a more complete attire.

  Gilgamesh's grip tightened from the worsening mental strain so firmly that his crystal ball would have shattered then and there had he any strength to boast of.

  He had long lost awareness of his surroundings. The only thing he could perceive now was the two Seas of Consciousness crashing together without rest. Brute force was the most common way to win, but Gilgamesh could rarely rely on such methods. He was usually the weaker of these contests.

  As it always was, he had to make use of what little he had to survive. Gilgamesh gathered all of his consciousness and struck with a straight attack down the middle of his opponent’s mind, like the thrust of a spear.

  His mind withdrew just as quickly, and as his opponent's sea charged to fill the gap left behind, he pulled his consciousness back further still and spread it thin to encircle the other sea entirely.

  Small spears jabbed out from all sides, damaging the enemy sea as much as they could. Sensing the danger, the bald man launched an attack at a single point, as he aimed to split his consciousness in half.

  Gilgamesh swelled his mind at the point of attack just enough to withstand it, and continued his onslaught. Wounded and now desperate, the man's sea thrashed in response, like a wild beast backed into a corner.

  But Gilgamesh endured. He endured and attacked and attacked and endured. Every moment felt like it would be his last, but he persevered to the next. Again and again, drawing upon every ounce of his limits. And finally, his opponent's crystal ball shattered as his opponent collapsed into a writhing seizure.

  Gilgamesh held onto his, refusing to let it or himself fall. The violent agony within his head had already started to lessen, but Gilgamesh knew well from experience that it would linger for some time.

  The same could not be said for his opponent, however. That unbearable agony would hold strong for a few days at least, a consequence he was also familiar with all too well.

  Mind Clash. That was the name of this ritual. The most common of the many barbaric forms of training within the clan, one that all unawakened were required to take part in every 3 days.

  It was said to increase the power and endurance of the mind, to enable one's consciousness to more easily open up to the supernatural. While the strength of Gilgamesh's mind had indeed improved, he had never once come close to succeeding, no matter how far he pushed himself. It seemed this day was no different.

  Gilgamesh returned his crystal ball to an altar under the silent judgement of the overseer in the room, and walked out without so much as a word into a well-lit corridor made of intricately carved white marble. He headed through this labyrinth of paths without hesitation, ignoring the beauty of its make and the hostility of those he passed by.

  Disgust. Aversion. Disdain. Hatred. He was met with adverse looks of all manner at every step of the way. They whispered under their breath or quietly cursed him directly, but he ignored them all the same.

  A stern man intentionally bumped his shoulder as he crossed past. Crippling pain shot like lightning through Gilgamesh's leprotic body at the contact, but he bore it without an obvious sign. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him weak.

  Soon, Gilgamesh came to an open doorway and entered through to a large Mess Hall. Hundreds already sat within, eating and socializing in a casual manner, and most of them wore white robes. More of the same hostile looks shot his way from those who noticed his presence, but he ignored them as well and walked towards the serving line.

  Gilgamesh watched as those in front of him received large wooden bowls of fine food, appealing in both look and presentation. Diet was strictly controlled within the clan. Everyone received the same thing, carefully chosen for physical and spiritual health, though Gilgamesh could not confirm for himself how effective it was for the latter.

  As his turn came, the serving woman gave him a long look of disdain before reaching down to a different row under the counter. The bowl she handed him was a far cry from the others.

  Half a loaf of stale bread, two small fish that seemed undercooked even at a glance, porridge and vegetable soup sloppily dumped in the center, all utterly lacking any of the variety and appeal of the norm.

  But Gilgamesh took it without complaint all the same. It would only get worse if he didn't. He had no allies here. As he headed straight back for the doorway, a familiar face he had preferred to avoid walked in.

  It was a young man roughly his own age. Bronze of skin with golden hair, adorned in silk and trinkets, he was the very portrait of a heroic prince. One that carried with him a smile of infallible confidence as though to confirm as much to all who laid eyes on him.

  His golden eyes locked onto Gilgamesh as soon as they caught sight of him, and the man walked straight over, accompanied by his usual cronies.

  “Did you train today, brother?” Marduk asked.