The Children of the Twelfth Sun

The desert stretched out like a sheet of hammered bronze under a sun that scorched the sands into molten glass. From the cliffs above, one could see the figures moving in lines, robed and bent under the weight of their masters' burdens. These slaves, human in form but hollow in spirit, toiled endlessly beneath the towering structures of Eridug, built by the hands of gods—though no god had touched them, only the callous will of the Annunaki.

In the world below, the people knew the stories of the Annunaki, the celestial beings from Nibiru, the Twelfth Planet. They were not born of this earth, nor were they mere visitors. According to the oldest lore, they arrived when the world was young, breaking through space and time like a spear through armor. They spoke of Nibiru, a hidden planet in the farthest reaches of the solar plane, with an orbit so long it crossed paths with Earth only once every 3,600 years.

The High King Alulim sat upon his throne in Eridug, hands crossed, draped in robes spun from rare metals and stones—spoils from conquered worlds and all he had gleaned from Earth itself. His face was lined with knowledge and cruelty, his eyes sharp as flint, as he gazed upon the emissaries standing before him. They came from different clans, human warlords of rival cities, each one a pawn, here to pledge allegiance to the Annunaki or to die.

Alulim's blood was mixed with the humans'—he carried their memories, their fleeting passions. Yet the Annunaki lineage in him held fast. He did not pity them; they were tools, builders, soldiers, and, when necessary, sacrifices.

Tonight, however, his mind turned not to war, but to love. In the shadows, one woman held his thoughts hostage. She was of human blood, fierce and cunning, her beauty like a desert rose—her name was Lilia. Her raven hair spilled down her back in waves, and her eyes were dark as the night. Though she was mortal, Alulim had taken her as his consort. She had given him two sons, both bearing his fierce gaze and the fire of their mother's defiance. Politics made him keep her at a distance, but his longing for her was fierce. It was said that she wielded her own power over him, that she was a seer, her dreams laced with visions.

In her chambers, Lilia saw more than dreams; she saw the return of Nibiru and the impending ruin of Earth. Each night, she looked at her children with a heavy heart, for the stars whispered of destruction and the awakening of ancient forces. Her sons were drawn to politics and war, too young to understand the prophecies that haunted their mother. She confided in her closest handmaiden, Tana, the only one she trusted with her darkest visions.

"They will come," Lilia whispered. "The gods who abandoned their children to this cursed planet will return, but they bring ruin, not salvation."

Tana clasped Lilia's hands, fear in her eyes. "My lady, how can we prepare? They say Alulim does not believe in the old prophecies. He laughs at them."

"He is blind," Lilia said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But he will see when it is too late."

That night, under the cloak of darkness, Lilia ventured to the sacred sands, a place forbidden to all save the High Priest. In her dreams, she had seen this place, seen herself kneeling in the sand and reaching out to the stars, calling upon the powers of the Annunaki ancestors. She buried her hands in the earth and whispered in a tongue that was not her own, a language only the stars remembered.

The sky responded with a quiet tremor. Stars blinked out one by one, and a crimson glow took their place. From that night on, the stars carried the weight of blood.

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When the Annunaki ship descended, it was not as fire from the heavens, but with a rumble that shook the stones of Eridug. The people fled in terror as the shadows of the ships covered the city. The Annunaki emerged, towering beings cloaked in strange armor, their eyes devoid of emotion. Alulim's sons led a charge against them, though it was hopeless—blades and arrows fell like dust before the Annunaki's strange weaponry.

From atop his throne, Alulim watched his sons fall, his face a mask of pride and fear. He had been warned by Lilia, but he had ignored her visions. Now, he saw her running toward the field, toward her children's bodies, her face a mask of rage and despair. She lifted the sword of her fallen son and stood alone against the Annunaki warriors, her scream echoing into the night.

The Annunaki commander paused, regarding her with something akin to curiosity. Alulim descended from his throne and watched as Lilia, in her defiance, began to chant the ancient incantations she had learned. The ground trembled, and the Annunaki commander stepped back, eyes narrowing.

But it was too late for incantations, too late for ancient bloodlines. As Alulim reached out to her, she struck him with her son's blade, a blow that would be remembered in the legends of men as the day the gods turned on their own.

The Annunaki left that day, taking their bloodline, their knowledge, and their power with them, leaving the city to burn. They left, but Lilia's cry lingered in the air.

She died alone, by her own hand, atop the sands that had seen her visions. In time, men would say that she had summoned the Annunaki and had bargained with them for her vengeance, though none would know the truth of her prophecy.

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Generations later, in the ruins of Eridug, her name lived on as a curse, and the Children of the Twelfth Sun still looked to the stars, waiting for the Annunaki to return, praying they would never come back.