Chapter 1: Restless Darkness
Long, long ago, the zlosta presided over an age of darkness. Nations fell, rose, and fell again under their unshakable rule. Guided by the revelations of the Demiurgos—also known as the Faceless King, one of the gods known as the Five Lords of Heaven—and led by the twelve primozlosta, they sought to unify Soleil.
Those who are not zlosta are no better than beasts was the creed of zlosta supremacy. It crushed nations unfortunate enough to be home to other peoples beneath its merciless heel, and even surrender often did not save them. The continent was beset by endless war, winds of plague swept the ruined lands, and the mounds of bodies birthed new contagions. In short order, the world was glutted with corpses.
Displeased by what they saw, the other Lords of Heaven lent their aid to the other peoples of Aletia, but the Faceless King only grew in power and the zlosta’s conquest would not be stopped. They imprisoned the humans, brutalized the álfar, starved the beastfolk, and worked the dwarves cruelly. One day, however, they made a single, fateful mistake. Driven by victors’ arrogance to seek new amusements, a moment’s indulgence proved their downfall.
The Lionheart was born to the humans of Soleil, while the Hero King was born to save them. Their combined might struck fear into the zlosta’s hearts. Even the twelve primozlosta were not exempt—the one named Hydra in particular. He learned the terror of the twinblack boy for himself when they clashed in the climactic battle of the war between zlosta and humans. Hydra had lost the fight and been taken prisoner.
“Finally, we can begin,” the boy said. With such kind features, he looked like he would hardly hurt a fly, but the way his eyes flashed as he looked over the torture implements told a more chilling tale.
“What do you mean to do to me?” Hydra asked.
The boy cocked his head. After a long moment, his face eased into a natural smile. “I need power.” His black mantle swirled about as he walked up to the captive Hydra, reaching out his hand. “Power that could kill a god.”
“Still seeking power, after all you’ve done? What is it that you—”
A hand closed over Hydra’s mouth, and he knew true terror.
He heard all the boy’s naive dreams while his eyes were carved out.
He heard all the boy’s wishes while his arms were sawn off.
He heard all the boy’s ideals while his legs were severed from his torso.
As the blade bit agonizingly into his forehead, he learned what was in the boy’s mind.
What had transformed him so? Who was to blame? Or had he perhaps been broken from the start? Hydra took refuge in pointless questions to save himself from despair, but his suffering continued without respite, and in time he ceased to think at all.
After the core of his being shattered, his memories ran as black as ink. He begged the boy with tears in his eyes, praying for a trace of kindness to appeal to even as the tools cut deeper. He apologized over and over as his ordeal dragged on, but his torturer only laughed. His life became nothing but the torment of the defeated, punctuated only by the screams of his comrades. Again and again he begged for death, and again and again and again. Trapped in a lightless world, he prayed to the darkness for deliverance. And then... And then...
And then he woke up, panting, and realized he had only been dreaming.
He needed water. He groped for the bottle he had left nearby but could not find it. He hauled himself across the ground until at last his hand struck something hard. There was a clunk as it fell over, and with the noise to guide him, he managed to grasp it at last. His hands were shaking so hard that he couldn’t remove the cap. He had to quell the tremors before he could finally slake his thirst.
“Another nightmare?”
The voice belonged to his comrade, Ladon: another primozlosta who had survived the great war, if being deliberately spared could be called survival. Hydra could no longer remember his face. A thousand long years had erased every memory of his features. Ladon thought the same of him, no doubt. The boy had blinded all of the surviving primozlosta on that dreadful day.
Hydra raised a hand to his forehead. “I was back there again.”
He realized there was a fire crackling in front of him, but while he could sense its presence, he could not see its light. Still, the knowledge that it was holding back the night helped to calm his mind from the nightmare and bring his memories back into focus.
“This is no time to be dozing. I have work to do. I must away.” He made to stand, cradling the article he had been given by the Faceless King.
“Why so anxious? There is no need to hurry. It will not be required just yet.”
“I would like to dispense with any uncertainty. None of us will be truly safe until we take our enemy’s head.”
“Have a drink. Take the weight off your feet.”
Hydra waved the proffered beverage aside. “This is no time for that! Do you not see? For a thousand long years we have watched our enemy’s empire grow fat, but now its downfall is nigh!” He stood up and his hood fell away, revealing a face covered in scars. The two yawning pits that were his eyes glared at Ladon, while his whole body heaved with the force of his breathing. “How can you stand to be at ease?!”
The wind blew, a cold blade that scored his skin and prickled his old scars.
“I cannot contain myself, Ladon. The thought of vengeance fills my belly with fire! Every time my scars itch, I remember the golden age he stole from us! And to reclaim it, we need our eyes...our manastones!” Hydra lowered his sightless gaze, covering his face with his hands.
Ladon sighed. “A thousand years is indeed a long time, but that is all the more reason not to be too hasty.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought this chance would never come. I daresay I had given it up for lost, believed him vanished beyond the boundless expanse. Yet now he has returned, and we might cast down the Grantzian Empire before his eyes. Is that not to be celebrated? Is it not cause for joy?”
Ladon paused for a moment, fixing Hydra with his empty gaze.
“Do not let anger cloud your vision.” The fire crackled, sending sparks dancing through the air. “First, we will lay waste to the empire. Only then will we descend upon the War God.”
Finally calmed, Hydra raised his head. His smile broadened. “Of course. As you say. The empire will fall. It cannot escape this fate.”
“His struggles will be in vain. All lies in the palm of our Lord’s hand.”
“Oh, Father, hear our prayer.” Hydra raised his hands to the night sky in supplication. “Grant death to von Grantz and bathe the zlosta in glory’s light.”
Ladon joined him. “Oh, Father, hear our prayer. Curse the foolish with eternal torment. Oh, Father, hear our prayer. Bless the faithful with eternal rest.”
＊＊＊＊＊
The tenth day of the tenth month of Imperial Year 1026
The Grantzian Empire was the conqueror of Soleil, recognized by all as the pinnacle of human achievement. After a thousand long years of reign, few nations remained that could challenge its supremacy. Perhaps it was natural, then, that its nobles had grown fat on peace and turned to despotism. Their tyranny scattered sparks of discontent that grew into raging fires, and the empire’s neighbors, smelling blood in the water, set to work in the shadows. Small skirmishes turned into larger engagements. Constant fighting sapped the nation’s lifeblood. Doomed to endless warfare by its size and strength, the empire had preyed on its neighbors for sustenance for a thousand years, and now they circled the aged lion with fangs bared, hungering for the fat stored in its belly.
The commonfolk of the empire were aware of its plight, but they were powerless to help. All they could do was pray for its victory in war as they awaited their sons’ and husbands’ safe return from the battlefield. Otherwise, living for today was more important than fear of the morrow.
The capital city of Cladius, commonly known simply as the imperial capital, was a veritable human utopia. Its historical buildings were wonderful enough, but the true symbol of its prosperity was its central boulevard, the empire’s front door. Rare delicacies were shipped in from all corners of Aletia to be sold in the shops lining the street. Statues of the Twelve Divines towered over the crowds as if to prove the empire’s glory. They watched over the people, greeted visitors from other lands, and struck awe into the hearts of the rulers of other nations.
A sightseer’s wonder would have little chance to fade before their gaze was once again caught by the imperial palace of Venezyne, sitting in the center of the city like a crown. A thousand years had done nothing to dim its magnificence. The stonework looked as new as the day it was built. If anything, the passage of time had only added to its majesty, granting it a new beauty through amplified grandeur and impressing upon others the greatness of the empire.
The eastern quarter of the palace compound served as the barracks and training ground of the Knights of the Golden Lion, elite troops of the First Legion and guardians of the capital. On most days, a terrible din would have arisen from the site, but not today. The knights were not in the capital; they had joined the sixth princess in her bid to liberate Faerzen. A force of eastern noble troops, predominantly belonging to House Kelheit, garrisoned the palace in their stead. Their mistress, the chancellor of the empire and acting head of House Kelheit, was pacing around her mansion in the western quarter.
“Cerberus!”
Rosa von Kelheit strode down the corridor, a hint of worry in her face. It did nothing to diminish her beauty, but if those who called her a vixen for her wiles were to see her now, they might have died of shock. The sentries positioned along the hallway followed her intently with their eyes as she passed. She was close enough to touch, and yet there would be consequences if they spoke so much as a word out of place. She was, after all, the acting head of a great house and the chancellor of the empire.
“Cerberus?! Where have you gotten to?!”
She opened doors and peered inside as she moved along the corridor, like a mother searching for a lost child.
“Where in the world has she gone?” She placed a bewildered hand on her hip and turned to a nearby guard. “Have you seen Cerberus?”
Addressed directly by his mistress, the man stiffened up and shook his head. “Not today, my lady.”
“I see. Forgive me for interrupting you.”
The guard bowed his head emphatically and departed. Once he was out of sight, Rosa brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and turned to the window.
No Comments Yet
Post a new comment
Register or Login