Chapter 4: Spinning Schemes
The seventeenth day of the tenth month of Imperial Year 1026
One thousand years before the present day, the humans, álfar, dwarves, and beastfolk cowered beneath the zlosta’s reign of terror. Seeking release from their lives of hellish drudgery, the humans raised the banner of rebellion. Soon, they were joined by the other races, and a great war began—a war that ended with the zlosta’s defeat and exile to the southern archipelago of Ambition.
Yet not all of the zlosta went south. Some chose to remain in Soleil to aid their kin who had been too slow to flee. The ones who stayed established the Kingdom of Lebering. However, as the ages passed and they mingled with the other peoples of Soleil, their blood grew so thin that most children in the present day possessed no mana at all. For all intents and purposes, they were almost human. Even the royal line was no longer pure.
The capital of Lebering was the fortress-city of Tiane, the Bastion of Violet Flakes. Surrounded by a deep moat, defended by two sturdy concentric walls, and accessible only by a retractable drawbridge, it was impervious to any assault. Atop a hill overlooking the town sat the Amethyst Hall of Tiare. Between the snow-dusted townscape and the shining white walls of the palace, the royal city filled visitors with solemn awe, and when the sun emerged and set it all aglitter, it struck them with such beauty that they were apt to weep.
Within the palace, the nexus of their admiration, dwelled Queen Claudia van Lebering. She was currently holding an audience with an unusual visitor. A lavish chandelier hung from the ceiling of the throne room, bathing the red carpet in a soft glow. A hooded figure dropped to one knee before the throne and bowed their head. The sides of the red carpet were thronged with nobles, but nobody spoke. There was only an unnerving silence.
Claudia, seated on her throne, was the first to move. A small shift of her head sent a shimmer through her violet hair, for which she had earned the name of Vernesse, the Princess of Amethyst. Her fringe fell across her beguiling eyes, and she brushed it aside with a slender finger. With her ethereal features once more exposed, her snow-white skin glowed in the firelight. That pallor marked her as an auf: a changeling child born a zlosta but forced to live as one of the álfar.
Her thin pink lips parted, and an imposing voice came forth. “May I ask your name?”
Granted leave to speak, the hooded figure rose beneath the queen’s imperious gaze. “I am Nemea. One of the twelve primozlosta.”
Shocked gasps arose from the nobles. The twelve primozlosta were their ancestors, as pure of blood as Lebering’s founder, Lox. As the clamor grew louder, Claudia raised a hand. The motion was small, but the nobles immediately contained their excitement, eager to avoid drawing her ire.
Once silence had returned, she placed an elbow on the throne’s armrest and laid her chin in her hand. “A difficult claim to believe. Did the twelve primozlosta not perish at Mars’s hands?”
“We were defeated, yes. But we survived by the grace of our Lord. Even among the zlosta, he loves us especially dearly.”
Nemea’s hood made it hard to see his expression, but he spoke with such confidence that it was tempting to believe he was telling the truth. Still, his story was a difficult one to accept. He had provided no evidence, and who would believe that one of the forefathers of the zlosta race could still be alive a thousand years later?
“I have heard that the primozlosta had their Lord’s favor,” Claudia said. “And that it granted them deathlessness.”
This figure calling himself Nemea had only just made himself known, striding boldly into the throne room in the middle of proceedings. Uncertain what to do with this man who called himself a primozlosta and clearly possessed mana, the guards had let him in. No doubt it had helped that he had lilac skin. Lebering may have called itself the land of the zlosta, but its blood grew thinner every year; nowadays, lilac skin was rare and confined to the privileged classes, and tended to afford a great deal of respect.
“Nemea, you call yourself. No doubt the truth, if the rest of your story is to be believed.” Claudia sighed. She knew that was a noncommittal response, but in truth, Nemea’s presence was unwelcome whether or not he was what he claimed. If she cast him out as a liar, her political opponents would no doubt seize on him as the perfect candidate to depose her, but he was too overtly suspicious to accept as the real thing. Her rivals might use him to sway popular opinion against her.
“It is the truth. For centuries, we have concealed ourselves in darkness, but now our Lord’s revelation has led us back out into the light.”
“Even so, you must realize that I have no way of telling you from a wandering zealot. How can you prove what you claim?”
Nemea cast back his hood. The nobles gasped. Some clapped their hands to their mouths, while others visibly fought back the urge to vomit. Even Claudia’s brows knitted in surprise. He had no eyes, and there was a horrid scar in the middle of his forehead where something had been torn free.
Nemea looked unruffled even as his audience reeled in shock. He traced his forehead scar with a finger, his dry lips curving into a smile. “I bear the marks of my torture at the War God’s hands.”
“I can see that you have been cruelly wounded,” Claudia said, “but how does this help your case?”
“Every primozlosta had their eyes and manastones plucked from their heads by the War God.”
Again, it was difficult to know what to make of his claim. If he was trying to impugn the name of the War God, it would not be welcomed in the human-dominated Soleil. Lebering was not only the empire’s neighbor, it was also a longtime ally. Giving credence to such volatile notions would only bring needless strife.
Claudia laid a hand on her forehead, shaking her head slowly. “Clearly, some tragedy has befallen you, but I remain unconvinced.”
The gears of her mind were turning. This man was too dangerous to keep close, but held at arm’s length, he could make a convenient pawn. Her lips began to tremble in barely suppressed anticipation. Yes, she could make very good use of him indeed.
Her delight lasted only moments—until Nemea gestured to the royal blade of Lebering leaning against the throne. “I see you bear Hauteclaire, sword of your forefather, Lox...or perhaps I should call it Asura of the Archfiend’s Fellblades? Would that prove who I am?”
The amusement fell from Claudia’s face. Only she was supposed to know that. All writings about Hauteclaire had been burned during the third emperor’s purges, by which time Lox had already divided its power between three Relics. Until being reassembled by Claudia, it had been known only as a treasure of Lebering, and the name of Asura had been assumed by the kingdom’s three mightiest generals who guarded its pieces.
“Asura, the Kinslaying Blade,” Nemea continued. He spoke without hesitation, confident in his words. “It was reforged by Lox when he defected to the War God’s service, and none but his bloodline can now wield it. Its Graal devours the manastones of his kin, amplifying its wielder’s mana and granting them limitless strength.”
Claudia watched him silently, her violet eyes dreadfully cold. “You know an awful lot of things you ought not to.”
“But of course. It was once ours.”
“Is that why you are here, Nemea of the primozlosta? To reclaim it?”
“I would like nothing better, but our Lord has seen fit to forgive your misguided ways.”
“How very generous. Why, I may just cry.”
“He asks only one thing in return.”
“And what is that?”
“War is coming to the north, and soon. When it does, he asks that you join our cause. That is his price.”
“I’m afraid I must ask for more specifics.”
Claudia’s confusion was feigned. She could guess what he meant. From what he was saying, the twelve primozlosta had a hand in the north’s recent instability. It was likely they would ask for her aid in bringing about the downfall of House Scharm and the rest of the northern nobles.
“Lend your aid,” Nemea continued, “and our Lord will grant you whatever lands you desire.”
Claudia had expected that too. Her interest rapidly cooled. Nemea’s self-importance stuck in her throat. Perhaps he had lived a thousand years; his presence certainly had enough weight. No doubt he possessed a primozlosta’s strength as well. The nobles of Lebering were looking at him in awe. To men and women who dreamed of reclaiming the zlosta’s former glory, his words were surely enticing. Yet they left Claudia’s heart cold, and she could only wonder why.
Nemea’s voice took on a passionate intensity. “Do you not also stand to gain? Do you not wish for the zlosta to walk once more beneath the sun?”
“Why would I ally myself with the Lord who knew of our plight but did nothing to aid us?”
“He is not to blame. It took us many centuries to gather our strength, and the humans were shielded by the Spirit King.”
Long, long ago, the true god had shaped Aletia from nothingness. But lamenting its flaws, he had abandoned his creation, leaving five beings in his likeness to rule the world in his stead.
The Lord of Nature, Yog-Sothoth—the Spirit King.
The Lord of Impermanence, the Demiurgos—the Faceless King.
The Lord of Creation, Ogun—the Iron Monarch.
The Lord of War, Surtr—the Black-Winged Lord.
The Lord of Life, Shub-Niggurath—the Faerie King.
They were called the Five Lords of Heaven, and their birth signified the beginning of the Age of Gods. Of the five, the Spirit King was worshipped as a god by humans. By gifting Emperor Artheus the Five Spiritblade Sovereigns that brought an end to the age of the zlosta, he had ushered in an era of human rule and now enjoyed widespread veneration.
Nemea’s words struck a chord with Claudia. “Are you suggesting that the Spirit King’s protection is no more?” she asked.
“Indeed. The once proud deity has grown weak. Now, he hides himself away. Only his spirits remain, and they are a dying breed.”
“And you are certain of this? That he has lost his power?”
“Our Lord, the Faceless King, has testified to it. Sustaining a thousand years of human rule has sapped his strength.” Nemea gestured theatrically in the light of the chandelier, his words as much a performance for the nobles as for Claudia’s ears. “Magick will run thick in Soleil once more. The world will become a kinder place for zlosta. Lend our Father your strength and faith, and you shall reap the reward: a new golden age!”
“A tempting offer indeed,” Claudia said.
“Then may I assume...?”
She nodded, a beaming smile spreading across her face. “I respectfully decline.”
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