Spring Meets the Gale Sovereign
He learned his motherland was rotten on the day he slew his brother.
He learned the throne was rotten on the day he slew his father.
He learned the world was rotten on the day he laid the neighboring lands to waste.
There was no redemption lying in wait for him. No love. No hope. He could discern no reason to live.
In lieu of anything else, he abused his power. He ravaged other nations as his ambitions bid, satisfying his base avarice with rampant plunder. By the time the enjoyment faded, his actions had sown discontent across the land, but he felt no fear—perhaps the fall of his empire would provide a new diversion. Yet fate was cruel and did not see fit to teach him the novelty of defeat. Soon, ten years had passed since he took the throne of the Grantzian Empire, and his thirst remained unsatisfied.
He had obtained the blessing of a Spiritblade, assumed the throne, taken a wife, sired children, and devoted his every waking moment to the development of the empire. More than a few nations had burned as he indulged his ambitions. Yet his heart knew no contentment. He dreamed of one day becoming the thirteenth Divine, but he could not tell if even that was his true desire. It felt as if he was trapped in impenetrable darkness, uncertain what he wanted or where he was going.
“For what purpose was I born?” Emperor Greiheit whispered to the wind sheathing his right arm. “For what reason do I live?”
A soft breeze brushed his cheek as if in hesitation, but that was all.
At that moment, he heard voices from outside. Somebody pounded on the carriage door. He opened the window to find the deputy captain of the imperial guard looking in.
“We are close to Linkus, Your Majesty.”
“Have we, indeed. I pray their taverns at least have good drink.”
The southern territories had once been a cluster of smaller nations. They had been absorbed by the empire several generations past, but the grudges of that time still remained—the people’s hearts were ever complex and mysterious. Now, the tremors of constant warfare had reopened old wounds, and the people of the south had grown critical of the throne.
“I do not see the need for this charade. If they will not bend the knee, we shall simply make them. I ought to be razing Faerzen and on my way to conquer Six Kingdoms.”
Unlike the álfar, humans lived short lives. That was a law that even a Spiritblade’s blessing could not bend. He had much to do, which meant he had to make prudent use of the time he was allotted—rather than, say, wasting his time on some meaningless tour of the south.
“I fear we have little choice, Your Majesty. We must do something to quell this internal strife.”
The deputy captain opened the door and bowed his head, the better to placate his emperor. Greiheit stepped out and looked around. As he got his bearings, he saw a gathering of Linkus commonfolk watching from afar, clad in mud-stained clothing.
“Half of them wear little better than rags,” he remarked. “Is this the place that was once called a verdant paradise? I was a fool to hope for fine drink.”
He heaved a sigh as he looked at the tavern at the side of the road. His imperial guard seemed to have entered ahead of him; patrons were already hurrying out.
The deputy captain shrugged, smiling wryly. “Those tales are from the old days, when the south was one. Perhaps Your Majesty might have found more to entertain him in Sunspear?”
“I would rather drink ditchwater than spend another dinner listening to more drivel from more accursed officials.”
Greiheit passed through the tavern door, sat down, and rested his legs on the table. His guards brought him a goblet of wine. He downed it in one gulp, then looked over his men—a wordless sign of permission. Soon they were making merry with drinks in hands. Greiheit snorted as he watched the deputy captain pour another cup.
At that moment, the door burst open with a tremendous bang. The sunlight was too strong for him to see who had entered, but judging by his guards’ protests, it was nobody he knew. Oddly, however, they hesitated, as if afraid to confront the intruder. If anything, they backed away.
By the time Greiheit’s eyes adjusted to the glare, the figure had advanced before him. The deputy captain froze with his bottle upturned, leaving its contents to overflow from the goblet and over his emperor’s fingers. It was hard to blame him. Even Greiheit, who had his share of princesses waiting on his hand, was struck dumb by the woman he saw. Yet he recovered more quickly than his men—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was shaken to his senses. Before he knew it, he was lying sprawled on the floor.
“What kind of emperor carouses while his people suffer?!”
For a moment, he did not even register what the woman was saying, only that she had her fist raised. His cheek began to burn. As he came to the realization that he had been punched, her foot struck him square in the face.
It was not anger he felt, but something stranger—something he could not quite identify. All he could think about as he watched the crimson-haired woman flee the tavern was how bitter dirt tasted. His guards were drawing their swords, and he was taken aback by the anger in his voice as he commanded them to stop. Those who moved to chase after her, he sent flying with Gandiva.
“Ha ha... Ha ha ha ha ha! Truly, fate is a strange mistress.”
Even he was not quite certain why he was laughing. All he knew was that he had gained something irreplaceable. He felt his heart begin to thaw beneath its many layers of ice. His throat grew tight at the misfortune of it, and he began to weep at the tragedy of it.
“That I would find you in this place, in this age, at this time...”
At last, he had found a reason to live, and all he could do was resent the curse that bound him. He learned fate was rotten on the day he met her.
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