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I've written a fantasy book, titled Balthasar, and will be publishing it for free on Patreon. The prologue and first chapter are currently published, and a new chapter will be posted every Tuesday. The story follows Balthasar Blackvale, a half-demon who aims to become Demon King.
If you like the content, please share it with any of your friends who might be interested.
I've written a fantasy book, titled Balthasar, and will be publishing it for free on Patreon. The prologue and first chapter are currently published, and a new chapter will be posted every Tuesday. The story follows Balthasar Blackvale, a half-demon who aims to become Demon King.
If you like the content, please share it with any of your friends who might be interested.
A cruel sun seared a barren expanse, smothering the solitary figure trudging through ashen dunes—the lone sojourner in a lifeless sea of sand. The traveler drew his cloak tighter as he walked, sighing in irritation as he struggled in vain to shield even a fraction more of skin from smoldering sunlight. He could see an enormous object looming in the distance, a gargantuan grave marker that stood watch over the burial grounds of a millennium-dead kingdom. Slanted in the sand at a haphazard angle, the enormous construct's submerged torso would have towered over most cities, its once lustrous ceramic exterior now grizzled, faded, and chipped. The golem's ghastly visage leered out over the desert, its gaunt and mirthless skeletal expression seemingly mocking the one person foolhardy enough to trespass through this masterless domain.
The traveler suppressed an urge to head toward the unnatural landmark, whose sprawling shade beckoned with a promise of reprieve. Rest was a trap; the less time spent in this hell, the better. He fished through a pocket, producing a small object that he quickly shook free of sand before delicately brushing clean the glass casing. The compass's needle span erratically, refusing to grant a steady bearing.
He growled with exasperation. The polarity of this place was too inconstant, and the periods when a compass could deliver an accurate reading were infrequent. And without the patience and inclination to wait for nightfall and the guidance of the North Star, the traveler had no choice but to rely on instinct and memory, tools whose effectiveness were suspect in such an unstable setting.
The center. The center was his destination. He was certain that if what he sought lay anywhere, it would be in the heart of this place. After nearly two years of searching, he was so close that he could feel it as acutely as the prickling sensation of his flesh slowly but surely being broken apart by the Vanishing Sickness that lay like a cloud over this place.
The half-demon Balthasar Blackvale, perked his ears suddenly, his shining yellow eyes darting toward the sky. They surveyed the horizon, gleaming irises roaming back and forth in scleras like darkness. Before long he caught sight of the source of the noise that had alerted him: coming from his left, a group of airships sped far overhead. At such a distance, an ordinary human wouldn't have been able to detect the dull thrumming of the vessels' propellers, but the halfling’s acute hearing was able to distinguish it. He watched the ships with keen interest that quickly evolved into surprise as more and more airships appeared, a group growing into a congregation. A swarm of shadows swept over the sand, the one cast by the massive flagship swallowing up all others. Balthasar stared upward intently as they passed over, the texture of the shade just as palpable to him as the temporary but welcome reprieve from heat.
These were imperial airships, of that there was no doubt, their quantity and quality just as telling as their markings. And with a fleet of that size, their intention was obvious: invasion.
The fact that a fleet could journey through the Wastes was astounding; it was commonly held as fact that this place was impossible to pass through due to the Vanishing Sickness. Balthasar was hardly impressed by this, though; after all, he was already in violation of that rule himself, was he not? He scratched his head, mulling over possible departure and destination points. Departure was obvious: the recently acquisitioned kingdom of Jarasada—the latest imperial outpost and a border state to the Wastes. Destination was even more straightforward: Nazer, capital of the kingdom of Haedora and guardian of the god Satelno.
Balthasar gritted his sharp, thorn-like teeth, mentally cross-referencing locations. Flying toward Nazer from Jarasada, the Imperial Fleet was heading south.
The half-demon gave a long, hacking cough, spraying ink-like blood into his palm. Balthasar glowered at the dark stains on the bandages covering his hands and arms, then spat to clear his mouth. He cursed under his breath, glancing back up at the sky where the fleet was disappearing from view. A slight gash opened in his cheek, a testament to the toxic atmosphere. The same black blood leaked from the wound, and then after a moment, the injury sealed itself, becoming so whole that one would have never thought it to have been there.
Balthasar pulled his cloak's hood further over hair like raven’s feathers, then turned due west.
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The Imperator Mikhail strolled alongside the railing of the flagship Forefather, humming a tune as he observed the Wastes speed by in the distance below. He was walking across the deck of the largest airship in known existence, a craft capable of docking three galleon-sized vessels of similar make within itself. Armed with devastating ancient weaponry and only mobilized on the most important of missions, the Forefather was an integral component to and symbol of the Thalngalse Empire’s might.
The same could be said of the Imperator Mikhail. Bright blue eyes shone under his long, lustrous blonde hair, and he walked with pronounced confidence, a sense of self-ease that belonged only to the truly powerful. The white coat that designated his rank was worn like a cape, so as not to hide his elegant silk clothes. The right sleeve of his collared shirt was conspicuously absent, removed so that Mikhail could proudly display the Brand of Light, the darting and sweeping white lines of which covered all but a portion of his arm. Many rings adorned his fingers, and silver bands were fitted into the edges of his ears. The attention the Imperator paid to his appearance was applied equally to his bearing, for he was at nearly all times a relaxed, composed, and almost distant individual.
His wanderings brought him to the helm, where a man wearing the same white coat as his leaned against the railings. He too wore black pants and boots, though his clothes were of coarser material than Mikhail’s, and he lacked a fondness for jewelry. The Imperator Zephelin’s sharp green eyes were unfocused, and even though he stood at the forefront of the ship, the air around him was tranquil, not disturbing even a single strand of his short snowy hair. By coincidence, he too had no sleeve on his right arm, though in his case, it was the Brand of Wind that snaked and flowed all the way up to his shoulder, its hue matching that of its bearer’s irises almost perfectly.
“How goes it, my friend?” Mikhail asked. “I’d appreciate a progress report.”
Zephelin, the Saint of Wind, glanced at the light mage. “…We’re making steady progress. Unfortunately, though, a detour will be necessary soon. We’re at our maximum altitude, and we’re currently approaching an updraft of toxic wind. We’ll be forced off course to avoid it.”
Mikhail took a place next to him. “How vexing. The Wastes are truly bizarre; one unseen danger comes after another.”
Zephelin scowled. Even in passing, he hated this place, its currents silent and stagnant, its eddies eerie and unnatural, the very air laced with energies unknown and most foul. All knew to avoid the Wastes, an area as dead as the civilization that had birthed it. Even journeying far above them was regarded as a fruitless endeavor, for their convection patterns were untrustworthy and shifted with disastrous frequency. A sudden draft could fatally poison an entire fleet, and even the most skilled of navigators would fail to accurately predict the intensity and direction of these winds. Compounding matters was the unnatural and widespread pocket of air too thin for breathing higher above, which prevented an escape from the mysterious toxin via elevation.
None could traverse this hazardous sky. None could pass through the invisible needle's eye.
None, of course, save the Saint of Wind.
Zephelin sighed. “This place is like an itch inside my very body. No, it is like a congestion in which I cannot breathe properly. And all the while, I can faintly hear something calling me…”
Mikhail’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? How intriguing…”
Zephelin looked at him quizzically. “I expected you to laugh and call me mad.”
Mikhail placed his hands on the guard-railing. “Don’t worry yourself over it. I hear tell saints are privy to voices the rest of us are deaf to.” He shrugged. “Not that a lowly apostle such as myself would know anything about that.”
Zephelin was used to his friend’s false humility. But nonetheless, the Saint of Wind seemed unsettled. “…All the same, there is some presence down there. I can feel it.” He turned to look over the deck. “…Should we really have brought him?” he asked out of the blue.
Mikhail followed his line of sight. A tall, silver-haired young man with piercing red eyes stood at the rear, his gaze fixated on something unknown to the two of them. While neither Mikhail nor Zephelin had reached their third decade, this person seemed juvenile even in comparison to them, barely appearing to be an adult. His Imperator’s coat was ever-so-slightly ill-fitted, an oddity given the immense talent of the emperor’s personal tailors, and in contrast to those of the other two men, the garment was completely whole, as it had no cause to sacrifice part of itself for the prideful display of a brand.
Mikhail smirked. “If things go smoothly, we’ll have no need for him. Besides, I’m sure the poor kid hasn’t had a chance to do anything fun since he woke up. After a nap as long as his, I’d probably be bored too. Consider this a nice little test run for our newest comrade.”
Zephelin frowned. “Kholne is unstable. He should be further acclimated before being introduced to such a delicate operation.”
Mikhail crossed his arms. “What harm can he do? He barely speaks, and he’s as aggressive as a plant. Besides, we’re spread thin as is. We can’t afford to spare anyone more seasoned. And trust me; if we’re to do battle with Saint Garuda, then you’ll be glad to have Kholne’s aid.”
“Already assuming diplomacy will fail?” Zephelin asked dryly.
“Always assume diplomacy will fail.”
“In this case, that’s well justified. They'll never agree to our demands. They'll never surrender.”
Mikhail's eyes shone. “Of course. And thus, they will be sundered.”
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Situated around the largest oasis in the region, Nazer was a sprawling metropolis contained within towering walls fifty feet thick. Insulated from invasion by its relative proximity to the Wastes and the harshness of the surrounding deserts, the capital of the kingdom of Haedora had known peace for hundreds of years. Immaculately woven tapestries hung from the windows of dignified sandstone buildings, and children laughed while they ran through sandy streets adorned with regal palm trees. In contrast to most capitals, the royal palace was located at the far eastern end of the city, rather than at its heart. Modest by most assessments, Nazer's palace had been left mostly untouched in the late king's sweeping reconstruction efforts. Haedora's royal family had for generations placed the posterity of their people above all, and so were beloved by them.
The only non-residential area that had been renovated during the reforms was the Earth God's Temple, the building that occupied the city's center point. Ornate and glistening, Satelno's citadel was the envy of many a nation. A steady procession of people streamed in and out of the temple at every hour before nightfall, whether they were acolytes of the God of Earth or pilgrims journeying from far-off foreign lands who sought the blessing that could make their fortune.
Garuda, the Saint of Earth, strode through the wide halls of the temple, his sandals clacking loudly on the polished tile floors. He greeted guards, monks, and attendants as he passed them, and they piously bowed before him in turn.
At seventy years of age, Garuda was still an imposing figure, who loomed at least a full head over most people. The Brand of Earth spread from his white beard to the top of his bald head and over again to the nape of his neck, the rigid and structured lines it stitched into his leather-like skin lending an aura of severity to the saint's features. In spite of his station, he wore the humble burgundy robes of an ordinary monk, detesting vanity. He walked with evident purpose at all times, but never moreso than in the home of his god.
Garuda made his way into the inner sanctum, where rows of disciples lay prostrate before a tall altar, over which hung a worn, heavy bronze bell. They chanted psalms and prayers in hushed, reverent tones. Sitting against the walls behind them were the foreigners alien to this religion, who nervously awaited some sign of approval for their presence from what sat atop the pedestal.
Many travelers were often befuddled when they first encountered Satelno. They had wild expectations for what a god should be, fueled by either their own imaginations or the embellishments of fairy tales. Monks had become quite accustomed to explaining that the object in the center of the room, a dull glass-like sphere the size of a man’s hand, was in fact the illustrious God of Earth. This was generally a hard sell for those who had not been born into a culture centered on one of the eight gods; any reasonable person would be skeptical that such an unassuming thing could grant the power to wield magic. In fact, the only visibly noteworthy aspect of Satelno was the way a steady light pulsed and thrummed within his grainy surface, which was the color of dried mud. Garuda himself had over many a year pondered why the gods slumbered in such forms; had the wars of centuries past drained them so much that even now they still lacked the means to return to their former splendor?
The saint’s eyes drifted to the interior wall, on which an ancient mural depicting the Eightfold Obliteration was engraved. The gods were represented with forms cryptic and terrible, and were shown battling themselves and the kingdoms of man. Prior generations of the royal family had gone to great effort and expense to carefully excavate the slab that held this scene from a forgotten crypt. Garuda could feel how old the stone was, and how long it had been since chisel and hammer had taken to it. As far as he knew, it was one of the oldest pieces of art still in existence, created well over nine hundred years ago.
Garuda was roused from his musings by a sharp pulse from Satelno. Out of all gathered in the room, only a few seemed to register the god’s momentary livening. One of them, a middle-aged, dark-haired pilgrim with a strong face and a hardy frame, glanced about before taking a nervous step forward. The simple traveler’s cloak he wore gave no insight about him. He made to move further, but stopped short. He looked to Garuda for approval to proceed. The saint, recognizing what was about to occur, nodded.
The man swallowed, then steadily approached the altar. The chanting trailed off, and all watched with solemn silence. He took one last look over his shoulder at Garuda, then cautiously reached out and slowly placed his right hand on Satelno.
The room was utterly still for some moments, each second dragging on longer than the next. Ordinarily, after this length of time, a person would conclude that the god had rejected them, but the traveler stayed firm, eyes resolute as he held his hand in place. Sweat rolled down his brow, but he took no notice of it.
All at once, the sphere flashed with a bright light, which momentarily blinded the room’s occupants. The man sucked air through his teeth, hissing in pain as he clutched his arm. The light faded, revealing the stocky brown runes of the Brand of Earth that now adorned the entirety of the man’s forearm. He stared at his new marking with incredulity, his open mouth soon shifting into a massive grin. He seemed oddly composed in the face of his success, where others would be laughing or shouting in triumph. He bowed before Satelno.
“Thank you for your blessing, O great God of Earth,” the man intoned.
There was a clamor as monks got to their feet and swarmed around the newest of Satelno’s chosen. They cheered and congratulated him, singing hymns in the earth god’s name. Garuda himself was smiling as he approached the traveler, which prompted the sea of monks to part like a tide before the saint.
“May I see it?” Garuda asked in a gravelly tone.
The man extended his arm. Garuda’s eyes swept over the brand, analyzing the pattern of connection between the runes and the thickness of their lines.
“…A half-brand!” he declared with a wry grin. “Satelno favors you!”
Those assembled burst into cheers again, causing the man to seem quite embarrassed at the amount of attention he was receiving.
“Your name, friend?” Garuda inquired.
“Leland Calhoun, Your Holiness," he answered. “I’m a merchant from Commodus, a small barony on the periphery of the Land of Flame.”
“Hoho! You’ve come quite a way, then. You must have endured much to reach this place.”
“You could say that, but the journey itself really wasn’t anything to speak of.”
The saint spread his arms. “Above all, Satelno values patience, and the humility of enduring hardship. He has taken the offering of your pain and transmuted it into something greater. Though man must suffer throughout all his days, never forget that the God of Earth stands with you eternally, supporting you from beneath your very feet unto the sacred night he takes you into his abode.” He gestured to the ceremonial bell, the clapper of which was made from solid stone. “Now then, Leland Calhoun, show us the gift you have been given. Feel the living earth around you, and let sound your faith!”
Leland nodded, then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He reached out his marked arm, grimacing as he struggled to grasp the nature of his newfound ability. He swung his arm slowly, but the clapper remained still. The monks began to murmur among themselves, but the newly anointed apostle ignored them, withdrawing his arm and methodically extending it twice again. His eyes snapped open with sudden clarity, and he moved his arm measurably more quickly this time, though the action was still visibly controlled. The clapper shuddered, then rose lethargically to strike the bell, rewarding Leland with a single peal. He scanned those around him, expecting more cheering, but instead found that all had quietly inclined their heads toward him in respect. The only sound he could hear was the clapping of a lone pair of hands coming from the entrance of the room. Leland turned toward the source. A thin bronze-skinned young man in regal jade-colored vestments smiled at him, his dark eyes gleaming with mirth beneath short black hair.
“Well done, well done,” the late-arrival praised. “It’s been some time since Satelno has taken to someone as he has to you. Most people must swing again and again before they are finally able to ring the bell. In fact, only the saints ever manage to do it on the very first try. Or so I’m told.”
The apostle looked at his right hand, flexing it ponderously.
Garuda cleared his throat. “Bow, friend. You are in the presence of Prince Kurtollah, ruler of this kingdom.”
Leland’s brows jumped, and he hastily bent his waist. “Pardon my insolence, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”
The young prince laughed. “Be at ease, my friend. I think if I were to become offended over accidental impropriety every time it occurred, I would hardly have time to do anything else.”
Garuda quirked an eyebrow. “Finally here to ask the earth god for his blessing, Kurtollah?” he asked hopefully.
Kurtollah smiled. “Are you testing me, Garuda? I don’t know how many times I must say that I will wait until my coronation.”
The saint sighed in exasperation. “You have said that for more than a decade now. Satelno prizes prudence and endurance, but surely this veers into obstinacy.”
Suddenly, Satelno pulsed once again, and this time, everyone present noticed it.
“Ah!” Garuda exclaimed. “There, you see?! The time has finally come! Satelno himself beckons to you, Kurtollah!” Around him, the monks appeared to be building up into a frenzy in their excitement.
The prince, however, seemed far less enthused. He scratched his chin, contemplative. “…No, I think not. That honor belongs to another this day.”
The pilgrims looked at each other uneasily, each wondering if they were the one Kurtollah referred to. None were eager to approach the god with undue haste; they had traveled long and far, and the tithe required to gain entrance to the temple was considerable. To return empty-handed after such effort could break a person.
Garuda clasped his hands behind his back. Over the decades, he had seen many good men and women turned away by the god, and thrice he had been forced to put down Apostles of Earth with his own hands after they had committed unforgivable abuses of their power. In spite of having served the God of Earth for over fifty years, Garuda still could not fathom how the deity determined who was and who was not worthy of his blessing. The whispers Satelno granted him and him alone were often vague and transient, so much so that Garuda sometimes questioned if he had truly heard anything at all. To even his most recognized and devoted follower, the god was an enigma.
In his heart of hearts, what Garuda feared most was that Satelno would find Kurtollah wanting, despite the young man’s virtue. A rejection of the last surviving member of the royal family would be disastrous. Kurtollah’s father had himself been a younger brother, second in line for the throne. However, Kurtollah’s uncle had been refused a brand by the earth god, creating a chaos of political turmoil that had only been resolved when the younger brother received Satelno’s blessing and the kingship was forcibly ceded to him. Humiliated, Kurtollah’s uncle had committed suicide later that year.
Garuda shuddered to think at what would happen should the young prince fail to procure divine sanction. The kingdom would survive, of course, whether through a transition to council rule or through the rise of a new royal line. Garuda’s concerns were on a more personal level, like how a father worried for his son’s wellbeing. The saint thought about the issue daily; he could only imagine how often Kurtollah himself feared for the future. By all accounts, Garuda’s ward was a model prince. He poured all of his effort into improving the lives of his people, and nobody ever spoke poorly of him. Garuda could not think of a single person he would prefer to take the throne. But Satelno was inscrutable, a mysterious entity with motivations unknown—or worse, perhaps even nonexistent.
As if to accentuate Garuda’s unease, a pilgrim mustered up his courage and stepped toward Satelno. The saint’s brow creased; the way his stomach churned already gave him a guess as to how this would end. He watched as the traveler rolled up a sleeve, then reached out and placed his palm on the god. All waited anxiously for some sign, but as the seconds passed, it became more and more apparent that none was forthcoming. Desperation blossomed on the man’s face, and he gripped his fingers tightly around the god. “Please, God of Earth!” he begged. “You don't understand what I've suffered through to reach this place! You've no idea the friends I've lost!" His voice was becoming more frantic. “Do you wish for their deaths to be meaningless?! Bless me, for their sake!”
The earth god offered him no response in any form.
Tears budded in his eyes, and anger began to seep into his voice. “Do you really care nothing?! Answer me, damn you!”
When Satelno met him only with silence, the young man’s rage boiled over. He snarled and lifted the god up overhead, moving to throw the sphere, but at that moment Garuda seized him by the wrist.
“I am sorry, my friend,” he said, eyes pitying. “No apology is sufficient for the loss you have suffered. I truly lament that this is how your story has played out. But I will not permit you to take any action that might harm Satelno.”
Nothing could actually harm a god; they were indestructible. Garuda knew this, but what kind of saint would he have been if he allowed his deity to be hurled to the ground like a piece of rotten fruit?
“The earth god has given you his answer,” Garuda said somberly. “You can do nothing but accept it.”
The man darted his eyes about, realizing that he was now surrounded by the monks. Those of them who had been branded held out their makred arms. Sand and grit rose from between the stone tiles that made up the floor. The floating dirt permeated the air around the man densely, scraping across his skin in a manner that made him understand the nature of the threat to his life. Were he to proceed with his attempt at revenge, he would be smothered to death. Silent and defeated, he allowed Garuda to pry the god from his grasp. The saint reverently replaced it on the pedestal, then glanced at the prince, who had been quietly observing the ordeal. “Kurtollah. Your judgment?”
The prince stroked his chin. “…Ordinarily, raising hands against Satelno is a grave offense. However, I believe we can conclude that this man is not currently in a fit state of mind, and thus is not responsible for his actions. I therefore pardon him of his crime. Take him to the guest quarters, repay his tithe in full, and see to it that he is well-tended to. I will personally address his circumstances tomorrow.”
If the traveler felt gratitude for this mercy, he did not show it. He listlessly allowed himself to be taken away from the sanctum. The remaining pilgrims settled back against the wall, far too shocked by what they had just witnessed to even entertain the notion of approaching the god themselves.
Kurtollah turned toward Leland Calhoun, arms clasped behind his back. The apostle wore a disconcerted expression, no doubt sympathizing with the rejected man and contemplating what would have happened if he himself had not found favor with the God of Earth.
“Leland Calhoun, as you are an outlander, you are under no obligation to serve Haedora with your power; your tithe was payment enough,” Kurtollah explained. “However, as an Apostle of Earth, you are always welcome here. If you wish to receive training so that you might properly wield your newfound ability, our monks will gladly offer it to you. They will also accommodate you with lodging, food, and literature.”
Leland bent at his waist. “That is most gracious of you, Your Highness. I believe I will take you up on that.”
Kurtollah smiled. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Leland Calhoun. I believe you will become a most worthy representative of our god. Now then, I must take my leave. My adviser and I have issues to attend to.” He gestured for Garuda to follow him, who nodded in return. The saint and the apostle exchanged bows, then Garuda exited the sanctum behind his liege.
Before he left, the Saint of Earth shot one last glance over his shoulder at his god, around whom the monks had resumed their prayer. If Satelno was capable of perceiving and understanding the reproach in his chosen saint’s eyes, then the god did not care.
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“Has Satelno accepted any other new apostles within the last few days?” Kurtollah inquired as he and Garuda strolled through the market street. The prince plucked a pear from a stand, placing a coin on the counter in the same motion.
“A handful, but none of note. All were a third-brand or less.”
Kurtollah sighed. “If I am to be honest, I would have preferred for a citizen of Haedora to have received that half-brand. Gods know we could use capable mages with the way things are going."
“You worry too much, my prince. Jarasada is on the other side of the Wastes.”
“It troubles me all the same. Why would the empire go out of its way to annex a country with so little to offer? How far are they planning to expand, and to what end?”
“Admittedly, I too fail to see the value in acquiring Jarasada. It’s a poor kingdom sustained solely by its mines, and it holds no strategic value. Hardly seems worth the effort.”
Kurtollah frowned. “Did we not have a similar conversation last month, when the empire took Dagmar and Mahatmaraba?”
Garuda quirked an eyebrow. “You believe there’s a pattern?”
Kurtollah pondered, staring at his still uneaten fruit. “They’re all such insignificant places. Why would the empire take the time to conquer them while in the midst of an insurrection that spreads like wildfire and war on their horizon? There must be more to this than meets the eye.”
“All three countries border the Wastes, do they not?”
“Yes… But what does that matter?”
“Do not forget, my prince, that the Wastes recede over time. The lands that make up those kingdoms were uninhabitable just two centuries ago.”
“Then they seek something birthed from the Wastes…?” Kurtollah wondered. “Could excavation sites be their target? Are they after something the ancient kingdoms buried?”
Garuda now seemed legitimately concerned. “Gods know what they hope to find. It’s fortunate that the dig sites never produce anything more than parts and ceramics; I shudder to think of what would happen if something predating the Eightfold Obliteration was ever to be unearthed.”
“Yes, the Book of Oblivion does speak of all sorts of horrors. Still, can the empire really be so desperate that they would chase legends?”
The saint shrugged. “Well, regardless of what they’re after, there’s no threat to us. Even if the empire had the gall to attempt an invasion of Haedora, it would take at least a month to marshal their forces and transport them around the Wastes. Ample time for us to prepare our defenses.”
“Let’s hope it never comes to that,” Kurtollah murmured. He made to take a bite out of his pear, but Garuda grabbed him by the shoulder. The saint pointed to the north wall, where the signal fires were being lit in the guard towers one by one.
Kurtollah squinted in confusion. “What? Why the north wall? The only thing in that direction is…”
Garuda jerked his arm upward. The earth beneath them separated from the street and lurched up, the saint’s magic carrying the pair aloft as the people around them scrambled backward in surprise.
“Give me some warning, Garuda!” Kurtollah shouted.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Garuda apologized as he lifted their impromptu platform higher and higher. “We must make haste.” They shot through the sky, speeding toward the top of the wall. In spite of the situation, Kurtollah couldn’t help but revel in the sensation of flight, in its swiftness and weightlessness.
It only took minutes for Garuda to cross the entire city, bringing himself and the prince to land atop the northern wall. A guard captain rushed up to them, offering a quick formal bow before launching into his report, gesturing at the barren lands beyond the walls.
“Your Majesty, a massive fleet of airships is rapidly approaching the city. We cannot give a positive confirmation as of yet, but we believe them to be Thalngalse’s imperial navy.”
“The imperial navy?! Impossible!” Garuda shouted. “How can this be the first we’re seeing of them?! How did they approach Nazer without being detected before now?! They should have had to pass by multiple cities! We should have received warnings from messenger airskiffs!”
Kurtollah took a proffered spyglass, through which he honed in on the flagship. “…Jarasada,” he breathed. “This is why they took Jarasada! We didn’t receive warning signals because they never passed by other cities in the first place! They crossed the Wastes!”
“But how?!” Garuda asked, baffled. “The Vanishing Sickness should have killed them all by now if that was the case!”
“We don’t have time to worry about that!” Kurtollah snapped. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do!” He bit his thumb. “Dammit! With this many ships they can burn the city to the ground!” He turned back toward the saint. “Garuda, could you destroy all of them before they can cause serious damage?”
“No,” Garuda replied. “Their numbers are great, and without doubt, there will be at least one Imperator aboard those ships. Even if I could subdue the entire fleet by myself, I would never be able to do it while fighting an Imperator at the same time.”
“What are our chances?”
“If there is but one Imperator? Slim. We have little in the manner of armaments, but our mages, Shivta and Greer especially, might be able to turn the tide in our favor.”
“…And if there is a second?”
“None.”
Kurtollah gritted his teeth, his hands tightening on the spyglass. “…Captain. Order your men to stand down. We will welcome these representatives of the Thalngalse Empire into our city as guests.”
The captain grimaced, then bowed. “As you command, milord.”
Neither Kurtollah nor Garuda watched the man take his leave, both too fixated on the fleet as it steadily became more and more visible.
“…Garuda. Take me back to the palace," the prince ordered. "And once we get there, signal the other Apostles of Earth not to take action for the time being."
“…Is this wise, Kurtollah? If we are to fight them, it would be best to do it outside the walls.”
“We don’t know enough yet. This is all too sudden. If we move indiscreetly we invite disaster upon ourselves.”
“Their intentions seem readily apparent to me,” Garuda muttered bitterly.
“I agree. But we risk too much by jumping to conclusions. If we cannot win this battle, then we should at least hear the terms that would let us avoid conflict.”
Garuda looked at him. “…What if they’re after Satelno?”
Kurtollah refused to meet his eyes. “…Then they leave us with no recourse.”
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There was a tense silence as Garuda ferried Kurtollah to the palace, over which the imperial flagship had just come to rest. The two stepped foot into the courtyard, where guards and attendants were milling about nervously. Kurtollah issued brief orders to his staff, then walked with Garuda to wait by the palace doors for their “guests” to arrive. They watched wordlessly as an airskiff detached from the ship, drifting down to land in a garden plaza.
Three men with white coats stepped from the craft, and Garuda swore under his breath. Even Kurtollah was unnerved by this; how could Thalngalse possibly spare the resources to send three Imperators here?
The trio approached uncontested, coming to stop at the steps leading up to the entrance. The blonde one smiled broadly as he took in the prince’s vestments and the saint’s brand. He bowed dramatically. “Greetings. You must be Prince Kurtollah and Saint Garuda. I am the Imperator Mikhail, whom His Majesty granted the title Judgment.”
Garuda cursed their luck. Mikhail was an extraordinarily dangerous individual, and judging by the brand on the white-haired one’s arm, he was accompanied by the Saint of Wind, Zephelin. What lingering hope Garuda had was quickly disappearing, and this was before he even brought the third individual, a complete unknown, into consideration.
“I bid you welcome to Nazer, Imperators,” Kurtollah replied politely, inclining his head. He gestured to the palace doors. “Please, enter. I’m sure you must be weary from your long travels. We can rest and drink while we converse.”
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Kurtollah and Mikhail both took seats in the audience chamber, while Garuda, Zephelin, and Kholne remained standing. The room was spacious and well adorned, and the attached balcony overlooking the gardens allowed a pleasant breeze to waft in. The prince leaned back in his chair, bridging his palms. “Lord Mikhail, I have heard much about you, but I fear I am ignorant of the identities of your fellows.”
Mikhail reclined leisurely, as if he were in his own room. “I’m sure you know of Zephelin the Maelstrom, the Saint of Wind. The tall one beside him is the newest member of our retinue. His name is Kholne, and the emperor has dubbed him Future.” He smirked. “Far be it from me to question the decisions of His Majesty, but I’ve always found his sense of humor a little too on the nose.”
Garuda swept his eyes over Kholne, questioning if he had been brought along as a mere bluff. As indicated by his unmarked hands, he seemed to have no brand to speak of, which meant no magic. Further, he was completely unfocused on the conversation at hand, gaze drifting anywhere and everywhere. Still, there was something eerie about the boy, and Garuda decided it would be best to treat him as a legitimate threat.
A handmaid brought a tray laden with wine and fruit, and set it down on the center table. Mikhail raised an eyebrow as he noticed a faded bruise on her cheek. “Now what happened to you, my sweet?”
The handmaid’s eyes widened. She had applied a considerable amount of concealer to the injury in order to not appear unsightly before dignitaries. The fact that the Imperator had perceived this so easily was unnerving. She looked to Kurtollah in fear. The prince nodded, prompting her to turn and bow to Mikhail. “I experienced an accident, Lord Imperator. Due to my own clumsiness, I slipped and fell, and struck my head against a railing. I am fortunate that this was the extent of my injury.”
Mikhail grinned. “My, what a pity. Such a beautiful face should never be marred so.”
The handmaid flushed, clearly not having anticipated this level of attention. She was about to stammer out an expression of gratitude for the compliment when Kholne unexpectedly stepped forward.
Mikhail immediately narrowed his eyes, and Zephelin seemed equally on edge. “Kholne, what are you doing?” the blonde Imperator inquired in a level tone.
Kholne ignored the question, coming to a stop next to the handmaid. He towered over the girl, red eyes fixed solely on her. She swallowed nervously, fear rooting her in place.
The newest Imperator slowly raised a hand and extended it toward the girl’s face, never blinking the whole time as she trembled.
“Kholne!” Mikhail snapped. Garuda and Zephelin both readied themselves to step in.
Kholne gently placed his thumb over the girl’s bruise and held it there for a moment. Then he withdrew his hand, revealing that the wound had disappeared. Everyone present stared in amazement.
“Better,” Kholne declared quietly, then returned to his position behind Mikhail.
The handmaid held her hands to her cheek, blinking in disbelief.
Kurtollah pursed his lips, suppressing his curiosity over what had just occurred. “Leave us," he directed his servant. "We have matters to discuss.”
The girl jumped, then bowed toward Kholne. “Th-Thank you, milord,” she managed before scurrying from the room. A dull quiet fell over the audience chamber for some moments before being broken by Mikhail.
"Prince Kurtollah, I come to you in the stead of my master, His Majesty, the emperor Caius Neros. He extends his greetings, and expresses his desire for your nation to become part of our great empire's legacy." Mikhail smiled, sweeping his hands wide with a flourish. "Tariffs between Haedora and any and all imperial nations would be abolished, and any entity foolish enough to raise their hand against Haedora would face the full fury of the empire in retaliation. Furthermore, Lord Garuda, by decree of His Majesty, is hereby offered the title of Imperator. He would answer only to the emperor himself."
Garuda snorted, clearly unimpressed.
Kurtollah stared at the Imperator, his face unreadable. "...Lord Mikhail, Haedora is a kingdom that has endured for centuries. We have never subjected ourselves to outsiders, only accepting them into our walls on our own terms. Does your emperor truly expect us to bend our knees for him so eagerly?"
Mikhail sighed and steepled his fingers. "His Majesty dreams of a world united, without strife."
"A splendid thought, but any beggar can tell you that dreams are worth less than bread," Garuda said gruffly.
"Indeed," Zephelin agreed evenly, glancing at the older saint. "His Majesty knows that well. He is not an idle fantasizer; he understands the harshness of reality. He recognizes that without the means to make one’s vision reality, that vision is worthless. It is why he requires..." The Imperator hesitated, keenly aware of the disquiet his words were about to bring. "...Otherworldly power."
Kurtollah and Garuda both went rigid. "Lord Zephelin," the Saint of Earth growled, "I hope you are not so naïve as to insinuate that we would ever willingly hand the God of Earth over to you."
Mikhail rested his chin in his palm. As expected, negotiations were breaking down. "Satelno is essential to His Majesty's designs," he explained. "In truth, we might not have paid this kingdom much mind were it not the god's host."
"Were you wise, you would pay our kingdom no further mind at all!" Garuda sneered.
Mikhail leaned back, grimacing. "I take it you share the saint's sentiments, Prince Kurtollah?"
The young sovereign folded his arms. "...Lord Mikhail, while I appreciate your emperor's generous offer, he requests too much of us. Satelno is this nation's heart, the sphere around which we all revolve. He gives us strength, both in body and soul. People roam the land from places far distant to share in the divinity Satelno graces us with daily. We could as readily surrender him as we would the sun!” He turned toward Zephelin. “Surely you of all people can understand this, Saint of Wind!"
Zephelin tilted his head, flicking his wrist in a matter that drew attention to his mint-colored brand. "Alas, I was a mere three years old when I received the wind god’s blessing. I hardly remember anything about that day." His eyes narrowed. “And of course, the god Merurio was lost when Albernoth came crashing down to the earth twenty years ago. Sadly, I no longer have a source of piety.”
“Hmph. Damned demons…” Garuda spat. “Only barbarians like them would destroy such a wonder as a floating kingdom!”
Kurtollah bridged his palms. “The destruction of the sky kingdom is an unforgivable sin. But the actions of the demon clans were born from their rage and despair over the loss of their goddess. The goddess your empire stole away from them!” Kurtollah punctuated his point with an accusatory jab of his finger. “Imperator Mikhail the Judgment. Imperator Zephelin the Maelstrom, the Godless Saint. Tell your emperor that I will offer him my own corpse before I will give up the hope of my people, the great god Satelno!"
A silence rushed into the room following this declaration, broken after a few seconds when Mikhail sighed. "...How unfortunate. I knew things would turn out this way, but His Majesty is ever an optimist." His gaze suddenly sharpened, and Kurtollah involuntarily shivered. The Imperator’s voice became low and cutting. "...Well then, Prince... Would you also offer up every last man, woman, and child in this city?"
Garuda immediately stepped between Mikhail and Kurtollah. "Do you mean to incite war with your words, fool?!" he shouted.
""War" implies you would have a fighting chance, Lord Garuda," Mikhail replied dismissively, motioning to a window through which the imperial fleet could be seen. He returned his gaze to Kurtollah. "Young prince, the emperor will have Satelno. His will is absolute. No matter how you struggle, you cannot prevent this outcome. The only thing you can change is whether or not your people will survive this day."
"You demand unspeakable humiliation of us!" Kurtollah hissed.
"Indeed," Zephelin acknowledged. "But better humiliated than dead, I think." His expression was surprisingly earnest.
Kurtollah bit his lip, balling his fists. Haedora was not a militant nation, and even if it had been, the Imperators’ sudden and unexpected advance had placed them in a prime position to seize—or outright raze—Nazer. Resistance would only result in slaughter. Kurtollah wished to scream, to curse these men and their emperor, and the mad ambitions that drove them all.
But instead, he bowed his head, prostrating himself as he held his arms out, palms upturned.
"I, Kurtollah Dushara Bast Sulayman the Second, Crown Prince of Haedora, hereby accept the invitation of Emperor Caius Neros. From this day forward, Haedora will become subservient to him, and will offer our god, Satelno, in tribute."
Garuda stared at him in shock, then lunged forward and grabbed the prince by the lapels. "Kurtollah!" he bellowed. "How dare you?! You have no right to do this, you craven!"
Kurtollah smiled forlornly at his advisor. "Forgive me, Garuda. I understand the difficulty of the position I am placing you in. But if it means the gift of another tomorrow for my people, then I will sacrifice what I must. No matter what it costs. No matter what..." He trailed off, eyes weary.
Garuda stared at the prince quietly, then gently released his hold and carefully straightened out the creases in the prince's robes. "...Milord, you have become a fine man.” He smiled. “You remind me so much of your father. I wish that he could be here to see how you’ve grown, and so that he could guide us on this day…” The saint straightened his back. “I am privileged to have served you, my prince. Would that I could have seen you become king."
Kurtollah and Zephelin both immediately became alert.
"As of this moment, I hereby resign as Royal Advisor," Garuda continued. "From this point onward, my actions no longer represent Haedora or any of its people."
"Garuda, what do you intend to do?!" Kurtollah shouted in dismay.
“I now stand only as the greatest servant of the god Satelno," Garuda continued, ignoring his former liege. He stared at Mikhail. "Imperator. Do you acknowledge this?"
Mikhail tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "...Very well. If this is how events must unfold, then so be it. None shall be culpable for your actions save for you yourself.”
“Indeed,” Zephelin added. “If today ends with only your blood spilled, Lord Garuda, then I would consider our job well done.”
Garuda nodded. “I would ask that we do this outside the city walls.”
Mikhail shrugged. “Fine by me.”
The Saint of Earth raised his palm as he walked onto the balcony, and a wide cube of bedrock shot up before the railing. “Come, Imperators,” he commanded as he stepped foot onto the platform. “Let us not dally. I will take you to our battlefield.”
Mikhail and Zephelin exchanged glances, then followed after. Kholne lingered for a moment, observing the distressed prince, but quickly moved to join the others.
With a sweep of his hand, Garuda detached the stone from the ground and brought it aloft, hovering in midair before he sent it tearing through the sky. Kurtollah ran onto the balcony. “Garuda, wait!” he cried.
He was ignored, though, and could do nothing but grip the metal of the railing tightly as the saint and the Imperators vanished from sight. He staggered backward, then slumped against a wall, eyes fixed listlessly on the floor.
“Garuda…” he whispered.
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"You keep your balance well,” Garuda commented.
“We travel by airship all the time,” Mikhail replied. “Speed like this is nothing to us.”
“Hmph.”
The elderly saint brought them over the northern wall, descending before coming to a halt over a flat dune. “This is where you get off,” he growled.
“Sure,” Mikhail said nonchalantly, and the other two Imperators followed suit in obeying the demand. From where they stood in the sand, they watched as Garuda flew off over the vast expanse.
“We could have killed him en route,” Zephelin noted. “Why are we giving him a chance to use the terrain to his advantage?”
“Come on, this is more entertaining,” Mikhail grinned. “How often do we get to fight a saint at full power? If you don’t take on someone strong every once in a while, your senses get dull.”
Zephelin sighed. “I should have expected a childish answer such as that. And here I had given you the benefit of a doubt, thinking you were concerned for the civilians.”
Mikhail simply laughed.
There was a deep rumbling, and a massive upshot of sand burst into the air. It swirled in a vortex before solidifying in the form of a colossus, taller than the city walls themselves.
Mikhail’s grinned in delight. “See what I mean?!” He closed his eyes and extended his palms, as if in prayer.
As Garuda’s avatar took steps that sent tremors through the ground, pale white light began to converge around it. Zephelin watched on with mild interest, and Kholne with unabashed fascination.
The Saint of Wind glanced at the new Imperator. “I’d turn around if I were you,” he suggested as he himself took his own advice. “You’re not going to be able to see for a while if you look at that head-on.”
Mikhail’s eyes snapped open. He grinned devilishly as the light around Garuda began to dance. He clenched his fists and released his magic.
“All Salvation.”
For Kholne, everything became blinding white.
The traveler suppressed an urge to head toward the unnatural landmark, whose sprawling shade beckoned with a promise of reprieve. Rest was a trap; the less time spent in this hell, the better. He fished through a pocket, producing a small object that he quickly shook free of sand before delicately brushing clean the glass casing. The compass's needle span erratically, refusing to grant a steady bearing.
He growled with exasperation. The polarity of this place was too inconstant, and the periods when a compass could deliver an accurate reading were infrequent. And without the patience and inclination to wait for nightfall and the guidance of the North Star, the traveler had no choice but to rely on instinct and memory, tools whose effectiveness were suspect in such an unstable setting.
The center. The center was his destination. He was certain that if what he sought lay anywhere, it would be in the heart of this place. After nearly two years of searching, he was so close that he could feel it as acutely as the prickling sensation of his flesh slowly but surely being broken apart by the Vanishing Sickness that lay like a cloud over this place.
The half-demon Balthasar Blackvale, perked his ears suddenly, his shining yellow eyes darting toward the sky. They surveyed the horizon, gleaming irises roaming back and forth in scleras like darkness. Before long he caught sight of the source of the noise that had alerted him: coming from his left, a group of airships sped far overhead. At such a distance, an ordinary human wouldn't have been able to detect the dull thrumming of the vessels' propellers, but the halfling’s acute hearing was able to distinguish it. He watched the ships with keen interest that quickly evolved into surprise as more and more airships appeared, a group growing into a congregation. A swarm of shadows swept over the sand, the one cast by the massive flagship swallowing up all others. Balthasar stared upward intently as they passed over, the texture of the shade just as palpable to him as the temporary but welcome reprieve from heat.
These were imperial airships, of that there was no doubt, their quantity and quality just as telling as their markings. And with a fleet of that size, their intention was obvious: invasion.
The fact that a fleet could journey through the Wastes was astounding; it was commonly held as fact that this place was impossible to pass through due to the Vanishing Sickness. Balthasar was hardly impressed by this, though; after all, he was already in violation of that rule himself, was he not? He scratched his head, mulling over possible departure and destination points. Departure was obvious: the recently acquisitioned kingdom of Jarasada—the latest imperial outpost and a border state to the Wastes. Destination was even more straightforward: Nazer, capital of the kingdom of Haedora and guardian of the god Satelno.
Balthasar gritted his sharp, thorn-like teeth, mentally cross-referencing locations. Flying toward Nazer from Jarasada, the Imperial Fleet was heading south.
The half-demon gave a long, hacking cough, spraying ink-like blood into his palm. Balthasar glowered at the dark stains on the bandages covering his hands and arms, then spat to clear his mouth. He cursed under his breath, glancing back up at the sky where the fleet was disappearing from view. A slight gash opened in his cheek, a testament to the toxic atmosphere. The same black blood leaked from the wound, and then after a moment, the injury sealed itself, becoming so whole that one would have never thought it to have been there.
Balthasar pulled his cloak's hood further over hair like raven’s feathers, then turned due west.
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The Imperator Mikhail strolled alongside the railing of the flagship Forefather, humming a tune as he observed the Wastes speed by in the distance below. He was walking across the deck of the largest airship in known existence, a craft capable of docking three galleon-sized vessels of similar make within itself. Armed with devastating ancient weaponry and only mobilized on the most important of missions, the Forefather was an integral component to and symbol of the Thalngalse Empire’s might.
The same could be said of the Imperator Mikhail. Bright blue eyes shone under his long, lustrous blonde hair, and he walked with pronounced confidence, a sense of self-ease that belonged only to the truly powerful. The white coat that designated his rank was worn like a cape, so as not to hide his elegant silk clothes. The right sleeve of his collared shirt was conspicuously absent, removed so that Mikhail could proudly display the Brand of Light, the darting and sweeping white lines of which covered all but a portion of his arm. Many rings adorned his fingers, and silver bands were fitted into the edges of his ears. The attention the Imperator paid to his appearance was applied equally to his bearing, for he was at nearly all times a relaxed, composed, and almost distant individual.
His wanderings brought him to the helm, where a man wearing the same white coat as his leaned against the railings. He too wore black pants and boots, though his clothes were of coarser material than Mikhail’s, and he lacked a fondness for jewelry. The Imperator Zephelin’s sharp green eyes were unfocused, and even though he stood at the forefront of the ship, the air around him was tranquil, not disturbing even a single strand of his short snowy hair. By coincidence, he too had no sleeve on his right arm, though in his case, it was the Brand of Wind that snaked and flowed all the way up to his shoulder, its hue matching that of its bearer’s irises almost perfectly.
“How goes it, my friend?” Mikhail asked. “I’d appreciate a progress report.”
Zephelin, the Saint of Wind, glanced at the light mage. “…We’re making steady progress. Unfortunately, though, a detour will be necessary soon. We’re at our maximum altitude, and we’re currently approaching an updraft of toxic wind. We’ll be forced off course to avoid it.”
Mikhail took a place next to him. “How vexing. The Wastes are truly bizarre; one unseen danger comes after another.”
Zephelin scowled. Even in passing, he hated this place, its currents silent and stagnant, its eddies eerie and unnatural, the very air laced with energies unknown and most foul. All knew to avoid the Wastes, an area as dead as the civilization that had birthed it. Even journeying far above them was regarded as a fruitless endeavor, for their convection patterns were untrustworthy and shifted with disastrous frequency. A sudden draft could fatally poison an entire fleet, and even the most skilled of navigators would fail to accurately predict the intensity and direction of these winds. Compounding matters was the unnatural and widespread pocket of air too thin for breathing higher above, which prevented an escape from the mysterious toxin via elevation.
None could traverse this hazardous sky. None could pass through the invisible needle's eye.
None, of course, save the Saint of Wind.
Zephelin sighed. “This place is like an itch inside my very body. No, it is like a congestion in which I cannot breathe properly. And all the while, I can faintly hear something calling me…”
Mikhail’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? How intriguing…”
Zephelin looked at him quizzically. “I expected you to laugh and call me mad.”
Mikhail placed his hands on the guard-railing. “Don’t worry yourself over it. I hear tell saints are privy to voices the rest of us are deaf to.” He shrugged. “Not that a lowly apostle such as myself would know anything about that.”
Zephelin was used to his friend’s false humility. But nonetheless, the Saint of Wind seemed unsettled. “…All the same, there is some presence down there. I can feel it.” He turned to look over the deck. “…Should we really have brought him?” he asked out of the blue.
Mikhail followed his line of sight. A tall, silver-haired young man with piercing red eyes stood at the rear, his gaze fixated on something unknown to the two of them. While neither Mikhail nor Zephelin had reached their third decade, this person seemed juvenile even in comparison to them, barely appearing to be an adult. His Imperator’s coat was ever-so-slightly ill-fitted, an oddity given the immense talent of the emperor’s personal tailors, and in contrast to those of the other two men, the garment was completely whole, as it had no cause to sacrifice part of itself for the prideful display of a brand.
Mikhail smirked. “If things go smoothly, we’ll have no need for him. Besides, I’m sure the poor kid hasn’t had a chance to do anything fun since he woke up. After a nap as long as his, I’d probably be bored too. Consider this a nice little test run for our newest comrade.”
Zephelin frowned. “Kholne is unstable. He should be further acclimated before being introduced to such a delicate operation.”
Mikhail crossed his arms. “What harm can he do? He barely speaks, and he’s as aggressive as a plant. Besides, we’re spread thin as is. We can’t afford to spare anyone more seasoned. And trust me; if we’re to do battle with Saint Garuda, then you’ll be glad to have Kholne’s aid.”
“Already assuming diplomacy will fail?” Zephelin asked dryly.
“Always assume diplomacy will fail.”
“In this case, that’s well justified. They'll never agree to our demands. They'll never surrender.”
Mikhail's eyes shone. “Of course. And thus, they will be sundered.”
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Situated around the largest oasis in the region, Nazer was a sprawling metropolis contained within towering walls fifty feet thick. Insulated from invasion by its relative proximity to the Wastes and the harshness of the surrounding deserts, the capital of the kingdom of Haedora had known peace for hundreds of years. Immaculately woven tapestries hung from the windows of dignified sandstone buildings, and children laughed while they ran through sandy streets adorned with regal palm trees. In contrast to most capitals, the royal palace was located at the far eastern end of the city, rather than at its heart. Modest by most assessments, Nazer's palace had been left mostly untouched in the late king's sweeping reconstruction efforts. Haedora's royal family had for generations placed the posterity of their people above all, and so were beloved by them.
The only non-residential area that had been renovated during the reforms was the Earth God's Temple, the building that occupied the city's center point. Ornate and glistening, Satelno's citadel was the envy of many a nation. A steady procession of people streamed in and out of the temple at every hour before nightfall, whether they were acolytes of the God of Earth or pilgrims journeying from far-off foreign lands who sought the blessing that could make their fortune.
Garuda, the Saint of Earth, strode through the wide halls of the temple, his sandals clacking loudly on the polished tile floors. He greeted guards, monks, and attendants as he passed them, and they piously bowed before him in turn.
At seventy years of age, Garuda was still an imposing figure, who loomed at least a full head over most people. The Brand of Earth spread from his white beard to the top of his bald head and over again to the nape of his neck, the rigid and structured lines it stitched into his leather-like skin lending an aura of severity to the saint's features. In spite of his station, he wore the humble burgundy robes of an ordinary monk, detesting vanity. He walked with evident purpose at all times, but never moreso than in the home of his god.
Garuda made his way into the inner sanctum, where rows of disciples lay prostrate before a tall altar, over which hung a worn, heavy bronze bell. They chanted psalms and prayers in hushed, reverent tones. Sitting against the walls behind them were the foreigners alien to this religion, who nervously awaited some sign of approval for their presence from what sat atop the pedestal.
Many travelers were often befuddled when they first encountered Satelno. They had wild expectations for what a god should be, fueled by either their own imaginations or the embellishments of fairy tales. Monks had become quite accustomed to explaining that the object in the center of the room, a dull glass-like sphere the size of a man’s hand, was in fact the illustrious God of Earth. This was generally a hard sell for those who had not been born into a culture centered on one of the eight gods; any reasonable person would be skeptical that such an unassuming thing could grant the power to wield magic. In fact, the only visibly noteworthy aspect of Satelno was the way a steady light pulsed and thrummed within his grainy surface, which was the color of dried mud. Garuda himself had over many a year pondered why the gods slumbered in such forms; had the wars of centuries past drained them so much that even now they still lacked the means to return to their former splendor?
The saint’s eyes drifted to the interior wall, on which an ancient mural depicting the Eightfold Obliteration was engraved. The gods were represented with forms cryptic and terrible, and were shown battling themselves and the kingdoms of man. Prior generations of the royal family had gone to great effort and expense to carefully excavate the slab that held this scene from a forgotten crypt. Garuda could feel how old the stone was, and how long it had been since chisel and hammer had taken to it. As far as he knew, it was one of the oldest pieces of art still in existence, created well over nine hundred years ago.
Garuda was roused from his musings by a sharp pulse from Satelno. Out of all gathered in the room, only a few seemed to register the god’s momentary livening. One of them, a middle-aged, dark-haired pilgrim with a strong face and a hardy frame, glanced about before taking a nervous step forward. The simple traveler’s cloak he wore gave no insight about him. He made to move further, but stopped short. He looked to Garuda for approval to proceed. The saint, recognizing what was about to occur, nodded.
The man swallowed, then steadily approached the altar. The chanting trailed off, and all watched with solemn silence. He took one last look over his shoulder at Garuda, then cautiously reached out and slowly placed his right hand on Satelno.
The room was utterly still for some moments, each second dragging on longer than the next. Ordinarily, after this length of time, a person would conclude that the god had rejected them, but the traveler stayed firm, eyes resolute as he held his hand in place. Sweat rolled down his brow, but he took no notice of it.
All at once, the sphere flashed with a bright light, which momentarily blinded the room’s occupants. The man sucked air through his teeth, hissing in pain as he clutched his arm. The light faded, revealing the stocky brown runes of the Brand of Earth that now adorned the entirety of the man’s forearm. He stared at his new marking with incredulity, his open mouth soon shifting into a massive grin. He seemed oddly composed in the face of his success, where others would be laughing or shouting in triumph. He bowed before Satelno.
“Thank you for your blessing, O great God of Earth,” the man intoned.
There was a clamor as monks got to their feet and swarmed around the newest of Satelno’s chosen. They cheered and congratulated him, singing hymns in the earth god’s name. Garuda himself was smiling as he approached the traveler, which prompted the sea of monks to part like a tide before the saint.
“May I see it?” Garuda asked in a gravelly tone.
The man extended his arm. Garuda’s eyes swept over the brand, analyzing the pattern of connection between the runes and the thickness of their lines.
“…A half-brand!” he declared with a wry grin. “Satelno favors you!”
Those assembled burst into cheers again, causing the man to seem quite embarrassed at the amount of attention he was receiving.
“Your name, friend?” Garuda inquired.
“Leland Calhoun, Your Holiness," he answered. “I’m a merchant from Commodus, a small barony on the periphery of the Land of Flame.”
“Hoho! You’ve come quite a way, then. You must have endured much to reach this place.”
“You could say that, but the journey itself really wasn’t anything to speak of.”
The saint spread his arms. “Above all, Satelno values patience, and the humility of enduring hardship. He has taken the offering of your pain and transmuted it into something greater. Though man must suffer throughout all his days, never forget that the God of Earth stands with you eternally, supporting you from beneath your very feet unto the sacred night he takes you into his abode.” He gestured to the ceremonial bell, the clapper of which was made from solid stone. “Now then, Leland Calhoun, show us the gift you have been given. Feel the living earth around you, and let sound your faith!”
Leland nodded, then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He reached out his marked arm, grimacing as he struggled to grasp the nature of his newfound ability. He swung his arm slowly, but the clapper remained still. The monks began to murmur among themselves, but the newly anointed apostle ignored them, withdrawing his arm and methodically extending it twice again. His eyes snapped open with sudden clarity, and he moved his arm measurably more quickly this time, though the action was still visibly controlled. The clapper shuddered, then rose lethargically to strike the bell, rewarding Leland with a single peal. He scanned those around him, expecting more cheering, but instead found that all had quietly inclined their heads toward him in respect. The only sound he could hear was the clapping of a lone pair of hands coming from the entrance of the room. Leland turned toward the source. A thin bronze-skinned young man in regal jade-colored vestments smiled at him, his dark eyes gleaming with mirth beneath short black hair.
“Well done, well done,” the late-arrival praised. “It’s been some time since Satelno has taken to someone as he has to you. Most people must swing again and again before they are finally able to ring the bell. In fact, only the saints ever manage to do it on the very first try. Or so I’m told.”
The apostle looked at his right hand, flexing it ponderously.
Garuda cleared his throat. “Bow, friend. You are in the presence of Prince Kurtollah, ruler of this kingdom.”
Leland’s brows jumped, and he hastily bent his waist. “Pardon my insolence, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”
The young prince laughed. “Be at ease, my friend. I think if I were to become offended over accidental impropriety every time it occurred, I would hardly have time to do anything else.”
Garuda quirked an eyebrow. “Finally here to ask the earth god for his blessing, Kurtollah?” he asked hopefully.
Kurtollah smiled. “Are you testing me, Garuda? I don’t know how many times I must say that I will wait until my coronation.”
The saint sighed in exasperation. “You have said that for more than a decade now. Satelno prizes prudence and endurance, but surely this veers into obstinacy.”
Suddenly, Satelno pulsed once again, and this time, everyone present noticed it.
“Ah!” Garuda exclaimed. “There, you see?! The time has finally come! Satelno himself beckons to you, Kurtollah!” Around him, the monks appeared to be building up into a frenzy in their excitement.
The prince, however, seemed far less enthused. He scratched his chin, contemplative. “…No, I think not. That honor belongs to another this day.”
The pilgrims looked at each other uneasily, each wondering if they were the one Kurtollah referred to. None were eager to approach the god with undue haste; they had traveled long and far, and the tithe required to gain entrance to the temple was considerable. To return empty-handed after such effort could break a person.
Garuda clasped his hands behind his back. Over the decades, he had seen many good men and women turned away by the god, and thrice he had been forced to put down Apostles of Earth with his own hands after they had committed unforgivable abuses of their power. In spite of having served the God of Earth for over fifty years, Garuda still could not fathom how the deity determined who was and who was not worthy of his blessing. The whispers Satelno granted him and him alone were often vague and transient, so much so that Garuda sometimes questioned if he had truly heard anything at all. To even his most recognized and devoted follower, the god was an enigma.
In his heart of hearts, what Garuda feared most was that Satelno would find Kurtollah wanting, despite the young man’s virtue. A rejection of the last surviving member of the royal family would be disastrous. Kurtollah’s father had himself been a younger brother, second in line for the throne. However, Kurtollah’s uncle had been refused a brand by the earth god, creating a chaos of political turmoil that had only been resolved when the younger brother received Satelno’s blessing and the kingship was forcibly ceded to him. Humiliated, Kurtollah’s uncle had committed suicide later that year.
Garuda shuddered to think at what would happen should the young prince fail to procure divine sanction. The kingdom would survive, of course, whether through a transition to council rule or through the rise of a new royal line. Garuda’s concerns were on a more personal level, like how a father worried for his son’s wellbeing. The saint thought about the issue daily; he could only imagine how often Kurtollah himself feared for the future. By all accounts, Garuda’s ward was a model prince. He poured all of his effort into improving the lives of his people, and nobody ever spoke poorly of him. Garuda could not think of a single person he would prefer to take the throne. But Satelno was inscrutable, a mysterious entity with motivations unknown—or worse, perhaps even nonexistent.
As if to accentuate Garuda’s unease, a pilgrim mustered up his courage and stepped toward Satelno. The saint’s brow creased; the way his stomach churned already gave him a guess as to how this would end. He watched as the traveler rolled up a sleeve, then reached out and placed his palm on the god. All waited anxiously for some sign, but as the seconds passed, it became more and more apparent that none was forthcoming. Desperation blossomed on the man’s face, and he gripped his fingers tightly around the god. “Please, God of Earth!” he begged. “You don't understand what I've suffered through to reach this place! You've no idea the friends I've lost!" His voice was becoming more frantic. “Do you wish for their deaths to be meaningless?! Bless me, for their sake!”
The earth god offered him no response in any form.
Tears budded in his eyes, and anger began to seep into his voice. “Do you really care nothing?! Answer me, damn you!”
When Satelno met him only with silence, the young man’s rage boiled over. He snarled and lifted the god up overhead, moving to throw the sphere, but at that moment Garuda seized him by the wrist.
“I am sorry, my friend,” he said, eyes pitying. “No apology is sufficient for the loss you have suffered. I truly lament that this is how your story has played out. But I will not permit you to take any action that might harm Satelno.”
Nothing could actually harm a god; they were indestructible. Garuda knew this, but what kind of saint would he have been if he allowed his deity to be hurled to the ground like a piece of rotten fruit?
“The earth god has given you his answer,” Garuda said somberly. “You can do nothing but accept it.”
The man darted his eyes about, realizing that he was now surrounded by the monks. Those of them who had been branded held out their makred arms. Sand and grit rose from between the stone tiles that made up the floor. The floating dirt permeated the air around the man densely, scraping across his skin in a manner that made him understand the nature of the threat to his life. Were he to proceed with his attempt at revenge, he would be smothered to death. Silent and defeated, he allowed Garuda to pry the god from his grasp. The saint reverently replaced it on the pedestal, then glanced at the prince, who had been quietly observing the ordeal. “Kurtollah. Your judgment?”
The prince stroked his chin. “…Ordinarily, raising hands against Satelno is a grave offense. However, I believe we can conclude that this man is not currently in a fit state of mind, and thus is not responsible for his actions. I therefore pardon him of his crime. Take him to the guest quarters, repay his tithe in full, and see to it that he is well-tended to. I will personally address his circumstances tomorrow.”
If the traveler felt gratitude for this mercy, he did not show it. He listlessly allowed himself to be taken away from the sanctum. The remaining pilgrims settled back against the wall, far too shocked by what they had just witnessed to even entertain the notion of approaching the god themselves.
Kurtollah turned toward Leland Calhoun, arms clasped behind his back. The apostle wore a disconcerted expression, no doubt sympathizing with the rejected man and contemplating what would have happened if he himself had not found favor with the God of Earth.
“Leland Calhoun, as you are an outlander, you are under no obligation to serve Haedora with your power; your tithe was payment enough,” Kurtollah explained. “However, as an Apostle of Earth, you are always welcome here. If you wish to receive training so that you might properly wield your newfound ability, our monks will gladly offer it to you. They will also accommodate you with lodging, food, and literature.”
Leland bent at his waist. “That is most gracious of you, Your Highness. I believe I will take you up on that.”
Kurtollah smiled. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Leland Calhoun. I believe you will become a most worthy representative of our god. Now then, I must take my leave. My adviser and I have issues to attend to.” He gestured for Garuda to follow him, who nodded in return. The saint and the apostle exchanged bows, then Garuda exited the sanctum behind his liege.
Before he left, the Saint of Earth shot one last glance over his shoulder at his god, around whom the monks had resumed their prayer. If Satelno was capable of perceiving and understanding the reproach in his chosen saint’s eyes, then the god did not care.
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“Has Satelno accepted any other new apostles within the last few days?” Kurtollah inquired as he and Garuda strolled through the market street. The prince plucked a pear from a stand, placing a coin on the counter in the same motion.
“A handful, but none of note. All were a third-brand or less.”
Kurtollah sighed. “If I am to be honest, I would have preferred for a citizen of Haedora to have received that half-brand. Gods know we could use capable mages with the way things are going."
“You worry too much, my prince. Jarasada is on the other side of the Wastes.”
“It troubles me all the same. Why would the empire go out of its way to annex a country with so little to offer? How far are they planning to expand, and to what end?”
“Admittedly, I too fail to see the value in acquiring Jarasada. It’s a poor kingdom sustained solely by its mines, and it holds no strategic value. Hardly seems worth the effort.”
Kurtollah frowned. “Did we not have a similar conversation last month, when the empire took Dagmar and Mahatmaraba?”
Garuda quirked an eyebrow. “You believe there’s a pattern?”
Kurtollah pondered, staring at his still uneaten fruit. “They’re all such insignificant places. Why would the empire take the time to conquer them while in the midst of an insurrection that spreads like wildfire and war on their horizon? There must be more to this than meets the eye.”
“All three countries border the Wastes, do they not?”
“Yes… But what does that matter?”
“Do not forget, my prince, that the Wastes recede over time. The lands that make up those kingdoms were uninhabitable just two centuries ago.”
“Then they seek something birthed from the Wastes…?” Kurtollah wondered. “Could excavation sites be their target? Are they after something the ancient kingdoms buried?”
Garuda now seemed legitimately concerned. “Gods know what they hope to find. It’s fortunate that the dig sites never produce anything more than parts and ceramics; I shudder to think of what would happen if something predating the Eightfold Obliteration was ever to be unearthed.”
“Yes, the Book of Oblivion does speak of all sorts of horrors. Still, can the empire really be so desperate that they would chase legends?”
The saint shrugged. “Well, regardless of what they’re after, there’s no threat to us. Even if the empire had the gall to attempt an invasion of Haedora, it would take at least a month to marshal their forces and transport them around the Wastes. Ample time for us to prepare our defenses.”
“Let’s hope it never comes to that,” Kurtollah murmured. He made to take a bite out of his pear, but Garuda grabbed him by the shoulder. The saint pointed to the north wall, where the signal fires were being lit in the guard towers one by one.
Kurtollah squinted in confusion. “What? Why the north wall? The only thing in that direction is…”
Garuda jerked his arm upward. The earth beneath them separated from the street and lurched up, the saint’s magic carrying the pair aloft as the people around them scrambled backward in surprise.
“Give me some warning, Garuda!” Kurtollah shouted.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Garuda apologized as he lifted their impromptu platform higher and higher. “We must make haste.” They shot through the sky, speeding toward the top of the wall. In spite of the situation, Kurtollah couldn’t help but revel in the sensation of flight, in its swiftness and weightlessness.
It only took minutes for Garuda to cross the entire city, bringing himself and the prince to land atop the northern wall. A guard captain rushed up to them, offering a quick formal bow before launching into his report, gesturing at the barren lands beyond the walls.
“Your Majesty, a massive fleet of airships is rapidly approaching the city. We cannot give a positive confirmation as of yet, but we believe them to be Thalngalse’s imperial navy.”
“The imperial navy?! Impossible!” Garuda shouted. “How can this be the first we’re seeing of them?! How did they approach Nazer without being detected before now?! They should have had to pass by multiple cities! We should have received warnings from messenger airskiffs!”
Kurtollah took a proffered spyglass, through which he honed in on the flagship. “…Jarasada,” he breathed. “This is why they took Jarasada! We didn’t receive warning signals because they never passed by other cities in the first place! They crossed the Wastes!”
“But how?!” Garuda asked, baffled. “The Vanishing Sickness should have killed them all by now if that was the case!”
“We don’t have time to worry about that!” Kurtollah snapped. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do!” He bit his thumb. “Dammit! With this many ships they can burn the city to the ground!” He turned back toward the saint. “Garuda, could you destroy all of them before they can cause serious damage?”
“No,” Garuda replied. “Their numbers are great, and without doubt, there will be at least one Imperator aboard those ships. Even if I could subdue the entire fleet by myself, I would never be able to do it while fighting an Imperator at the same time.”
“What are our chances?”
“If there is but one Imperator? Slim. We have little in the manner of armaments, but our mages, Shivta and Greer especially, might be able to turn the tide in our favor.”
“…And if there is a second?”
“None.”
Kurtollah gritted his teeth, his hands tightening on the spyglass. “…Captain. Order your men to stand down. We will welcome these representatives of the Thalngalse Empire into our city as guests.”
The captain grimaced, then bowed. “As you command, milord.”
Neither Kurtollah nor Garuda watched the man take his leave, both too fixated on the fleet as it steadily became more and more visible.
“…Garuda. Take me back to the palace," the prince ordered. "And once we get there, signal the other Apostles of Earth not to take action for the time being."
“…Is this wise, Kurtollah? If we are to fight them, it would be best to do it outside the walls.”
“We don’t know enough yet. This is all too sudden. If we move indiscreetly we invite disaster upon ourselves.”
“Their intentions seem readily apparent to me,” Garuda muttered bitterly.
“I agree. But we risk too much by jumping to conclusions. If we cannot win this battle, then we should at least hear the terms that would let us avoid conflict.”
Garuda looked at him. “…What if they’re after Satelno?”
Kurtollah refused to meet his eyes. “…Then they leave us with no recourse.”
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There was a tense silence as Garuda ferried Kurtollah to the palace, over which the imperial flagship had just come to rest. The two stepped foot into the courtyard, where guards and attendants were milling about nervously. Kurtollah issued brief orders to his staff, then walked with Garuda to wait by the palace doors for their “guests” to arrive. They watched wordlessly as an airskiff detached from the ship, drifting down to land in a garden plaza.
Three men with white coats stepped from the craft, and Garuda swore under his breath. Even Kurtollah was unnerved by this; how could Thalngalse possibly spare the resources to send three Imperators here?
The trio approached uncontested, coming to stop at the steps leading up to the entrance. The blonde one smiled broadly as he took in the prince’s vestments and the saint’s brand. He bowed dramatically. “Greetings. You must be Prince Kurtollah and Saint Garuda. I am the Imperator Mikhail, whom His Majesty granted the title Judgment.”
Garuda cursed their luck. Mikhail was an extraordinarily dangerous individual, and judging by the brand on the white-haired one’s arm, he was accompanied by the Saint of Wind, Zephelin. What lingering hope Garuda had was quickly disappearing, and this was before he even brought the third individual, a complete unknown, into consideration.
“I bid you welcome to Nazer, Imperators,” Kurtollah replied politely, inclining his head. He gestured to the palace doors. “Please, enter. I’m sure you must be weary from your long travels. We can rest and drink while we converse.”
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Kurtollah and Mikhail both took seats in the audience chamber, while Garuda, Zephelin, and Kholne remained standing. The room was spacious and well adorned, and the attached balcony overlooking the gardens allowed a pleasant breeze to waft in. The prince leaned back in his chair, bridging his palms. “Lord Mikhail, I have heard much about you, but I fear I am ignorant of the identities of your fellows.”
Mikhail reclined leisurely, as if he were in his own room. “I’m sure you know of Zephelin the Maelstrom, the Saint of Wind. The tall one beside him is the newest member of our retinue. His name is Kholne, and the emperor has dubbed him Future.” He smirked. “Far be it from me to question the decisions of His Majesty, but I’ve always found his sense of humor a little too on the nose.”
Garuda swept his eyes over Kholne, questioning if he had been brought along as a mere bluff. As indicated by his unmarked hands, he seemed to have no brand to speak of, which meant no magic. Further, he was completely unfocused on the conversation at hand, gaze drifting anywhere and everywhere. Still, there was something eerie about the boy, and Garuda decided it would be best to treat him as a legitimate threat.
A handmaid brought a tray laden with wine and fruit, and set it down on the center table. Mikhail raised an eyebrow as he noticed a faded bruise on her cheek. “Now what happened to you, my sweet?”
The handmaid’s eyes widened. She had applied a considerable amount of concealer to the injury in order to not appear unsightly before dignitaries. The fact that the Imperator had perceived this so easily was unnerving. She looked to Kurtollah in fear. The prince nodded, prompting her to turn and bow to Mikhail. “I experienced an accident, Lord Imperator. Due to my own clumsiness, I slipped and fell, and struck my head against a railing. I am fortunate that this was the extent of my injury.”
Mikhail grinned. “My, what a pity. Such a beautiful face should never be marred so.”
The handmaid flushed, clearly not having anticipated this level of attention. She was about to stammer out an expression of gratitude for the compliment when Kholne unexpectedly stepped forward.
Mikhail immediately narrowed his eyes, and Zephelin seemed equally on edge. “Kholne, what are you doing?” the blonde Imperator inquired in a level tone.
Kholne ignored the question, coming to a stop next to the handmaid. He towered over the girl, red eyes fixed solely on her. She swallowed nervously, fear rooting her in place.
The newest Imperator slowly raised a hand and extended it toward the girl’s face, never blinking the whole time as she trembled.
“Kholne!” Mikhail snapped. Garuda and Zephelin both readied themselves to step in.
Kholne gently placed his thumb over the girl’s bruise and held it there for a moment. Then he withdrew his hand, revealing that the wound had disappeared. Everyone present stared in amazement.
“Better,” Kholne declared quietly, then returned to his position behind Mikhail.
The handmaid held her hands to her cheek, blinking in disbelief.
Kurtollah pursed his lips, suppressing his curiosity over what had just occurred. “Leave us," he directed his servant. "We have matters to discuss.”
The girl jumped, then bowed toward Kholne. “Th-Thank you, milord,” she managed before scurrying from the room. A dull quiet fell over the audience chamber for some moments before being broken by Mikhail.
"Prince Kurtollah, I come to you in the stead of my master, His Majesty, the emperor Caius Neros. He extends his greetings, and expresses his desire for your nation to become part of our great empire's legacy." Mikhail smiled, sweeping his hands wide with a flourish. "Tariffs between Haedora and any and all imperial nations would be abolished, and any entity foolish enough to raise their hand against Haedora would face the full fury of the empire in retaliation. Furthermore, Lord Garuda, by decree of His Majesty, is hereby offered the title of Imperator. He would answer only to the emperor himself."
Garuda snorted, clearly unimpressed.
Kurtollah stared at the Imperator, his face unreadable. "...Lord Mikhail, Haedora is a kingdom that has endured for centuries. We have never subjected ourselves to outsiders, only accepting them into our walls on our own terms. Does your emperor truly expect us to bend our knees for him so eagerly?"
Mikhail sighed and steepled his fingers. "His Majesty dreams of a world united, without strife."
"A splendid thought, but any beggar can tell you that dreams are worth less than bread," Garuda said gruffly.
"Indeed," Zephelin agreed evenly, glancing at the older saint. "His Majesty knows that well. He is not an idle fantasizer; he understands the harshness of reality. He recognizes that without the means to make one’s vision reality, that vision is worthless. It is why he requires..." The Imperator hesitated, keenly aware of the disquiet his words were about to bring. "...Otherworldly power."
Kurtollah and Garuda both went rigid. "Lord Zephelin," the Saint of Earth growled, "I hope you are not so naïve as to insinuate that we would ever willingly hand the God of Earth over to you."
Mikhail rested his chin in his palm. As expected, negotiations were breaking down. "Satelno is essential to His Majesty's designs," he explained. "In truth, we might not have paid this kingdom much mind were it not the god's host."
"Were you wise, you would pay our kingdom no further mind at all!" Garuda sneered.
Mikhail leaned back, grimacing. "I take it you share the saint's sentiments, Prince Kurtollah?"
The young sovereign folded his arms. "...Lord Mikhail, while I appreciate your emperor's generous offer, he requests too much of us. Satelno is this nation's heart, the sphere around which we all revolve. He gives us strength, both in body and soul. People roam the land from places far distant to share in the divinity Satelno graces us with daily. We could as readily surrender him as we would the sun!” He turned toward Zephelin. “Surely you of all people can understand this, Saint of Wind!"
Zephelin tilted his head, flicking his wrist in a matter that drew attention to his mint-colored brand. "Alas, I was a mere three years old when I received the wind god’s blessing. I hardly remember anything about that day." His eyes narrowed. “And of course, the god Merurio was lost when Albernoth came crashing down to the earth twenty years ago. Sadly, I no longer have a source of piety.”
“Hmph. Damned demons…” Garuda spat. “Only barbarians like them would destroy such a wonder as a floating kingdom!”
Kurtollah bridged his palms. “The destruction of the sky kingdom is an unforgivable sin. But the actions of the demon clans were born from their rage and despair over the loss of their goddess. The goddess your empire stole away from them!” Kurtollah punctuated his point with an accusatory jab of his finger. “Imperator Mikhail the Judgment. Imperator Zephelin the Maelstrom, the Godless Saint. Tell your emperor that I will offer him my own corpse before I will give up the hope of my people, the great god Satelno!"
A silence rushed into the room following this declaration, broken after a few seconds when Mikhail sighed. "...How unfortunate. I knew things would turn out this way, but His Majesty is ever an optimist." His gaze suddenly sharpened, and Kurtollah involuntarily shivered. The Imperator’s voice became low and cutting. "...Well then, Prince... Would you also offer up every last man, woman, and child in this city?"
Garuda immediately stepped between Mikhail and Kurtollah. "Do you mean to incite war with your words, fool?!" he shouted.
""War" implies you would have a fighting chance, Lord Garuda," Mikhail replied dismissively, motioning to a window through which the imperial fleet could be seen. He returned his gaze to Kurtollah. "Young prince, the emperor will have Satelno. His will is absolute. No matter how you struggle, you cannot prevent this outcome. The only thing you can change is whether or not your people will survive this day."
"You demand unspeakable humiliation of us!" Kurtollah hissed.
"Indeed," Zephelin acknowledged. "But better humiliated than dead, I think." His expression was surprisingly earnest.
Kurtollah bit his lip, balling his fists. Haedora was not a militant nation, and even if it had been, the Imperators’ sudden and unexpected advance had placed them in a prime position to seize—or outright raze—Nazer. Resistance would only result in slaughter. Kurtollah wished to scream, to curse these men and their emperor, and the mad ambitions that drove them all.
But instead, he bowed his head, prostrating himself as he held his arms out, palms upturned.
"I, Kurtollah Dushara Bast Sulayman the Second, Crown Prince of Haedora, hereby accept the invitation of Emperor Caius Neros. From this day forward, Haedora will become subservient to him, and will offer our god, Satelno, in tribute."
Garuda stared at him in shock, then lunged forward and grabbed the prince by the lapels. "Kurtollah!" he bellowed. "How dare you?! You have no right to do this, you craven!"
Kurtollah smiled forlornly at his advisor. "Forgive me, Garuda. I understand the difficulty of the position I am placing you in. But if it means the gift of another tomorrow for my people, then I will sacrifice what I must. No matter what it costs. No matter what..." He trailed off, eyes weary.
Garuda stared at the prince quietly, then gently released his hold and carefully straightened out the creases in the prince's robes. "...Milord, you have become a fine man.” He smiled. “You remind me so much of your father. I wish that he could be here to see how you’ve grown, and so that he could guide us on this day…” The saint straightened his back. “I am privileged to have served you, my prince. Would that I could have seen you become king."
Kurtollah and Zephelin both immediately became alert.
"As of this moment, I hereby resign as Royal Advisor," Garuda continued. "From this point onward, my actions no longer represent Haedora or any of its people."
"Garuda, what do you intend to do?!" Kurtollah shouted in dismay.
“I now stand only as the greatest servant of the god Satelno," Garuda continued, ignoring his former liege. He stared at Mikhail. "Imperator. Do you acknowledge this?"
Mikhail tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "...Very well. If this is how events must unfold, then so be it. None shall be culpable for your actions save for you yourself.”
“Indeed,” Zephelin added. “If today ends with only your blood spilled, Lord Garuda, then I would consider our job well done.”
Garuda nodded. “I would ask that we do this outside the city walls.”
Mikhail shrugged. “Fine by me.”
The Saint of Earth raised his palm as he walked onto the balcony, and a wide cube of bedrock shot up before the railing. “Come, Imperators,” he commanded as he stepped foot onto the platform. “Let us not dally. I will take you to our battlefield.”
Mikhail and Zephelin exchanged glances, then followed after. Kholne lingered for a moment, observing the distressed prince, but quickly moved to join the others.
With a sweep of his hand, Garuda detached the stone from the ground and brought it aloft, hovering in midair before he sent it tearing through the sky. Kurtollah ran onto the balcony. “Garuda, wait!” he cried.
He was ignored, though, and could do nothing but grip the metal of the railing tightly as the saint and the Imperators vanished from sight. He staggered backward, then slumped against a wall, eyes fixed listlessly on the floor.
“Garuda…” he whispered.
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"You keep your balance well,” Garuda commented.
“We travel by airship all the time,” Mikhail replied. “Speed like this is nothing to us.”
“Hmph.”
The elderly saint brought them over the northern wall, descending before coming to a halt over a flat dune. “This is where you get off,” he growled.
“Sure,” Mikhail said nonchalantly, and the other two Imperators followed suit in obeying the demand. From where they stood in the sand, they watched as Garuda flew off over the vast expanse.
“We could have killed him en route,” Zephelin noted. “Why are we giving him a chance to use the terrain to his advantage?”
“Come on, this is more entertaining,” Mikhail grinned. “How often do we get to fight a saint at full power? If you don’t take on someone strong every once in a while, your senses get dull.”
Zephelin sighed. “I should have expected a childish answer such as that. And here I had given you the benefit of a doubt, thinking you were concerned for the civilians.”
Mikhail simply laughed.
There was a deep rumbling, and a massive upshot of sand burst into the air. It swirled in a vortex before solidifying in the form of a colossus, taller than the city walls themselves.
Mikhail’s grinned in delight. “See what I mean?!” He closed his eyes and extended his palms, as if in prayer.
As Garuda’s avatar took steps that sent tremors through the ground, pale white light began to converge around it. Zephelin watched on with mild interest, and Kholne with unabashed fascination.
The Saint of Wind glanced at the new Imperator. “I’d turn around if I were you,” he suggested as he himself took his own advice. “You’re not going to be able to see for a while if you look at that head-on.”
Mikhail’s eyes snapped open. He grinned devilishly as the light around Garuda began to dance. He clenched his fists and released his magic.
“All Salvation.”
For Kholne, everything became blinding white.
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