Crowns offered, crowns declined;
Moon enthroned, sun resigned.

Daggers hush the royal cry,
Feathers drift where harpies die.
Crests of gold in twilight lost;
Archivist weighs every cost,
Harbinger counts empires’ frost.
Moon enthroned, sun resigned.

Triunes stir at secret cue,
Mandate dons its argent hue;
All the thrones through night aligned.
Moon enthroned, sun resigned.

– Opening to the Ode to the Crownless, composed in the Seventh Age.

Three Months Ago

The first sensation was phantom fire, the memory of an [Assassin’s] blade twisting in her gut. Then came the crushing reality of water, cold and slick in her throat. She erupted from the surface not with a gasp but a ragged bellow, hacking up fluid that burned her lungs. Staggering to her feet on the cold stone, the memory of the [Procurator’s] satisfied smirk fueled the fire in her core. Her scowl was a promise. Not again. This time, we shatter his Crest. This time, the cycle breaks.

Once the violent coughing subsided, she took in the chamber. Stark, silent stone. No scent of the high-altitude blossoms of a Kiel treetop. A prickle of unease joined the dull ache in her bones. How long? The last return had stolen a century. Each death carved away more time. The deeper fear followed close behind. And the others? Am I alone?

A single chair held an elaborate cotton robe, its gray fabric shot through with gold thread like lightning in a storm-dark sky. Upon it, her Crest—a simple amulet—gleamed faintly. A Malan robe. Her Crest, which she had entrusted to the scholars of Tuvashar, was here. A hundred miles and a world away from the Kiel recovery pools she’d expected. The unease solidified into certainty: something was wrong.

She rose, her legs unsteady. Each rebirth brought this same dissonance—a maddening, fractional delay between thought and action, as if her own limbs belonged to a stranger. It was a feeling she’d endured for a thousand years, a constant reminder of her fractured existence. And it was always worse when she died outside the stabilizing influence of Aslavain.

She slipped the robe on, the cool weight of the amulet settling into place against her skin, hidden beneath the folds of cotton. Her fingers moved in a familiar, intricate pattern, drawing latent heat from the murky pool. The air shimmered, and the stone wall before her groaned softly as its surface melted into a glossy, reflective sheen. Casselia met her own gaze: dark skin, black hair, and eyes that held the weight of centuries. The gold thread in her robe caught the light. “Acceptable.” With a flick of her wrist, the mirror dissolved back into rough-hewn stone.

Stepping out, Casselia found herself in a long hallway of identical stone doors, each spaced with unnerving precision. A rare sight; the cost to maintain even one [Venerate] rebirth chamber was exorbitant. This many were a statement of immense power and resources. It could only be an Eternal City. Rahabia, she decided, the memories of Saralainn’s living, breathing art a stark contrast to this cold grandeur. This level of investment meant her return would not go unnoticed, the Guild of Fallen Heroes would arrive soon she was sure. Good, they could answer her questions and prepare her. She needed a tether, a proper mentor contract in Aslavain. She needed students to teach if she was to recover her true powers.

The shuffle of rushing footsteps echoed down the corridor. A pudgy man in yellow robes rounded the corner, his face pale and beaded with sweat despite the hall’s chill. A [Venerate]’s return was a celebration, yet this man looked like he was walking to his own execution.

“Lady Casselia,” he gasped, his bow so hasty his spectacles slipped from his nose and clattered on the stone. He froze, darting a terrified glance at her before snatching them up with trembling fingers. His panic was a scent in the air, sharp and telling.

“It is of no concern,” Casselia said, her voice calm and level, a tool to cut through his fear. “Have you come to brief me on the state of the empire?”

“The stories of the Crownless’s grace are true indeed,” he stammered, relief warring with his anxiety. “I am to bring you to a meeting room. Shall we?” He gestured, almost fleeing down the hallway. Casselia followed, her silence a stark contrast to his palpable distress.

As she followed Lirien through the winding corridors, her eyes traced the carvings that adorned the Malan architecture. As she recognized some of the scenes from her own accomplishments she grew more certain. The Siege of Sabahar was little surprise, but only Rahabia would depict the Battle of Kaelums Refuge in such glorious relief. To the young, they were myths leaping from the walls, a testament to a glorious history. To her, they were tombstones, exquisitely detailed monuments to comrades she had outlived by centuries. The grandeur of the hall felt less like a celebration and more like the gilded entrance to a mausoleum.

The golden glow from the ornate sconces seemed too warm, too vital for this hall of ghosts. It cast a cheerful light on glories paid for in blood. Even the scent of incense couldn’t mask the phantom smell of the grave that lingered in her mind, despite how far she was from The City of Bone. She knew this grandeur was for the new ones, the handful of [Venerate] the empire managed to forge each decade. Children, who would walk this hall and see heroism, never understanding the true cost of the victories immortalized in the stone around them. There was nothing fitting about it; there was only a deep, abiding sadness.

They stopped before an ornate wooden door. It swung inward on silent, invisible hinges, a casual display of power that spoke more clearly than any proclamation. This was not the work of a mere functionary, she knew. To move my Crest from Tuvashar required the signet of a Warden. The room beyond was spare, dominated by a finely crafted wooden table. As she crossed the threshold, the hope for answers warred with a certainty that she would not like them.

It was a sterile homage to the Room of Threefold Oaths. One wall of polished wood, its opposite painted the color of old bone. Intricate cranes took the place of the binding language of the oaths themselves, their carved forms seeming to mock the room’s lack of true power. The air felt thin, weighted with unspoken things. “Welcome to the Crane Room, milady,” the guide murmured, his formality strained. “Please, take a seat.”

As they took their seats opposite each other, the silence stretched. He fussed with the sleeves of his robe, his gaze fixed on the table’s wood grain—anywhere but her eyes. He radiated a reluctance so profound it was practically a third presence in the room. Casselia simply waited, her stillness a counterpoint to his agitation. He would break. She just had to give him enough silence to do it.

“My name is Lirien Malinar,” he finally began, the words rushing out. “I work with the Guild of Fallen Heroes. We were not… expecting your return. Not after all this time.” The final phrase was heavy with unspoken meaning. Casselia’s gaze sharpened, pinning him in place. 

“Define ‘all this time’,” she commanded, her voice soft but unyielding. “How long?”

“The summer solstice will mark two hundred and thirty-two years since your last death.” The number slammed into Casselia with physical force; the room seemed to tilt. Two hundred and thirty-two years. The words echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of her mind. She had never known of a [Venerate] gone so long, not without being declared lost forever.

“I should have returned a century ago,” she stated, her voice flat and cold, devoid of the shock that churned within her. It was an accusation. Lirien swallowed hard. “We have been experiencing a… slowing of the return, milady,” he recited, sounding like he was reading from a bureaucratic memo. “There are various theories. It has impacted the older [Venerate] the hardest.”

A century. A century of her life, stolen by whatever this “slowing” was. Cold fury settled in her gut, overriding the shock. The [Procurator] had better still be breathing. I will not be denied my vengeance. The thought was a shard of ice. And this systemic failure… this was not inconvenience, it was a threat to the Mandate itself. If they couldn’t rely on returning from the dead… They’re criminally underusing Krinka, she fumed. He would have had this solved.

“My companions,” she said, cutting through his excuses, the question tight with dread. “The [Archivist]. The [Harbinger].”

“They have both awoken, milady,” Lirien said quickly. “Lord Krinka thirty-seven years ago, Lord Alsarana twenty-three. They have been waiting. It was Lord Krinka who petitioned the Warden to move your Crest.”

A knot of tension she hadn’t realized she was holding dissolved from her shoulders. For the first time since waking, she felt a flicker of genuine warmth. Her foundation was intact. 

“Where are they?”

“Lord Krinka is in Haffarah, naturally. Lord Alsarana is en route to join him.”

Of course. Krinka, buried in his archives in the City of History, she thought, the faintest ghost of a smile touching her lips. Some things never change.

“The empire, Lirien. Are we at war?” Her voice was a blade’s edge once more.

“Why no, milady!” he replied, his cheerfulness a jarring, false note. “The empire has enjoyed peace. The House of Lords calls it a time of unmatched prosperity.” He beamed, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. It was the forced smile of a man trying to sell a faulty carriage.

Prosperity. The word felt hollow. “And yet the Sulphen returned us,” she said, her gaze pinning him. “That suggests there is more beneath the surface. Peace can be a fragile thing, Lirien. I trust you’ll keep me informed of any cracks that may appear.”

After an hour of careful interrogation, Casselia had gleaned all she could. As she rose to leave, he spoke up, his voice hushed. “Milady, one more thing.” He slid a bundle of knotted string across the table as if it were poison. “From one of the Arenea. Of the highest priority.” Casselia picked it up, her fingers deftly untangling the silken threads, reading the intricate language of the knots. An assignment. A familiar wave of resentment at Nyxol’s audacity washed over her, followed by weary resignation. That spider always knows something I don’t.

Her hand went to the Crest hidden beneath her robe as she stood, Nyxol’s message a silent weight in her mind. Two centuries. A new triumvirate chosen for us. It was another piece in a puzzle she couldn’t yet see. She gave Lirien concise instructions for her transport, and he led her from the quiet tension of the Crane Room into the bustling, open air of the main portal hall. The sudden noise and light were a shock.

“The gate to Haffarah is on the third story,” Lirien said, pointing to a distant balcony as he handed her a sealed scroll.

“And Tuvashar?” she asked. “I have affairs to settle first.”

He pointed to a smaller gate set in a wooden frame nearby. She gave him a curt nod of thanks and turned away, leaving him to his relief. Her focus was singular now: her triumvirate. The thought of them was a lodestone, a fixed point in a world that had spun on without her. The anticipation was a sharp, clean ache in her chest, a fierce, protective loyalty that had bound them through wars and death. It was the one thing time could not erode.

She steeled her shoulders. The Mandate’s motto was ‘Ashes to Edifice,’ and she could smell smoke on the wind.

Within the hour, she would be in Tuvashar. After, she would pull Krinka’s head out of his tomes and Als’s tail away from whatever new cult he was tormenting. The Crownless had returned, and soon, the empire would change.

---

Two Months Ago

Before a towering shelf brimming with the Sul Empire’s knowledge, Krinka the [Archivist] sat cross-legged. As one of the empire’s most valuable [Venerate] and a companion to the Crownless, he was currently engrossed in a tome on the mating habits of northern swallows—a line of research he considered a steadfast, if unusual, defense of the realm.

Krinka was no ecologist; in fact, he despised birds. The sentiment was starkly contradicted by the dozens of tomes piled around him, each one representing hours of meticulous research into the creatures he had argued publicly should be killed to the last. Birds and extinction were natural allies; that had been Krinka’s experience at least. 

Two years ago, one of his contacts had informed him of worries about the rise of a possible Beast King in the north. After years of dedicated study, Krinka was confident they had been wrong. Not only had a Beast Lord failed to materialize over the past two years—providing ample evidence of a false conclusion—but Krinka’s research also revealed that the region was carefully tended by Bal [Shamans] and Malan [Ecologists], who ensured no single beast even approached Lord.

His theory was simple: the swallows were too preoccupied with courtship to concern themselves with the Sulphen, let alone ascend. It was a familiar pattern. In his long life, Krinka had found that an astonishing number of the world’s problems stemmed from the complexities of mating.

As much as Krinka hated birds, exterminating yet another species in the name of preemptive defense felt wrong. Krinka closed the tome and stretched, imagining Casselia’s sharp commentary on his poor posture or the stomach pressing against his robes. Her influence was a constant, welcome pressure to be better. Even before she was the Crownless, she had a way of making people feel important, of reminding them of their own potential. He chuckled softly. That, he supposed, was why he missed her.

The scent of old parchment was a comfort, but also a reminder of his self-imposed isolation. While Alsarana and Casselia moved through the world, he had buried himself in tomes, in theory and strategy. Could the weight of all this history truly help them out there, where reality was so unpredictable? The doubt was real, but his resolve was simpler: if Casselia believed it was time, he would stand with her. This knowledge wasn’t just for study; it was for the future of the empire. Even if it was just about birds. It had mattered before.

He hoped their reunion would be soon. It had felt like an eternity since his own awakening, and longer still since he’d seen them both. Alsarana’s visit nearly two decades ago had been brief—a welcome sight, but also a promise to return only when Casselia awoke. Krinka just hoped the troublemaking naga hadn’t caused too much chaos in the intervening years.

Krinka stood and summoned one of the archives’ Eidolons. At his request, the ghostly spirit materialized and began silently restoring the piles of tomes to their shelves. He watched it work, absently wondering if its life was better: a simple existence curating the collection, bound to these stacks until chosen to administer a trial in Aslavain.

He dismissed the thought with a rueful shake of his head. An Eidolon was bound to the archives, unable to leave except by appointment to the Immortal Chambers as an [Administrator]—a bureaucratic fate he had no interest in. No, being a [Venerate] was infinitely better. The authority to travel Creation or Aslavain as he pleased? That was true freedom, and he would never trade it.

The term [Venerate] itself remained a constant, nagging puzzle. He’d spent centuries tracing its etymological origins, once believing he was close to a breakthrough at an abandoned Domicile. The site was rumored to interest the Dion, and—as Casselia had warned—the [Procurator]. She had been right. They’d wasted months on that red herring.

What little he knew was that the term dated to the First Empire, from the age before the rise of the Tul-Tul-Tar and the apocalypse that broke the world. To a historian, this was the ultimate prize. The First Empire possessed magics that had never been replicated, and Krinka was certain that thousands of abandoned Shrines and Domiciles still held those secrets—lost in the wilds or locked away from prying eyes.

Unlike in ages past, the [Venerate] weren’t worshiped now; true gods were scarce in the modern Sul Empire. A few ancient cults still clung to their deities—the Holy Church of the Three, the Radiant Flame, the Eternal Weave—but the majority of citizens revered the Sulphen itself. In Krinka’s scholarly opinion, even those other gods were merely manifestations of the Sulphen, not independent divinities. Not like there used to be.

A sharp, hissing voice shattered the archival silence, pulling Krinka from his thoughts. “So, have the sparrows earned extermination this time, or do the little birdies get to keep their fleeting lives?”

Krinka turned, his thick robes rustling against a shelf. He adopted a practiced calm to mask the sudden thrill in his chest. “Alsarana. Was your recent wandering up to its usual standards?”

“It was… enlightening,” Alsarana hissed, the sound drawing out the word. “I had never before spent time among the UlaanBal. Their goblin warrens are quite a sight.”

Krinka recognized the bait instantly. Alsarana wanted him to ask about the goblins; Krinka, in turn, would refuse. It was their old game, a familiar conversational ritual that, to Krinka, was the very definition of friendship. He bypassed the topic entirely. “I take it Casselia has awakened, then?”

“Yessssss.” The word was a long, drawn-out hiss, thick with annoyance that Krinka had so neatly sidestepped the topic of goblins. 

Krinka’s mind briefly cataloged the opportunity. Greenskin tribes had only been established since the Treaty of Swallows Grace, and goblin matrons were notoriously secretive. A chance to learn their culture and skills was rare. Still, he let the thought go. Annoying Alsarana took priority, and besides, Casselia would pry the information from him soon enough. The naga wouldn’t be here otherwise. He considered his response carefully.

“Swallows,” Krinka corrected.

“Swallows?”

“You asked if the sparrows needed extermination,” he clarified, his tone painstakingly patient. “I am studying swallows.”

“And the difference is?” Alsarana pressed, a sly note in his hiss.

Krinka hadn’t the faintest idea. He waved a dismissive hand. “The wingspan, for one. They are entirely different creatures, Als. One would think a traveler of your experience would be more attentive to local ecology.”

“Well, do the swallows need to be exterminated?” 

“No,” Krinka said with an air of finality. “They are too consumed with courtship to even consider ascension. Their ambitions are entirely undone by the call of reproduction.” He sniffed. “As I have always maintained, romance is a trap. The swallows are merely the latest proof.”

“And the sparrows?” Alsarana asked, his voice laced with renewed, almost cheerful hope. “Can we exterminate them instead?”

Krinka steepled his fingers, appearing to give the question all the gravity it deserved. “The sparrows may remain,” he pronounced, as if issuing a royal decree. “For now. But they are on notice. We will observe them closely.”

Alsarana gave a nod of solemn gravity. “I will remain vigilant.” Krinka was quite sure the naga couldn’t tell a sparrow from a pigeon. He didn’t mind; it’s not as though he could tell most birds apart either, nasty little things that they were.

“Shall we return to the shrine to meet Casselia, then?” Krinka asked.

“No need. I just came from the shrine,” Alsarana said. “I left word with the Eidolon at the gate to send her here when she arrives. It’s best I don’t linger near the portals—my presence draws unwanted attention, especially in the north.”

Krinka certainly agreed. It was hard to remain inconspicuous when you were a twelve-foot naga with scales the color of a starless midnight. Such a creature would draw stares in the best of circumstances, but Alsarana’s missing arms made him utterly unmistakable.

The missing limbs only heightened his serpentine nature, an unsettling silhouette for a [Necromancer], let alone the [Harbinger] himself. Krinka didn’t blame him for seeking the archives’ solitude. Recognition was dangerous right after a return, while their full strength was still gathering.

“On that note,” Krinka began, his tone shifting to a more pressing matter. “Any idea what threat was sufficient to wake Casselia? Our returns have been slowing for decades and she has always been the slowest of us.”

“You’re the archivist,” Alsarana countered, deflecting the question back to him. “Is there a working theory? My focus wasn’t on systemic failures. The goblins, I can assure you, have no [Venerate] among them.”

“The prevailing theory is that we simply aren’t needed,” Krinka began. “The empire has known peace for over four centuries. No Beast King has risen in our absence. Even the Tul were quiet for decades.” He paused, a grim note entering his voice. “So quiet, in fact, that some Malan factions began questioning the need for the eastern garrisons. That talk ended a few years ago, when the Tul were a hair’s breadth from consuming a [Venerate].”

“Anyone we know?” Alsarana asked, his voice low.

“No. Her name was Astalia,” Krinka replied, his tone dismissive. “One of the new ones. Formed her crest in the decades after the Treaty of Swallows Grace.”

Alsarana hissed, a sound of pure disbelief. “They sent a [Venerate] that young across the Diontel? She would have been a shining beacon to every Tul in the region. No wonder they almost had her. Who authorized that?”

“She was leading her own triumvirate on their first deployment. It was meant to be simple scouting, but they escalated it into a full conflict.” Krinka shook his head in disgust. “Worse, she failed to invoke her right to return. They don’t teach common sense to these new [Venerate].”

“That’s the Krinka I know. Always complaining about those younger than himself.”

The woman’s voice, warm and familiar, echoed from the corridor just beyond their aisle. A wild, unrestrained grin split Krinka’s face as he turned.

“Cass!” he boomed, his voice full of a warmth that had been absent moments before. “Far too long.” He shot to his feet, planting a hand on Alsarana’s chest to stop the naga from slithering past him for the first greeting. “When did you return?”

“And I see you’re still neck-deep in tomes, Krinka.” Casselia stepped into the aisle, her grin matching his as her gaze swept from him to the menacing naga at his side. “Alsarana. Good. I trust you haven’t made any new messes for me to clean up?”

Alsarana’s tail twitched. “I was merely learning the secrets of a goblin warren,” he said, a defensive tone undermined by the smirk in his voice. “Nothing that should concern you.”

Casselia’s eyes narrowed. She knew that smirk all too well.

“Goblins,” she repeated, testing the word. “And how, precisely, did you gain admittance to this warren?”

“I simply demonstrated my power,” Alsarana said with an air of perfect innocence. “They were more than willing to welcome an ally. Even goblins have enemies, and I offered… moral support.” 

At this, Krinka’s grin widened. “You didn’t form another cult, did you, Als?”

“I wouldn’t call it a cult,” the naga hedged.

Krinka and Casselia shared a look of perfect, time-worn understanding. Then, in unison, their voices cutting across whatever protest Alsarana was about to make: “Definitely a cult.”

The great naga deflated, looking ready to argue for a moment before letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“Look,” Alsarana grumbled, his tail thumping once against the floor. “It’s not my fault I’m the [Harbinger]. These things just… happen. Mortals are always looking for a powerful god-snake to worship. It’s hardly something I can control.”

Hours later, once the initial storm of catching up had passed, Krinka’s tone grew serious. “I have missed this,” he said, his warmth making the dusty aisle feel like a war room. “My time here has been peaceful, but it is long past time we made a name for ourselves again. It seems the empire has forgotten the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown]. Shall we remind them?”

All trace of his earlier petulance was gone. “Do we have our orders, Cass?” Alsarana hissed, his voice now sharp and focused. “What is our mission?”

“Our orders are from Nyxol,” Casselia said, her eyes narrowing. “We are to be in Aslavain, to train a new triumvirate that has appropriate potential.” She paused, her gaze distant. “Nyxol suspects the empire is approaching a tipping point. But there’s more to it than that—with her, there always is. This surface peace is thin. We must be vigilant.”

“Aslavain,” Krinka mused. “It’s been too long since we’ve walked the Imperial Realm. Where do we enter?” A part of him prayed for a gate in the north, with easy access to the Archives of Haffarah. He knew better. Casselia never steered them away from danger; she steered them into its heart.

Her answer was a single, sharp word. “Dornogor.”

Alsarana’s head twisted. “The City of Beasts? Cass, that region hasn’t been a stable entry point since the Numen and Sunborn created the City of Rage. That unstable zone is ancient.”

“Tir Na Nog has neighbored Dornogor since the fifth age, hardly a new concern. The result of a clash between the domains of animate bone, beasts, and—of all things—rage or revenge.” He frowned, tapping a finger on a nearby tome. “Not an ideal environment for a rendezvous. What if our new triumvirate gets drawn off course before we even reach them? Tir Na Nog is known for trapping candidates in those trials of theirs.” 

Casselia shrugged, unconcerned. “Then they’ll have an opportunity to improve quickly. Consider Tir Na Nog their first test.” Her voice was cold as stone. “Nyxol wouldn’t waste our time on a team without potential. If they can’t survive a few weeks until we find them and swear the oath, they aren’t the team we need. We can always try again next cycle.” She leaned forward slightly. “Besides, the prize in Dornogor is worth the risk. The contest is at the first convergence of the moons—only six weeks in.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across Alsarana’s serpentine face. “I approve,” he hissed. “An opportunity to test the new generation with life-or-death stakes is always welcome. This modern empire has grown far too soft.”

“Good,” Casselia said, her tone all business now, the leader fully emerged. “We have two months to research and reach the City before the solstice. See to your preparations. We move out at dawn.”