Before the rise of the Lord of Chains, the Master of Blood and Flesh, the dread Tul-Tul-Tar, three immortal races reigned. The Titans, giants among beings, ruled the great plains and the empires of mankind with unwavering might. Perched within their halls of stone, the Dragons lorded over their realms, each a sovereign of its own domain. The Weavers, in their seclusion, were devoted to the creation of new intelligent races, weaving the fabric of life with their ancient magics.
The Blood Wars and the ensuing Breaking of Chains heralded the downfall of these ancient powers. By the start of the Fourth Age, the immortal races were all but extinct, their vast empires shattered. Survivors, once lords of creation, were now fugitives or prisoners bound to shrines, their direct influence over the world severed.
From the ashes of this turmoil, the Sul Empire emerged, its foundations laid in the Contract of Empire penned by Nyxol the Scribe in the final days of the Blood Wars. It has since stood under the guardianship of Sylvine ruling from her emerald throne, and Rovan Khal, with his legions of bone. In desperation the three reluctant allies forged a new kind of contract, a new magic born from the old.
– Excerpt from The Last Immortals by Alchess Transalara
Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice
Lotem felt the shift, the flash of golden light, and the familiar wrenching sensation in his gut. His mind raced with thoughts of the impending meeting. Would Sylvine be as imposing as a storm over the plains? Would she sense his hidden companion? He swallowed hard, trying to calm the storm brewing within. This encounter could determine his future, and he couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
He felt the small form nestled against his chest stir for the first time in hours, hoping she would wait until he left the chamber to make her presence known. He examined the space, hoping the slight movement of his neck would conceal the faint wriggling beneath his cloak.
He stood in an immense stone room, vast enough to house a herd of bison, its towering walls like cliffs, the floor a cold ocean of stone veined with gold and silver. The cold stone beneath his feet felt alien, a stark contrast to the soft, singing earth of the plains he had spent his life within. Even the air felt different, carrying a faint, musty odor of age and disuse.
Today wasn’t the first time Lotem had seen stone construction, though he was far from familiar with the craft. Years earlier, he had visited Gertolai, the City of Steel, and Galsharok, the City of Copper, within the Khanate. He had been awestruck by their towering stone walls, yet horrified by the acrid smoke that billowed from the smokestacks, rising higher than the walls themselves to join the clouds.
Lotem was no [Mason]; his knowledge of the craft was limited. His people, the Bal, lived in yurts made of bone and hide, not stone. He couldn’t help but compare the cold stone beneath his feet to the soft earth of the plains. Still, the majesty of the room took Lotem aback.
The floor was a single slab of white stone veined with gold and silver. Pillars of storm-gray stone rose towards the dome above, cradling the velvet expanse of the night sky. The dark ceiling was dotted with silver, reflecting the torchlight like stars.
Smelling like the herds of home, his thick cloak carried a scent foreign to the halls of carven stone. It shifted on his shoulders and the small form once more pushed against his chest. He knew that she would get more insistent if he didn’t act and he really didn’t want to discuss his companion with Sylvine. He withdrew a small piece of jerky from his pocket, brought it to his chest, and made a quiet, hushing sound deep in his throat as he turned, pretending to marvel at the room around him.
The meat was taken and the form settled once more within its pocket. He hoped that Sylvine hadn’t noticed the action and he let his gaze settle on the dragon for the first time since he had arrived.
Deciding it was time, he began walking towards the emerald-scaled dragon, her throne glowing like a beacon in the shadowy hall, each step echoing like a drumbeat. His steps were slow and methodical, carrying the weight of the moment. Lotem knew this was a memory that would never leave him, nor would his choices today.
His steps sounded loud against the stone, the echoes reverberating against the walls with every footfall. The dragon, the last of the empire, watched him with casual grace. Her ancient, wise eyes flickered with an inner flame, telling stories of empires risen and fallen. Her wings, the color of fresh grass, were folded against her back, her sinuous tail wrapped around the emerald throne.
After passing the last of the twelve stone pillars, he stopped and bowed, bending low, almost parallel to the ground. He wasn’t sure if bowing was proper for Sylvine or if she preferred her subjects to kneel. He hoped he had gotten it right.
“Your greeting is acceptable, Lotem of the Zherenkhan,” she said. “I welcome you to the halls of empire. You may greet the throne.” He raised his head and started. The throne was empty, the dragon gone. The slithering voice echoed through the chamber, its origin impossible to place.
“I greet the Emerald Throne, the Final Haven of Queens, a jewel among stones, the seat of the Sovereign of Realms.” Lotem’s voice, steady and devoid of emotion, betrayed no concern for Sylvine’s absence. “I stand before you, oh hallowed throne, to claim my entrance into Aslavain, to forge a triumvirate as is my right.”
He wasn’t sure that greeting the throne rather than the Sovereign was the right decision, but he hoped it would catch her attention. She chose to become invisible; she didn’t get to complain if he used the wrong titles, dragon or otherwise.
“Your right, you claim? It seems the so-called barbarians have finally learned the language of empire.”
The voice hissed through the air. Lotem wasn’t sure if he detected amusement or malice. Maybe both? He hoped her sudden invisibility was a good sign. He had heard of worse greetings from the Sovereign of Emerald Skies to his people, though not in decades.
“Yet, not purely of the wilds, are you? Numen blood flows through you, I sense—a giant’s legacy, albeit diluted. But you lack the true advantages of the Numen, this I can tell. Only one heart beats within your chest. Good.”
He wasn’t surprised that she had noticed his distant Numen heritage. He was three generations distant from a Numen bloodline and two hands shorter than his own father but the height had always stood out. Two hearts in his chest? Now that was a full blooded Numen trait. Two hearts. Four lungs. Double the size of normal men. He hoped it would keep her mind away from Sabel.
“So, you demand the empire’s rights—rights forged in my people’s blood under duress. Obligation binds me to grant them, and the druids will complain if I do so spitefully. Still, why do you believe you deserve my gift, a portion of my authority?”
He took his time to consider his response, knowing he had hours with the dragon and was in no rush. He wanted to tell her about Wilson and Warma, the bison who came running at his whistle and slept outside his tent. He wanted to tell her about his companion, curled up against his chest. But those were remnants of his past life, not skills for Aslavain. They were gone.
The silence stretched as he thought about his answer, the emerald throne still empty. Sylvine’s voice slithered through the chamber, a whispering hiss. The words sounded different, as if the dragon hadn’t meant to speak aloud, her thoughts vocalized as she grew bored waiting for his response.
“Rovan has chosen a squire of his own this year, some boy not even from the true empire who is in need of… qualified companions. A boy destined for failure in need of allies? I think you will work… well together. Touched by the Numen? Rovan cannot complain, will not complain. Not when his squires have always been pure blooded Numen before. Maybe he will even give my squire a worthy companion. But…”
The echoes of her words faded and the chamber went still. Sylvine reappeared on her throne, looking as though she had never moved or spoken at all. Maybe she thought she hadn’t.
Without giving him the chance to answer her first question she continued. “Now, enlighten me, Lotem of the Thurbal. Why are you here, attempting to enter Aslavain?” Her eyes, glowing silver against her emerald scales, were snakelike as they watched him.
“My brother was taken . . . devoured . . . by the Tul,” Lotem’s voice trembled with barely contained rage. “I seek revenge, and, though I know it’s impossible, I want to reclaim his memory. To make the Tul pay for every life they’ve stolen.”
“Revenge and an impossible task? Numen blood truly runs within your veins. It was always the way of the Numen to take on tasks even larger than themselves. Good. Good.” She watched him intently before adding, “Do you fear the Tul, Lotem?”
He hesitated before answering. He did not dare lie to the immortal, not when she could still determine his fate. He waited, hoping she would grow distracted again. After almost ten minutes of silence, he answered.
“Does a mouse fear a cat? Does a deer fear a wolf? To not fear the Tul would be stupidity. What you ask is if I have the courage to fight anyway. Can the sparrow overcome the hawk? I do not believe it can on its own, but in a triumvirate you are never alone. We shall take on the Tul together.”
“An idealist with an impossible task in the east? You are exactly what I need. I will grant you admittance to Aslavain. However, if you fail to form a triumvirate with the pair you are entering with, I will personally ensure you regret it. Understood?”
“Thank you, Sovereign.” He couldn’t say the words fast enough. She was admitting him to Aslavain and, unless he misunderstood, was going to place him with some of the most accomplished initiates of their year. Maybe even with the squire she mentioned earlier. He wondered who was great enough to be chosen as a squire to Rovan Khal himself. “I will not disappoint your expectations.”
“Now, what shall my boon to you be.” She narrowed her slitted eyes and examined him as though seeing him for the very first time. Her lips split and revealed rows of pale teeth and she began to make a hissing, huffing noise. He was pretty sure it was a laugh, although that didn’t do anything to settle his nerves. “Did you bring a kitten into Aslavain?”
He froze, deathly still as Sylvine watched him with amusement. He had hoped she wouldn’t notice. Sylvine, the famously inattentive, decided this year to take real notice of the Bal candidate in her midst. He decided in the hanging silence that there was nothing to do but tell the truth.
“Sabel… She didn’t have anyone else Sovereign. And she asked me to bring her with me and I… I couldn’t bring myself to leave her.”
“It is not often that I get to experience something… new. Immortality robs us of our sense of novelty. But to dare to bring an untrained beast with you to Aslavain while intending to fight the Tul…the sheer arrogance is inspiring. I have made a worthy choice for you.”
His muscles began to relax and he bowed his head to Sylvine. A question sprang to mind and he couldn’t help but ask, “Am I truly the first to bring a companion on the journey across worlds?”
“The first to bring a companion? Hardly. I have seen full grown cairn wolves carried in the arms of candidates. I once denied entry to a Silkborn with an entire colony of the Brood’s fire ants on her back. But to bring a newborn cat of all things into Aslavain?” She let out another of those huffing noises and Lotem wasn’t sure if he liked the amusement from the emerald dragon. “It’s not even one of the long-toothed kittens that would grow into a real threat; it’s just a cat. Did you even train it first?
“Sabel will be trained once she is old enough to do more than sleep most of the day. She has proven a sufficient deterrent to mice so far. I have not seen a mouse in months,” he said defensively.
“For the novelty alone I would give you a worthy boon, Lotem of the Thurbal. If you are to serve with a [Squire of Carven Bone] you must not be an embarrassment. Rovan just stopped his endless whining about my boons and the thought of his booming complaints upsets me. But first. Answer me this: what do you really, truly want?”
The words had a sense of gravitas to them that Lotem found ominous. Sylvine, studied him with a focus that belied her earlier ramblings. He was certain that this question meant something important.
He took his time to consider his response. The chamber held the silence for the first minute and then the second. It held the silence for ten minutes and then fifteen. Lotem wanted his answer to be perfect and he knew there was no rush.
“The empire is at war, even if some forget it. We are not at war with one of the civilized races who honor the original accords. We are at war with one of the Banes of Civilization. The Tul were created to oppress. They were created to inspire fear. And they do not deserve to exist. My brother died in this war and no one seems to even notice. I want to make the Tul afraid of us once more.”
“Spoken like one of the original Numen. You shall compliment that [Squire of Carven Bone] wonderfully. Rovan would have loved you.”
With those words Lotem felt a shift take him, pulling him back to the Room of Threefold Oaths. Sylvine had dismissed him to the next stage of his journey. He saw the same flash of golden light and the same twisting feeling in his gut as he had come to expect. Yet, this time was different.
Before, the shift had seemed to last a mere heartbeat, a single moment between locations. This shift stretched the moment and in the black, inky silence he heard a voice speak to him. The voice was androgynous and it spoke without an accent or distinguishing feature. Lotem knew that he heard the voice of empire, the voice of civilization, the voice of the Sulphen made manifest.
[Boon Granted: Enhanced Blood of the Numen]
[Skill Obtained: Natural Enemy – Rodents]
Sylva smiled as she felt the shift begin and the golden light embrace her. She had become a citizen of the empire, entering into the great social contract forged by Nyxol the Weaver. The needle had taken her essence, binding her fate to the Sulphen. Now, she just needed to prove she was worthy of more than mere citizenship.
She knew better than to expect to be selected as Nyxol’s squire. Each of the three immortals only chooses a single squire each year to represent them within Aslavain and the true empire after their return. Despite her confidence in being the best choice in the empire to represent Nyxol this year, she knew better than to approach the meeting with expectations of grandeur. Even the most qualified candidates knew that arrogance wasn’t the best look.
The golden light fled her vision, and she took in her surroundings. She stood on a circular wooden platform surrounded by strands of silk, each line nearly invisible as it attached the platform to the trees on all sides. Sylva had studied dozens of tapestries woven with this very image. No true child of the empire would enter their ascension without knowing all three immortals, and Sylva was certain she was more prepared than most.
As she turned, seeking the figure she knew would be at the heart of the great web, she savored the forest’s fresh, earthy scent and the cool breeze caressing her skin. The rustling of leaves and the faint hum of insects filled the air, creating a symphony of the wild that contrasted sharply with the rigid formality of her sect.
She smiled as she beheld the figure she’d been searching for, her lips forming a gentle smile before she could school her expression. It’s truly Nyxol, the Queen of Silk, here to greet me as I step into adulthood. Am I presentable? Sylva quickly smoothed her robe, abashed at the idea of a single wrinkle in the presence of the queen.
Enthroned in the epicenter of an immense silk masterpiece, Nyxol’s formidable figure loomed, her legs sprawled elegantly across the delicate threads of her web. Each movement incited ripples that resonated with the forest’s essence. Her exoskeleton, glistening under the faint light, reflected a mosaic of dark hues, each segment a polished shard of midnight blending seamlessly into the shadows, her eyes shimmering like scattered starlight in the night sky.
Like shards of the night sky, Nyxol’s eyes gleamed with brilliance. To Sylva, she was beautiful; there was something unquestionably right about the arachnid form before her.
“Queen of Silk, Monarch of Woven Shadows, Architect of the Aranea, it is an honor to stand before you,” Sylva said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within her. She stood tall, her spine straight; none of her people would ever need to bow before the Queen of Silk.
“Sylva, it is a delight to finally meet you. I have been reviewing your memories and have come to expect great things from you.” The voice did not come from Nyxol’s mouth as she spoke. Instead, Nyxol brushed one of her eight limbs against the web. At her touch, the strands vibrated, and her speech rose from all around Sylva, each strand of the web speaking Nyxol’s will.
Reviewing her memories, her past? Sylva knew that the strongest weavers could touch the strands of fate and read them, predicting thoughts and actions with precision. She knew that the Sulphen could change or adjust memories, the Tul were living proof of that. But reading them in real time was a feat grand enough for Nyxol herself. Was this a result of the needle draining her essence?
“A wonderful deduction. The Sect of Silken Grace has truly outdone itself this year.” The words emerged from the web as Nyxol’s legs moved gracefully along the strands. “The Sulphen is always watching through the eyes of others, and in its watching, it leaves behind a pattern. A simple drop of blood, or essence in some cases, allows for my access to the pattern left behind.”
Sylva knew the Sulphen could see one’s actions through the eyes of others. Every scholar of the empire knew how the great magic of the empire worked. The Sulphen awarded excellence in the form of skills, titles, classes, and other great boons when citizens accomplished extraordinary deeds in the presence of others. A deed unseen by others was a deed unawarded; everyone knew that. But . . . Nyxol was saying she could review all of those memories, and the scope of that claim shook Sylva’s understanding of how the world worked.
“Not exactly all of them, unfortunately, though that would certainly make the eternal waiting more palatable,” Nyxol answered her racing thoughts. “No, I can only review the performance of those petitioning for a right to enter Aslavain, only read those in front of my senses. Happily for us, you are petitioning for that very right.”
Was she imagining it, or did the voice responding to her silence sound amused as it rose from the webs around her? As the voice continued, the amusement faded, replaced by a calm certainty that bespoke concern.
“The world is shifting, Sylva, and we feel its tremors. The Tul are awakening, and whispers of a new breed of ravenous rats crossing the Diontel River have reached my web. The empires far to the south are expanding, and the nomads of the plains are stirring in response. The Brood have created new weapons and shifted the balance of power in the West. Not since the years preceding the Bal Invasion and the subsequent Flower Wars have we seen the strings of fate quiver as they do now. Do you understand, daughter?”
Sylva nodded hesitantly and said, “You think the stirrings indicate the start of a new age and that we, the Sul Empire, are not ready?” She wondered as she spoke what her role was to be in this new age. Was she to be Nyxol’s squire, her personal representative? The thought sent a thrill through her.
“Destiny’s web is never easy to read, but the signs are there. I could be wrong; it wouldn’t be the first time, but I refuse to be caught unaware, not again. Not after the rise of the Lord of Chains or the first of the Beast Kings. When Apalarakan, Transalas, and Gransa ascended, we were not ready for what was to come. This time must be different.”
Nyxol’s exoskeleton leaned forward, her eyes focused on Sylva as her legs continued to pluck the webs, bringing her thoughts into the world.
“Rovan has seen this truth. The empire needs champions to be ready for what is to come. I have never dictated terms for the children of silk; the Silkborn have always chosen their own fate in my presence. Therefore, I ask you this, Sylva of Clan Strenath: will you join the triumvirate of Rovan’s chosen, the [Squire of Carven Bone]? Will you seek the strength of the empire with the whole of the thread at the core of your being?”
She prepared to respond but hesitated as she understood the request Nyxol had tendered. To be a companion to a squire, not a squire herself. She would be in a position of authority, a member of a triumvirate with the support and boons of the three immortals. Even this morning, she would have said that it was more than she could have hoped.
And yet, for a fleeting moment, she had dreamed of something more. She knew she would accept; she couldn’t imagine denying the Queen of Silk. Still, she took a few moments to let the dream of being a squire herself fade. She was sure that whoever Rovan had chosen would be just as exceptional as herself. Maybe they would even choose to go to Eisentor as her elders had requested. They needed to choose one of the Eternal Cities, after all.
Sylva expected nothing but excellence from her future team and knew she would get it. This is what she was made for, what her parents had given her before their seclusion. She smiled at the giant spider in front of her and spoke.
“Queen of Silk, of course I will accept your request. I have asked for nothing but the opportunity to prove myself, and working with a squire is just that opportunity.” She hesitated before adding, “Can you tell me anything about the squire, or Sylvine’s chosen for our triumvirate?”
“Can I tell you about your future companions? I could. But I shall not. My words carry too much meaning; each statement is a thread capable of tangling your own threads of fate. It is why it is forbidden in the Sul Empire to reveal too much to a child who is not yet a citizen. I shall leave you to your own conclusions once you meet them.”
She wished Nyxol had been willing to elaborate further, but she understood. The Elders had spoken about ‘undue influence’ over one’s fate at length. In her experience, it was simply a way for the Elders to avoid teaching them the real powers of the world. What use is learning the theory of magic if ‘undue influence’ meant she never got to actually practice.
Nyxol’s legs twitched with what Sylva hoped was excitement as she strummed the silken lines, and the sound of her voice once more filled the air.
“Know this: Rovan might have chosen the squire to bring attention to your path towards glory, but I have chosen the mentors who will help you achieve your goals. In Dornogor, the City of Beasts, one of the [Venerate] will be waiting for you. Casselia is her name, a member of the Mandate, she will be waiting for you alongside her own triumvirate. They will ensure your success in Aslavain.”
Sylva tried to process the words, to make sense of Nyxol’s plan. Dornogor? The City of Beasts wasn’t even on the prepared list of shrines she had spent months curating in case the elders asked her to go elsewhere. Dornogor hadn’t even been in consideration. It was too close to the lands of the Tul and far too close to Tir Na Nog for comfort, especially in Aslavain where the empire had ceded control of the Diontel. Moreover, it was hundreds of miles from Eisentor, on the entirely wrong side of the empire.
And yet, Nyxol was offering a team of mentors who likely had few peers across the empire. She had said that Casselia was one of the [Venerate], part of the empire’s true elites, the immortals who could travel through the real empire, what they called Creation or through Aslavain. She knew that the [Venerate] were near impossible to kill, their very souls bound to the empire. Working with Rovan’s squire was an honor she wouldn’t refuse, training under one of the [Venerate] was an honor she couldn’t refuse.
The Elders would understand. They had to understand. She didn’t have the choice to go to Eisentor. Still… Dornogor of all places?
“Are you sure that Dornogor is the city she will be in?”
“Casselia has chosen to train her next Triumvirate in the City of Beasts. As for the reason? That is for Casselia to share if she so chooses. That is enough about the choices outside of your control. What boon do you request of me for this service, Sylva?”
What boon did she request? Her hand drifted towards the pocket within the sleeve of her robe where she kept her bundle of tied notes. She had prepared for this very question, hoping that she would get a say in the start of her journey. She gave Nyxol a thankful nod and decided that if she had lost control over the rest of today, she could reclaim some control now.
“I wish to perform grand magics, to weave the threads of fate and make my will into reality. I have spent my life learning the language of the empire. I ask only for a boon to start me upon that path.”
“A reasonable request, daughter of silk, one which I shall grant. I gift you not a shortcut to power but a skill which will let you pave your own way. True magic requires three things: an iron Will capable of imposing belief so strongly upon the world that the world itself conforms to your belief, the Word to communicate one’s will clearly and with precision, and the Sacrifice, for no magic is ever truly free. Never forget that your magic will only be as strong as your conviction.”
“A final question.” All eight of the eyes focused on her. “What do you truly want?”
I want to become powerful and important, she thought before reconsidering. That wasn’t right.
She spoke, “I seek knowledge, Queen of Silk. My parents created me with the purpose of greatness, and I shall not dishonor their sacrifice. I desire to comprehend the intricacies of magic, society, and justice. Then, I will reshape them, bend them to a vision of a world less cruel, less unjust. I will tame the chaos.”
Nyxol dipped her head in acknowledgment, and Sylva felt a rush flow through her. “Go now, I have no doubts that you shall make ripples within the Empire. You are free, daughter of silk, treasure it.”
The golden light once more enclosed Sylva, and she felt the shift begin. The light’s touch was warm against her skin, urging her onward. She resisted, her will challenging the light as she spoke one last time. “Queen of Silk… Thank you.”
The light enveloped Sylva, its warmth a promise of the journey ahead. As it pulled her away, she heard the calm, steady voice of destiny itself, marking the true beginning of her path.
[Boon Granted: Sympathetic Intuition]
[Skill Obtained: Lesser Dexterity]
Embraced by the golden light’s warmth, Hadrian felt it swell in brightness around him followed by another shift. The light receded, leaving him in a strange, new world, his stomach churned and he struggled to hold the remaining contents within as he knelt on the ground.
Struggling to rise, Hadrian blinked against the stubborn blur clouding his vision. As shapes formed from the haze of colors, a vast expanse of yellow and green unfolded before him, an endless plain stretching farther than he could see. His heart pounded, a combination of awe and the unsettling realization that his journey had truly begun, he had been accepted for an audience with Rovan Khal himself.
The air around him was alive, pulsating with a freshness that was both ancient and entirely new, like the first breath of a world reborn after ages of slumber. It carried the essence of rain-soaked earth and the wild, untamed energy of the world outside the canopies of Cutra. Could this really be grass? The very same spoken of in travelers’ tales, now beneath my feet? He stared intently at the carpet around him the color of leaves in the spring.
His heart raced with the exhilarating realization that he was standing on solid ground, the earth directly beneath his feet, touching them, for the very first time. As a child of Cutra, raised in a city nestled within the canopies, he was never permitted to explore the ground. The idea of descending from the treetops had always been deemed foolish, not least because of the dense fog that blanketed the area and obscured the forest floor.
Hadrian was acutely aware of what awaited his gaze when he mustered the courage to lift his eyes from the verdant tapestry enveloping him. When he was young he had implored his parents night after night to weave the tales of the empire’s heroes into his dreams. From his earliest memories, the sagas of ancient kings and queens had stitched the fabric of his dreams and nightmares, a tapestry as vivid and complex as the world he now beheld for the first time.
He had always loved most of the stories about the First Triumvirate. Rovan Khal, the Titan of Carven Bone, strode the great plains. His immense shadow offered sanctuary to tribes of men, while legions of skeletons, a haunting procession, followed steadfastly in his wake.
Then there was Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies, who ruled from a throne of carven emerald. The very idea of a giant winged serpent, a dragon, had excited Hadrian to no end. He had encountered snakes in the forest outside of Cutra and was quite familiar with the birds who called the canopies home. The image of the emerald snake-bird was one he had never been able to shake, even though his parents insisted it wasn’t the best image to use.
It was Nyxol, the enigmatic Queen of Silk, who haunted Hadrian’s dreams more than any other. As the patron of the Kiel, his people, Nyxol’s presence was a constant in the village stories. He suspected that most Kiel would choose to meet Nyxol in her platform suspended in the canopies he had always known. Most Kiel weren’t afraid of spiders.
Hadrian experienced a fleeting moment of relief as he realized he was not in the canopies, trapped amidst a labyrinth of webs. No. He was . . .
“Settle, little one,” came a voice from behind him, resonant and deep as the seas of fog that blanketed his homeland. The air stilled as the voice permeated the open grassland, filled with authority. “I welcome you. Today, you are presented with a choice that will define the trajectory of your life. You have asked to enter Aslavain in the service of the empire.”
Hadrian turned, and his heart leapt at the sight of Rovan Khal, a meeting he had yearned for in dreams too numerous to count. This was the moment he had fantasized about since childhood, and now, standing before the towering figure of legend, his mix of reverence and anxiety intensified. Could he truly live up to the expectations of such an august being?
Here Hadrian stood in disarray, his once pristine attire marred by the ordeal of his arrival in the Room of Threefold Oaths, while Rovan Khal welcomed him in stark contrast. Rovan was immaculate in a toga as white as freshly fallen snow, his presence almost ethereal. His helm, masterfully carved from the skull of a formidable, long-extinct lizard, boasted twin horns that extended majestically above, casting an imposing silhouette. The intricate designs etched into the bone seemed to pulse with a faint, otherworldly glow.
Even seated, Rovan towered over him, a colossus of bone and sinew, his presence as immovable and imposing as a mountain. Hadrian had heard that Rovan stood dozens of feet tall, each of his feet larger than a normal man was tall. He raised his head and met the gaze of the Immortal, awe overtaking him. In front of him sat the Rovan Khal. He couldn’t bring himself to speak as he took in the foreign sights all around him.
“You hesitate, I see,” Rovan Khal remarked, mistaking Hadrian’s silence for uncertainty. “But hesitation serves no purpose here. You have requested an audience and I have granted it. Let us discuss Aslavain.” Hadrian listened patiently, unwilling to interrupt even as the silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity. It would not be proper to offend Rovan, not proper at all.
“Aslavain is a trial, a challenge for those who deem themselves worthy. It is an outlet for the best and the brightest of the empire to prove themselves to the populace, a chance for the Eternal Cities to host great events and recruit the most promising new citizens of each year. Aslavain is at the core of imperial power. ” He paused. Hadrian wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say something. He decided that silence was the least likely to bother his hero; he was in no rush to leave, after all.
Having deemed Hadrian fit for the whole speech, Rovan continued. “If you hesitate to enter Aslavain, you can still decide to enter the Civilian Corps and spend twelve years of your life working on projects sanctioned by the local province and city boards. You could decide to serve in the Legions, it is only a six-year-term . . . boy, are you mute?” he asked, after silence once again followed his words.
“Rovan Khal, Ancient One, Father of the Dion, Titan of Carven Bone,” Hadrian began, his gaze lifting to meet Rovan’s with a mix of reverence and nervous anticipation, “I am not mute.”
Silence.
“And?”
Hadrian, sensing that he had permission to speak began, “Oh King of Calcara, Breaker of the Tul-Tul-Tar, First King of Bone–” The traditional three-part praise structure his parents had taught him flowed freely, “My ambition is to enter Aslavain, the realm of heroes, to forge a triumvirate, and to one day ascend, creating a new shrine in my home of Cutra.”
A chuckle, rich and knowing, escaped Rovan Khal. “A cat trying to prowl among lions. You seek to form a shrine outside of the borders of the empire?”
“Sovereign of Skulls, Wielder of the Wraith Blade, King of the Unbroken Plains, I do.”
“Do you understand what that entails? The consequences which that action would bring about?”
Hadrian paused and considered the question with the intensity he believed it deserved. He knew that forming a shrine required him to grow strong enough to ‘pierce the veil between worlds’ and connect Cutra to the network of shrines throughout the empire. As to what ‘pierce the veil between worlds’ actually entailed? No one in Hadrian’s village had been able to give him more details about what that meant; he wasn’t sure they even truly knew.
He didn’t need to understand the mechanics of forming a shrine right now, he was confident in that. His parents had been so clear. All he needed to do was to grow stronger, each and every day. If he was stronger tomorrow than he was today he would be closer to accomplishing his goal. If he was stronger every day than the day before he was certain that he would eventually achieve his dreams and bring honor to his people.
As to the consequences of forming a shrine? Of course Hadrian was familiar with them. He would make everyone he had ever known happier. He would allow future children to return to the village to live out their lives rather than being stolen away. He would expand the empire. What could be more noble than that?
“Oh, Patriarch–”
“Skip the titles.” Rovan said with a touch of exasperation. Hadrian shifted uncomfortably before responding.
“Truthfully, I do not understand how shrines work or their grander purpose in the empire. I am sure that I do not understand the full consequences of the action, not like someone as grand as yourself must. But, someday I will understand and I will make my family happy. The entirety of Cutra helped raise me so that I could connect them to the empire. I will make that dream come true regardless of what stands in my way.”
“And what of the Brood to the west who may disagree with your goal? What of the pressure from the Dion in the east who have sworn to oppose any action in the west while the Tul still draw breath? What of the Malan in the north who treasure trade and glory above all else? Your goal is not without enemies.”
He tried to settle his nerves, to find the quiet focus he had honed hunting in the canopies. He had known that there were likely factions who would oppose his goal but the Brood, the Dion, and the Malan factions? That should have been worrisome to Hadrian and yet… he just couldn’t bring himself to care. Why should he care what strangers in strange lands thought about his plans for Cutra. His village wanted, needed a shrine and so he would form one or he would fail after trying his best.
“What of them?” He asked with a bravado that he hoped didn’t sound feigned. “The Brood, the Dion, the Malan, fog below, even the Kiel could stand in my way and I would not falter. This is my purpose.” As he spoke he felt his beliefs crystalize, solidifying within himself as though speaking the words had a power all their own.
Rovan’s belly shook as his laughter echoed across the plain, loud enough to hurt Hadrian’s ears. “I like you, Hadrian of Cutra. You are ignorant to the point of foolishness, and yet . . . sometimes ignorance is a boon all its own. I claim you. You shall be my squire while you are within Aslavain, and should you succeed in bringing honor to my name you shall be far more than that in time.”
He couldn’t believe his ears. He had been chosen by Rovan Khal? By Rovan, his hero. Was he truly to be his . . . squire?
“Yes, Hadrian?” Rovan smiled, “Speak freely, I have chosen you. Ask your question.”
“Why me?” Hadrian asked tentatively. “It has been almost a decade since a child of Cutra returned from Aslavain to Creation. My village deserves hope, but . . . to be your squire, your chosen? It is more than I have ever wanted.”
“Why you? You are not the most clever, the strongest, or the most popular candidate in this year’s Ascension. You do not hail from a powerful sect, a prestigious school, a roaming clan, or a masterful guild. You come unprepared for the monumental challenges that lie ahead.”
That was… harsher than he expected. He felt his hopes curl and fall, drifting like leaves to vanish in the mists. He was not good enough. He misunderstood. He hung his head.
“But a storm is coming, little one; one like we have only seen twice before. We need champions, not just in the circuits and tournaments of the inner empire, far from the monsters abroad. We need heroes to rise and combat the coming darkness. Why you? You amuse me with your formality and your impossible dreams. You delight me with your ignorant curiosity. Most of all? You have the potential to be something new. I want you on my side when you reach your potential.”
Hadrian didn’t know what to say. He felt as light as the robe around him, as though the grass against his ankles was the only force keeping him from floating away. Rovan Khal had seen him, recognized his potential, and embraced his purpose. It was a moment that would define the rest of his life.
“Thank you. I . . . thank you.” He met Rovan’s eye. Filled with new certainty, he asked, “What do you need me to do?”
“Few of the sects remember the ancient threats, content to squabble amongst themselves. The Eidolons have bound themselves to the old powers and have ground change to a halt. Few aside from the Mandate of Empire remain true to their original oaths; you shall join them, join one of Nyxol’s chosen. As my squire, you will have access to the Cairn of Titans in Aslavain once you conquer the challenge of an Eternal City. Out of all admitted, I expect you to claim the skills and treasures inside. You shall have a chance at your goal, Hadrian, but do not let the distant future blind you to the opportunities of the present.”
With those words, the golden light enveloped Hadrian, whisking him away to the next stage of his journey. Despite the uncertainty ahead, Hadrian felt a renewed sense of purpose and hope. He was ready to face whatever challenges awaited and meet his companions. As the light fully blinded him, he heard an empty voice fill the silence with Rovan’s gift.
[Class Obtained: Squire of Carven Bone]
[Boon Obtained: Lesser Armory of Bone]
[Legacy Skill Obtained: Legacy of Luminaries Fire]