When Apalarakan rose in mist,
A ghost beneath the silver sky,
The Legions vowed his reign to end,
Before the year’s first light would die.
But Transalas, a mighty force,
Appeared as days were few and done,
The Legions saw their hope recede,
The war would span the rising sun.
Then Gransa came with wings of dread,
A shadow cast to swallow day,
The Empire braced for years of war,
As darkness spread, the skies turned gray.
For forty years, the battles raged,
Nine Beast Kings fell to sword and flame,
The Sixth Age closed, a peace restored,
A dawn arose, the world reclaimed.
– The Rise of the Beast Kings
Aslavain: One Day after the Summer Solstice
Sylva felt the shift take her, and in a blink, a flash of golden light, she found herself free from the confines of the sect she had called home. She took a deep breath, savoring the clean air, free from the overpowering incense of the sect. For the first time, she felt truly alive, her mind racing with the possibilities of the future. This is it, she thought. No more constraints, no more elders watching my every move.
She smiled and turned to take in the room she had arrived in. She would have only three hours to make a decision before being transported once more by the grand bindings of the empire’s magic, and she wanted to make every second count.
She stood in a circular room, her posture immaculate, surveying the round table in the center with a critical eye. One of the chairs was formed from pale ivory, its every surface a masterwork of Dion [Boneshapers]. The second was made of gray stone with veins of gold, silver, and copper woven throughout to form the image of the rising sun. The third chair was carved from wood, its surface covered in detailed carvings and symbols of the Kiel peoples who lived in the Fologian Forest.
Around her, the curving walls formed a similar pattern of bone, wood, and stone. The wall transitioned seamlessly from bone carved with the flowing script of the Dion to wood covered in colorful threads woven into an intricate tapestry. It then shifted to stone, adorned with runes and scenes of triumph in the Rahabian style of the original empire. Each element blended together, creating a stunning, cohesive design.
In any other context, Sylva would have called the room ostentatious. She wasn’t an expert in masonry or carving, but it didn’t take one to realize the sheer effort that went into every aspect of the space. The walls were designed to impress as much as to communicate, and Sylva felt they did their job well. The Room of Threefold Oaths did not disappoint her expectations.
She glided toward the leftmost strands of silk hanging against the deep brown of the Folog Wood, her movements precise and deliberate as she began to study the intricate hanging threads. Each thread communicated an idea with its color, length, texture, and position relative to the other strings. To most people, it would look like one of the art exhibits that traveled through the empire annually after the spring equinox and the civilian exhibitions. Most people had never had the years of training required to understand the scholars’ script. Most people were not from the Sect of Silken Grace.
She was certain that most candidates would be drawn to the stone with its clear text written from left to right in the orderly patterns that the Malan cities loved so much. She could read the stone script, of course. The elders had said it would bring “great dishonor on her ancestors” if she couldn’t read all three imperial scripts. On this, at least, she could agree with the elders.
Sylva began to trace the pattern of the woven word of the silk in her mind, following the threads and knots with her eyes as she worked to memorize the whole pattern. She felt a whisper of relief as understanding came to her. The contract was the same. She had been confident that the elders wouldn’t mislead them about something this important, but still, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders as she realized that she truly was ready.
The strings laid out the grand design of Nyxol the Scribe, forming the intricate contract that granted citizenship in the Sul Empire. This contract, woven into the fabric of their society, was a choice given to everyone after twenty years within the empire’s borders. Citizenship brought rights, responsibilities, and access to the magical arts. Sylva couldn’t imagine anyone turning down such a boon.
Yet, it was still her choice, and that meant something. As much as the elders had controlled her life up until this point, right now, in this moment, she was in control.
She didn’t understand all the principles behind the contract—she assumed few aside from Nyxol herself likely did—but Sylva knew she didn’t have to understand to agree. Burning string, she had even heard that the illiterate could agree to the contract without having any idea what was included. Consent did not require understanding; all the contract required was a willingness to accept the offered terms.
She moved away from the silken tapestry and traced her fingers along the wooden runes and carved stone as she made her way around the circular room. She waited almost the full three hours before taking a deep breath and sitting in the wooden chair. She closed her eyes and spoke the words she had spent her life preparing for.
“Under the gaze of Nyxol the Scribe, I invoke the right of Empire. I bind myself to the Sulphen willingly and pledge to serve the empire. I seek an audience to gain entry into Aslavain.”
A needle made of pale ivory pierced the table in front of her. It rose several inches above the wood as though a seamstress had begun a stitch. Sylva half expected it to push all the way through, leaving a tail of string behind. The needle stopped moving and sat in front of her, ready for her to seal her oath.
She pricked her finger on the needle and felt a slight drain, as though part of her was being drawn out. A rush of memories swept through her, her every secret and memory drawn from her in a single moment. Then, the needle withdrew, the table sealing behind it as it vanished, as though it had never been. It was done. Now, all she had to do was wait for her audience to be granted.
For most, the needle would take a sample of blood as a sacrifice to fuel the binding. The elders liked to say that the cost of empire was weighed in blood. Easy enough for the Silkborn to say. She brushed the silken fibers of her skin and felt the strands reconnect where the needle had entered.
Her hand felt weaker after some of its animating magic had been drained, but she was confident it was not enough to cause her any real concern. She was going to meet Nyxol herself, and she knew she had nothing to fear. Nyxol had always favored the Silkborn, and Sylva was confident her audience would be accepted.
She felt the shift take her once more, the same flash of golden light, and then she was surrounded by trees.
Hadrian felt the shift take him, the flash of golden light overwhelming his senses. His alabaster skin, pale as moonlight, seemed to glow in the ethereal illumination as he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor of a stone chamber. He fell to his hands and knees, retching violently as his stomach rebelled. The acrid taste of bile filled his mouth, and he scrambled backward, desperate to keep his precious robe clean. The robe, a gift from his parents, was woven from Fog Silk, its delicate strands mirroring the pale hue of his skin, representing their hopes and dreams for him.
His parents had sat him down the day before and given him a robe woven from Fog Silk, a thin fiber produced by magical silkworms. The light gray strands came from The Brood to the west, harvested in the great nurseries kept by the insectile races of the western Fog-Lands. A robe woven from Fog Silk was capable of turning blades and arrows aside while remaining as light as fog around the body. Hadrian didn’t know what his robe had cost Cutra, but he was certain it was worth more than anything else he had ever seen. He wore a treasure, and the idea of getting his own bile on the robe made him shudder.
He stood slowly, letting his rebellious stomach adjust to the motion as he examined the silk for stains. His cool gray eyes, like polished silver, then began to take in the room with a watchful gaze. They were drawn to the familiar look of the table and the wooden portion of the wall. The dark brown Folog Wood surfaces were exactly as he expected.
He walked around the small puddle and approached the portion of the wall the color of clouds and dripping fog. He ran his fingers along the smooth substance, feeling the whirls and slashes carved into the surface from floor to ceiling. He wondered absently what beast the slab of unbroken bone had come from. He imagined there were not many creatures in the empire with bones taller than he was and dozens of feet long.
As he ran his fingers along the wall, he felt a sense of ease around the bone that helped settle his mind. Sure, he had been a tad sick when he arrived and taken it out on the floor near his arrival, but it wasn’t like there were others here. He pushed the sense of shame down and allowed the sense of wonder to replace it.
He circled the room, his fingers tracing along the wall as it transitioned from the white bone to the mottled gray of stone. He marveled at the texture of the stone and the precise carved script on its surface. He had heard of stone, of course; traders who had visited Cutra had traded him a pebble when he was younger, and he had kept it by his bed for years, imagining the day he would see real stone.
His fingers slowed as they brushed against the stone. He had given the pebble to his parents the night before as a parting gift—something to look at and remember him by, he had said. He took a deep breath. Today was about the future, not the past. He left the stone and returned to the carven bone; it was better to start anew, to leave his memories behind.
He squinted at the swirling script carved onto the bone and tried to decipher the meaning held within, to no avail. He had tried to learn the scholars’ script used by the village merchants, but he had never gotten beyond the most rudimentary understanding of the strings. He had never even seen carven bone before, let alone the script carved into the second piece of stone he had ever seen.
As his eyes traced the carvings in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel out of his depth. He was about to embark on a grand adventure, but he couldn’t even read what the adventure would include.
He moved back to the wooden table, taking a seat in the ornate chair carved from bone. He spoke the words his parents had taught him day after day since winter. The words came easily in the way of something that has long since become routine.
“Under the gaze of Rovan Khal, the Ancient One, the Father of the Dion, the Titan of Carven Bone I invoke the right of Empire. I bind myself to the Sulphen willingly and pledge to serve the empire. I seek an audience to gain admission to Aslavain.”
He waited for a grand change, a flash of golden light to whisk him away, a booming voice echoing in the chamber, or a rush of emotions like the luminaries fire could provoke. Instead, a thin spike of pale ivory rose from the table in front of him like a thorn emerging from a branch. He frowned.
No one in his village had returned from Aslavain, the famed training realm of the empire. Despite that he had heard the stories around the fires at night of monsters to slay, tournaments to determine the best and the brightest of his generation, and even of trials that were capable of granting powerful magics. Aslavain was the place for an aspiring group to make a name for themselves in the empire and he couldn’t let the opportunity pass him up.
He examined the spike of bone for more of the Dion script carved onto its surface, an explanation for those who could read its purpose but found only a surface polished to a sharp point. He spent several minutes examining the spike before tentatively reaching out and brushing its surface, feeling the smooth bone narrow into a fine tip.
As his finger reached the top of the spike he felt a sudden prick and a rush of heat down his arm. He recoiled, his finger a pale white with a drop of red welling on its surface. Had he been attacked? He had not been told to expect that he would be in danger in the Room of Threefold Oaths.
He began to stand from his chair when the needle sank back into the table in front of him and almost immediately he felt a sudden shift and a flash of golden light in his vision.
Lotem felt the shift take him as he was transported to the Room of Threefold Oaths, one of the greatest works of the Sul Empire. The feeling wasn’t unexpected, though Lotem had traveled through the shrines before. No child of the Bal tribes came of age without having traveled through a shrine to UlaanThur, the City of the Crossroads to his people, the City of Silk and Spice to the imperials. At least this shift was smoother than his first, and he kept his stomach settled at the very least.
He had felt the grass beneath his feet disappear, replaced by the smooth chill that he had come to expect from stone against bare feet. He studied the room around him, his towering figure casting a long shadow. In the center of the room sat a table made from wood of all things, its dark brown hue even deeper than the cloak across his shoulders. The three chairs positioned around the table were carved from three different materials. The three stretches of wall, each decorated with its own word scars, trapping the ideas of the past in an eternal present.
The Empire had always loved its threefold imagery, he thought ruefully. Malan, Dion, and Kiel, the three ‘true’ peoples of the empire they said, as though the Bal’s claim of centuries meant nothing. No matter how much the Bal contributed to the empire with warriors sent to fight the Tul in the east or caravans carrying goods from the southern reaches to the northern cities hungry for trade, the imperials had never truly accepted them as a part of the empire.
He knew the basics of the great ritual whose terms were carved into the walls around him, of course. His towering stature and rugged demeanor belied a keen, if unlettered, intelligence. The carvings and string on the walls spelled out the great contract of the empire; the contract which gave every citizen the potential for greatness. He knew that spelled out in front of him were the costs of such a boon, nothing with the imperials was ever truly free.
He paced around the room, the stone cold against his bare feet, his massive frame moving with surprising grace as he considered what would come next. His parents had asked him, begged him really, to spend his years of service with the civilian groups. He could tend to the great herds of bison on the plains as he had dreamed of when he was young or go to Saralainn, the City of Growth and learn the secrets of cultivation. He had always been a fan of grass and even now was tempted to spend his dozen years of service learning the natural arts.
As much as he knew he looked like a warrior towering over normal folks in his hide cloak and with arms thicker than most men’s thighs, he had never felt like a warrior. He could only imagine that his brother had been the warrior in their family. His brother had chosen not to serve in the civilian groups as his parents had almost certainly begged him as well. His brother had chosen to enter Aslavain and find glory for the clans.
His brother had died.
Was he really considering the same? To enter the imperial training grounds and compete for power, wealth, and glory was something he would never have considered before his brother’s loss. Now, the absence of memory served as a constant reminder that the world was not safe. The absence of memory was a reminder that there was evil in the world. The Tul.
The mere thought of the monsters caused him to clench his fists and take another of the deep breaths. His parents had asked him, begged him, to stay safe. They couldn’t bear the idea of losing their one remaining child to Aslavain or the Tul. He understood that fear, as it was in constant battle with the sense of anger he kept beneath the surface.
He stopped his pacing in front of the stone portion of the wall and bowed his head. He had lost the memories of his brother, but even the Tul couldn’t erase the physical evidence of his brother’s life. The Tul couldn’t erase the letter his brother had sent describing his impression of Rovan Khal or of the relic he had acquired in Aslavain, one of the sword-grass blades unique to the southern plains of the empire.
Lotem knew that his brother had chosen Rovan Khal as his guide. He knew that his brother had sat down in the ivory chair and given the immortal a drop of his blood. Lotem didn’t think he could do the same. Not for Rovan at least. Not if his guidance had led to his brother’s death.
He turned, his heart heavy with the lack of memory of his brother. Am I making the right choice? he wondered. The thought of entering Aslavain without the training his brother had terrified him, but he knew he needed an edge. Taking a deep breath, he sat in the stone chair, hoping that Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies, could provide the strength he needed to survive.
Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies had a… tenuous relationship with the Bal. She had stood firmly against their integration following the Treaty of Swallows Grace, had spent centuries harassing any of his people who had chosen her in this very ritual. That had all changed when Saralainn, the City of Growth, had petitioned her for peace.
The Bal hosted the best [Shamans] and [Druids] in the empire with entire shrines dedicated to the craft atop the roaming Eldar, themselves the source of the best soil in the empire. The Bal tended entire herds of magical beasts which produced fertilizer, manure really, capable of nurturing magical plants in any climate. Saralainn had needed Bal goods and eventually Sylvine had relented, offering real skills, classes, and talents to the few Bal brave enough to meet her every year.
He knew he needed an edge, something to help him survive the coming years. He knew he lacked the training to compete in Aslavain. He hoped Sylvine could give him the edge he would need to eventually rise to greatness and destroy the Tul all the way down to the root.
“Under the gaze of Sylvine, the Sovereign of Emerald Skies, I invoke the right of Empire. I bind myself to the Sulphen willingly and pledge to serve the empire. I seek an audience to gain admission to Aslavain.”
A needle made from bone rose from the table in front of him. Lotem hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding with anticipation. Then, he pricked his finger on the tip and felt as though something more than mere blood had been taken. A wave of emotion washed over him—fear, hope, determination—all mixing together as he committed himself to the path ahead. The needle sank back into the wood and he once again felt the shift take him and the flash of golden light.