Nightfall | Bloodkin Comic

1

Pen Nelamba couldn’t sleep.

She stared up at the canopy of her bed as she lay comfortably under the linens and furs. The darkness of night filled the room, broken only by the silver moonlight that streamed through the tall glass windows of the Empress’ chambers; contrasted by the amber glow that came from under the sheets. This was the result of the krialin embedded in her body, trailing along her arms and the length of her spine. The majority of the palace’s inhabitants, along with that of Paraven, had retired hours before, seeking the comfort and escape that sleep often brought from the burdens and fears of the day. Sleep had evaded Empress Nelamba, though, and she doubted that she was the only one in Paraven with that struggle.

Pen heard a light sigh come from the other side of the bed, and turned her head to look at the source. Through the darkness she could see the outline of Deshara there, her rising and falling chest showing the signs of one caught in a deep and comfortable sleep.

The Empress returned her gaze to the canopy overhead, vainly trying to find it within herself to sleep, before rising from her bed altogether. She gently cast aside the blankets that covered her, escaping their embrace without making a sound. Her feet met the soft carpet that covered the floor, and gently thumped against it as she made her way around the bed. Pen’s robe lay nearby, haphazardly thrown over the back of a chair, but she left it where it was. As she walked around to the other side of the room she gazed back at Deshara once more, making sure that her lover was still asleep. Throughout her life Pen had taken many lovers and accumulated a number of concubines, both men and women. They came and went swiftly, one often quickly replacing another as the Empress’ interest changed. The nobility of the Empire gossiped about the company she kept, and it had become somewhat of a game to guess how long the current object of the Empress’ affections would remain that way. Pen allowed them their small amusement, ignoring the gentle whispers and small smirks of the nobility; she had greater priorities than pleasing others or conforming to what they thought an Empress should be.

Convinced Deshara was undisturbed, Pen approached a small table, covered in a variety of chalices and bottles. She poured herself a glass of Tanyaran wine and lightly sipped from it. The fruity taste rolled over her tongue as she began walking in the direction of the balcony nearby.

Pen loosed the latch on the balcony doors and softly pushed them open before stepping out onto the balcony itself. It was getting to be late autumn, and Pen felt the chill breeze waft over her body. She gave it little mind, going to rest her elbows on the intricate stone railing of the balcony. Pen took another sip from her wine and turned her gaze towards the city below her.

For centuries, the city of Paraven had been known as the largest commercial center in Emeralia, often referred to as the “Sleepless City.” In days past its streets had been filled to overflowing with merchants, entertainers, and dignitaries, hailing all the way from the thick jungles of Tanyara to the deserts of Caenarr. Even representatives from the distant islands of Kekari made the trip to trade and taste Paraven’s luxuries. Its market had been the economic capital of the continent, and at night the city shined brighter than the sun at noonday. The sound of festivities, haggling, and entertainment permeated the city streets throughout all hours. Now, the city lay largely dimmed and silent, with only a few candles and lanterns to pierce the darkness. An almost literal shadow of what it had been only a few very short years ago.

“Now I am the sleepless one,” Pen muttered bitterly, raising her glass to sip at her wine again. She pursed her lips, savoring the vintage before swallowing. Her gaze fell to the dark liquid held within her glass, swishing it idly in thought. “If only I had known…things would never have come this far.”

Years had passed since the first seeds of the Sanvalit Revolt had been sowed. The insurrection had earned its title from its renowned leader, Gerith Sanvalit, a nourt guardsman who originally hailed from eastern Alvitas. What had begun as an apparently insignificant rebellion in a far-away city had quickly transformed into a nationwide revolution that had come to involve the Empire as a whole. However, Sanvalit had only emerged onto the scene once the initial stages of the insurrection had taken place. Pen had no doubt that he had been at its source since its beginning, though, and had only waited to make himself known once his cause had gained a sure footing–surely to avoid drawing attention to his status as an Ezaran, meanwhile letting his army and power grow. The first years of the revolt had been bloody and volatile, with neither side appearing to strike a decisive blow against the other. As time went on, more of the citizenry seemed to side with Sanvalit’s rebels, and the tide had gradually turned against the Empire. Imperial forces had been on a slow retreat for several months, forced to withdraw from city to city as rebel forces followed, all the while rebel agents continued to gut most local governments from inside out. Most had now retreated to Paraven, hoping to find security within its walls, along with any and all who still remained loyal to the Empire. Sanvalit never remained far away, though, and word had recently come of a massive rebel army amassing just outside the Paraven Valley. Few had thought that Sanvalit would ever be so bold as to attack Paraven itself, but that outcome looked more and more possible as the days went on, and the rebel forces showed no signs of retreat.

Pen suddenly heard the door of her chamber fly open behind her, and she turned about angrily.

“My Empress,” Larspur’s voice came from the darkness, the guard captain’s figure cloaked in a veil of moonlight. He came to stop in the middle of the room, gazing at the bed for a moment, before he spotted Pen on the balcony. He took a few hurried steps towards her before pausing, face flushed. “Apologies, Empress. I didn’t realize–”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Pen snapped, a surge of anger rising in her chest. “I have more important things to worry about than propriety!” She knew he had been referring to her undressed figure; even still, she made no move to cover herself. “I gave strict orders that I was not to be disturbed. Why have you defied them?”

Larspur stepped out onto the balcony and bowed his head reverently as he folded his arms in front of him. “We have received word from our scouts that the rebels have begun to enter the valley. They seem to be entering only in small bands and scouting parties, but we suspect that their main force will soon follow. We’ve also received word that–” He hesitated.

“Out with it,” Pen hissed.

Larspur swallowed nervously before continuing. “We have also received word that Prince Helthar has been captured by the rebels.”

The guard captain barely ducked in time to avoid the wine glass that went flying over his head, shattering loudly on the floor behind him. He looked apprehensively towards the Empress, seeming to anticipate more projectiles.

“Helthar was to be kept in his chambers!” Pen shrieked, clenching her hands tightly into fists at her side. She stepped quickly up to Larspur, until her face was mere inches away from his. Her next words came slowly, barely above a whisper: “How is it the rebels have my son?”

“I know not, Empress,” Larspur replied softly. He lowered his gaze submissively, trying to avoid the anger he found in Pen’s eyes. “Our scouts report that he appeared at the edge of our lines with his guard. He claimed to be on special assignment, said he was to broker a truce with Sanvalit on your behalf. Two of his guard returned soon after, heavily wounded–”

“Get to the damn point, imbecile!” Pen yelled. Her palm connected with the side of Larspur’s face, and he stumbled back in shock and pain, holding one hand to his cheek. “What has become of my son?”

“T-the rebels attacked as soon as they made contact,” Larspur muttered. “So far as we know, they have taken the prince prisoner. Whether they will keep him as such, or do otherwise… we know not.”

“Foolish boy,” Pen seethed as she turned and began to pace back and forth across the balcony. She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, her mind racing as to what the possibilities of her son’s fate could be. “Sanvalit knows he has the advantage here, and so he may not see any need to retain Helthar. He might see Helthar as the key to a swift victory… something to try and end this without bloodshed.” She paused in her pacing and turned back to Larspur, who still cowered in the doorway of the balcony. “Fetch High Protector Ferrar, and tell him to meet with me immediately.”

“Yes, Empress,” Larspur replied. He bowed before turning and hurrying out of Pen’s chambers.

Pen followed after him without bothering to close the doors to the balcony behind her. She passed quickly by the bed, where Deshara now sat awake, covering herself with the linen blanket.

“Are you alright, my Empress?” Deshara asked anxiously, her gaze following Pen.

“Return to your chambers,” Pen ordered curtly. She reached for her robe and threw it quickly over her shoulders, haphazardly doing the buttons up front. “There is something I must tend to.”

Deshara quickly obeyed, rising from the bed with the sheet still draped around her frame and rushing from the chamber. Pen followed shortly afterwards, eyeing Deshara as she fled down the hall to her own quarters, then turned sharply and left the royal wing altogether.

The guards outside quickly took a rigid stance at the appearance of the Empress, but they received no recognition as Pen passed them by. Pen quickly strode down the hall, the sound of her bare feet on stone echoing throughout the corridor. Her anger grew as she walked through the palace, winding her way down the long halls, passing by intricate tapestries and paintings without so much as a glance.

“That son of a lethat has gone too far this time,” Pen spat, going almost blind with rage. She took another turn, coming into the main corridor of the palace from which everything else branched off. The wide doors of the throne room, intricately crafted of fine Alvitan wood, loomed before her.

“Empress,” the guards standing just outside the doors spoke in unison. One of them swiftly went to push one of the doors open, making way for the angered monarch.

Pen stepped into the throneroom, well-lit even at this time of night. A series of twin stone pillars stood tall on either side of the hall, rising to the ceiling high above. Long, low tables filled much of the space, reserved for the feasts, banquets, and official gatherings that had often been hosted there throughout the years. On the far side of the room, on a low dais, stood the throne itself, the seat that, for many centuries, had been the symbol of the Emperors and Empresses of the Nelamba dynasty. It was a low seat, originally crafted of stone, but having been subject to change by various rulers through the centuries. An array of cushions and pillows filled it, the armrests and backboard decorated with intricate shards of krialin that glittered in the lamplight.

Pen rushed up the steps of the dais and passed the throne, aiming for a small doorway tucked away in the far corner of the room. The Empress pushed the door open, and it slammed against the wall of the chamber behind it.

As Pen stepped into the room she recognized the figure of High Protector Ferrar, looking over the war map located on a table at the center of the room. The elderly arkhel was tall, standing half a head taller than the empress. His fur, which had once been a rich brown, had begun to gray over recent years. However, despite being almost seventy years old, his build and stance still reflected his life as a soldier. He showed signs of having been recently roused from sleep, with rumpled hair and heavy eyelids, but was dressed in full military garb. He turned at the entrance of the Empress, his stern expression unchanging as she made her way to the other side of the table.

“Empress,” Ferrar spoke in greeting, his steely voice giving off no emotion. “My condolences concerning your son.”

“No need,” Pen grunted. “The damned fool brought his fate upon himself. Let him know the consequences for his actions.” She glanced over the map before her, over the red and gold tokens that displayed the current position of the Imperial army and the forces of the rebels. The map itself had once been a painting in a rarely-used side wing of the palace, meant to display the current borders of the Empire. Once it had become clear that the Sanvalit Revolt wasn’t going to be a brief affair, the painting had been removed from its frame and repurposed to act as a map for military movements. Now an alarming number of red tokens clustered outside the capital itself.

The Imperial army had once covered the whole of the Empire, maintaining order among its subjects. However, Sanvalit’s army had had the army on a steady retreat to the west, leaving the eastern half of the Empire largely without Imperial presence. Meanwhile, rebellions in the territories of Tanyara and Caenarr had forced Imperial troops within those regions to withdraw as well, suffering heavy casualties. Estimates gauged that the number of soldiers had been cut nearly in half over the past several years, what now remained of it largely resided within the walls of Paraven. However, the city’s defenses might even prove obsolete, as rumor had that Gerith and his vivrialicians had invented flying machines that could surpass a city’s walls entirely. Pen alone knew how such a feat of engineering was possible: despite his status as an Ezaran, Gerith had flagrantly broken the Akriala Pact and introduced the technology of the Sharans to mere mortals.

The Empress turned towards Ferrar. “What is your counsel, Protector?”

“As I’m sure you’ve been informed, our scouts report that the rebels are currently moving into the valley in small patrols,” Ferrar said. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the map before him. “Not enough to pose any major threat except to our smallest manua. It is a safe conclusion that the rest of their forces will be soon to follow–if not by dawn, then within the next day or so.”

“Do you think Sanvalit will attempt a siege?”

“That may largely depend upon how we choose to answer,” Ferrar pointed to Paraven. “Paraven’s defenses are sure to hold the rebels for a time, but a lengthy siege could be costly. Our supplies could last us a year, maybe slightly more, should we decide to take a defensive stance. However, they now control most of the Empire, and with it, most of our ability to produce food. Victory would rely solely on the chance that we could break the spirits of Sanvalit’s men during that time, and find some way to effectively counter. If we failed to do so…we would have no hope of outward relief, as we have no allies or any way to refresh our supplies. Sanvalit could wait patiently while we all starve within our walls and tear each other apart.”

Pen squinted at the map, taking in where Sanvalit’s men were currently arrayed and the meager loyal forces within the walls of Paraven. She kept her gaze on the map as she said, “You are saying that an open confrontation is our most viable course of action, then?”

“Indeed.” Ferrar straightened himself and gazed at the Empress from under his heavy brow. “It is my personal belief we either need to repel the rebels from the valley, or abandon Paraven entirely.”

A moment of silence followed. Pen bit her lip, her sharp arkhel teeth almost piercing the skin.

“Leave the capital?” Her voice was soft, almost wistful. She looked up at the old soldier. “And where would you have us go?”

“The mountains of Enviras could supply refuge for a time,” Ferrar looked at the edge of the map. The north country of Enviras was not currently depicted, but Pen knew it as an isolated country. Ferrar continued: “It would give us time to chart out our next course of action, as well as make it somewhat difficult for Sanvalit to pursue us.”

“Go traipsing through the mountains?” Pen asked sullenly. “Just as winter begins to set in?” The Enviran mountains were known to be nigh impassable during the winter months. The few disunified tribes that lived there had only gained the ability to reliably do so through many generations of harsh and unpredictable existence, eking out a living that no other civilization had even cared to attempt. “We both know that if we spared what remains of the Empire from the rebels’ swords, we would just watch them perish in the snow. They’d turn on each other for food and warmth just the same as if we decided to remain in the city.”

Pen stood straight and walked to the far side of the room, her robe swaying loosely about her figure as she did. Ferrar said nothing, but she could feel his eyes on her back. She knew he might consider her foolish for resolving not to flee, to prolong the fight, whatever the cost or sacrifice might have been. Others would think her blind for not acceding to Sanvalit and suing for peace, so that some semblance of the Empire might be maintained. However, Pen was sure that Ferrar would agree that that was not an option.

No, Pen thought. I’ve put in far too much effort here to simply abandon it. If only I had a little more time. I’m so close…. I won’t let the rebels ruin it all.

“My ancestors built this Empire,” Pen said. She turned and faced Ferrar who gazed at her stonily. “From the bricks of this palace, to the borders and people it encompasses. It should be only fitting that it ends with me… if it comes to that.” Pen gazed down at the map briefly before returning her gaze to Ferrar. “Prepare to meet Sanvalit at dawn. Defend the city at all costs, down to the blood of our last soldier. Let us show them that we will not go quietly.”

“I’ll begin preparations immediately, Empress,” Ferrar said with a bow.

Pen watched him as he left the chamber, closing the door quickly behind him. Once he was gone, Pen turned towards the map. Her hand suddenly lashed out and grabbed the map’s edge, pulling it from the table and sending it to the floor, scattering the tokens that had rested on its surface. Pen leaned forward and closed her eyes, curling her hands into fists and resting them on the table, releasing a deep breath from her nostrils.

“All I’ve built… all I’ve worked for… to be trampled underfoot by that filth,” Pen muttered. She opened her eyes and gazed at the wall. “Maybe I need not fight at all.”

Pen hurried back into the throne room and out through its massive doors. Pen went down the first corridor and winded her way through a series of halls and passages. She took a final turn and came to a stone archway which opened to a steep stairway downward. The Empress began making her way down the steps, lifting her robe to avoid catching her feet on it.

She soon reached the bottom and stepped into a long, dimly lit corridor of stone and metal. She continued on without pause, passing an array of storage rooms and prison cells, some of which emanated the groans of their current occupants. Pen’s mouth twisted in a wry smile; the traitors to the Empire she had imprisoned here would be fitting fuel for the fire to come.

Going only by the light provided by the krialin crystals in her flesh, Pen made her way through the labyrinth. She came to stop at a simple wooden door, unremarkable and indistinguishable from the rest.

Pen stepped up to the door, reached into her robe, and drew out a long metal key. She inserted the key into the lock of the door, a loud click emanating through the hall as she turned it. Pen replaced the key in her robe and pushed her way into the large, dark room on the other side.

All around the room lay various pieces of lab equipment: tubes, beakers, burners, and vials. Chemical ingredients and organic components lay about the room, littering the surfaces of the tables and the floor, several chunks of krialin in varying sizes and colors among them. Pen moved past them all, unconcerned with the experiments she had been engaged in only days before, instead coming to the far wall of the laboratory. Here, she paused for a moment, her eyes flicking across the stone blocks that made up the wall. After a moment she reached forward and pressed her palm against a singular block near the ceiling. After exerting a little effort, the block sunk sluggishly into the wall, grinding against the stones around it.

Pen stepped back as a mechanism sounded from behind the wall, watching as a large section of stones sunk into the floor only seconds later. Behind it lay a rough-hewn cavern which gradually sloped downwards, a series of bright krialin lamps hanging overhead to light the way.

Pen slipped into the passageway, unconcerned when she heard the wall rise up and close behind her. She knew how to get out; she had known for years, ever since she was a small child. This tunnel had been known almost exclusively to the royal family from the moment the palace had been constructed: a way that provided one last hope of escape should enemies be at the door, and all other measures be exhausted. And, while Pen had certainly kept that use in mind, she had expanded and built upon it. Making room for the apex of all her research and work as Empress.

“If I can’t defeat you with armies,” she whispered, tromping her way down the tunnel, “then perhaps I can defeat you with vivrialics.”

Finally, Pen left the passage behind and stepped into a large, dim chamber, the ceiling hanging darkly over her head. More tables and desks stood about the chamber, covered in the materials of Pen’s research. From the chamber stretched several other passageways, some of which had been a part of the palace’s original construction. While these were meant to provide a means to escape, the others had been added once Pen had taken the throne as she had begun working on the Lahesul-Varen as directed by Sharan Felar. The tunnels twisted all through the earth beneath Paraven, providing her access to nearly every part of the valley. Veins of krialin slithered through the walls of the chamber and stretched deep into the various tunnels. Their many distinct colors glowed faintly in the darkness, casting myriad shades around the chamber. Several of them climbed the walls, connecting and intersecting with others, coming to meet at the center of the chamber, exactly where the Lahesul-Varen connected with the earth and the krialin above it.

Half forged of dark metal and half carved from the earth around it, its large base seemed to merge with the floor; it thinned as it rose until it reached the top of the chamber. Veins of krialin could be seen snaking all over its surface, appearing to be a part of the stone itself, eventually connecting to the krialin that covered the rest of the chamber. Through the Lahesul-Varen, and the krialin with which it was infused, Pen had influence on everything that contained threads within the valley. Including Sanvalit and his rebels.

At the base of the Lahesul-Varen, Pen had inserted two large levers into the stone: the conduits by which she could command the threads within the machine. Above the levers were two large keyholes; the safeguards which would prevent it from being activated prematurely.

Pen turned to a nearby table and began rummaging through its contents, intent on finding the keys necessary to activate the machine.

It may not be entirely ready, Pen thought as she searched. But if I do this just so, I may be successful.

The more papers she displaced, and the more tools fell clattering to the floor, the longer the keys eluded her. Pen clenched her teeth, increasingly frustrated. There was only so much time in a night. She was confident she had left the keys on this very table, and they were large and distinct–impossible to lose.

“Where are they?” Pen muttered. She turned around and made her way to another table. Her voice became a harsh whisper. “Where are they?”

She checked another table, then another, and then a set of drawers. Eventually she got on all fours and swept her hands over the cold stone surface, feeling under her work tables and casting her eyes about feverishly for any sign of the carved black stone she had fashioned the keys from.

“They were here! I’m sure of it!” Pen got up and started another pass over the tables. She dashed from one end of the chamber to the other, in case they had fallen and rolled by some mysterious means. It was unlikely, but total disappearance was entirely impossible.

Impossible or not, however, they were not here.

“Where have they gone?” Pen shrieked. Her heart pounded. Her breath was shallow. She fell to her knees and dropped her head into her hands, shrouding herself in her long hair. “Where have they gone?”

2

Gerith pointed to the roughly sketched representation of Paraven on the map that was laid before him. Several figurines stood surrounding the city, representing Gerith’s forces and those of Empress Nelamba. He spoke slowly, his voice slightly raised, trying to speak over the dull drum of the canvas tent flapping in the wind. The shaking of the fabric caused the lantern which hung over them to swing and twist, at times casting long shadows across the interior of the tent. The purplish light of Gerith’s own face and body remained steady.

“Reports say the troops within the city are several thousand strong,” he said. “We’ll approach the city as a unified force, and if everything goes accordingly, this will–"

“I beg your pardon, Gerith.”

Gerith looked up and saw an arkhel stepping into the tent. He paused just inside the doorway, waiting to be recognized.

“This had better be urgent,” barked Senri. The tall arkhel’s fur bristled in irritation. Senri was a Tanyaran war chief and Gerith’s main representative when it came to dealing with Senri’s kinsmen. “We’re in the middle of–”

“That’s alright,” Gerith said, raising his hand to placate Senri’s anger. He turned to the new arrival. “What is it, Yuzgin?”

Yuzgin stepped forward and bowed before straightening himself and beginning to speak. “We just received word from one of the Tanyaran patrols. They intercepted an Imperial guard that was on the edge of our lines. Our men attacked and were able to kill most of them, although a couple escaped, and the Tanyarans did take one prisoner. They’re bringing him here now.”

“Probably a trophy,” Senri spat, waving his hand dismissively as he turned to Gerith. “This one should know how we–”

“Quiet,” Gerith ordered.

A flash of anger crossed Senri’s face, but he obeyed.

Gerith looked back to Yuzgin, “what’s so special about this prisoner?”

“The soldiers in the Imperial patrol weren’t just ordinary footmen. They bore the royal seal,” Yuzgin said. “And the prisoner–”

“Who is it?” Ferkel interjected from the far end of the table. Ferkel was also an arkhel and also from Tanyara, although slightly shorter than Senri. The two had been the chiefs of neighboring tribes and, as such, had known each other for several years.

“He claims to be the Empress' son,” Yuzgin said.

Gerith froze, and his eyes went wide. His heart sped up, and a smile or a grimace tugged at his mouth. The only son of Empress Nelamba was in his grasp.

We can’t get too excited, now, he thought, and he took a deep and even breath, waiting for the pumping of his heart to subside. After a moment, when he was sure he could retain his composure, he spoke again.

“Thank you, Yuzgin,” he replied. He nodded towards the door of the tent. “Bring him to me.”

Yuzgin bowed once more, turning on his heel and leaving the tent. The door flapped shut behind him.

Shok’s voice came quiet and low from where he stood at Gerith’s side. “This is an… unexpected development.”

Gerith turned to see his friend wrapping his thick fingers around his chin in deep thought. A close friend of Gerith’s, and one of his staunchest supporters, they had served together as guardsmen in Saaliat in central Alvitas. They had known each other for many years, long before thoughts of rebellion or revolt had entered into either of their minds. Shok was large for a nourt, standing a full head taller than Gerith, and was renowned for his physical strength. He had also proven to be a well of wisdom, and Gerith often found himself turning to his old friend when he needed aid in coming to a decision.

“Our ancestors have seen fit to deliver him to us,” Senri’s voice came as a low hiss. He raised his head and looked at those gathered around the table, his voice gradually gaining volume. “We can make him pay the price for what his mother has sown. Spill some royal blood, in return for all the blood we and our families have given!”

The province of Tanyara, which Senri and Ferkel called home, had been conquered by the Empire centuries before. Since then, many Tanyarans had long dreamed of winning independence from their conquerors. However, every previous effort to do so in the last hundred years or so had lacked the organization and power to accomplish that design. The few individuals that had been brave enough to attempt such a thing had swiftly fallen under the Empire’s superior tactics and military might. After the initial stages of the revolt had proven successful, Gerith had sent emissaries to the Tanyaran tribes requesting aid. In exchange for military support, he would provide them the one thing that had both been taken from and repeatedly denied them: freedom. The Tanyarans had initially expressed some reluctance to assist Gerith’s cause, fearing another revolution that would end as those before had. Upon seeing that Gerith could not only hold his own against the Empire, but put the Imperial forces on the run, the Tanyarans had been quick to flock to his cause.

Guillen, Gerith’s son, spoke up. “Punish the son for the sins of the mother? And what will that accomplish? What will we be showing the rest of the world?” Guillen had been one of the first to throw himself behind his father in the beginning of the rebellion. He had proven himself an able warrior and a trusted and capable leader in his own right.

“You Alvitans are always so worried about what others will think!” Senri spat. He slammed a fist on the table. “How many of both our peoples has Nelamba killed without reason? How much blood has stained her hands? What is one princeling in comparison?”

“One’s injustice does not allow for another to do the same!” Guillen counted, leaning over the table angrily.

“Enough!” Gerith barked, glaring at Guillen and Senri in turn. He took a breath before softening his voice, wanting to come across as placating and empathetic as he could as he turned towards Senri and Ferkel. The Tanyarans held particular hate for the Empire and those loyal to it, and showed a brutal and ferocious attitude towards such that was unmatched. At times, Gerith thought it an advantage to his cause, but at others–like the current one–he found it to be a great hindrance.“You have a right to be angry. We’ve all suffered under the Empire’s hand. Having the prince in our possession could prove to be an advantage, though. I will interview him personally, and then it will be decided what will become of him. Are we agreed?”

A general sound of assent came from those gathered, but not without looks of irritation from the Tanyarans, particularly Senri.

“Good.” Gerith nodded. “I suggest you all return to your quarters. Tomorrow is shaping up to be a long day.”

Seeing that they were excused, the individuals left the table and began filing out of the tent. Gerith waited until most of them had left before saying, “Guillen, pray, wait a moment.”

Guillen turned with a look of slight surprise. He stood silently in place, crossing his arms over his chest, until Gerith and he found themselves fully alone. Finally, when the last person had exited the tent, he spoke.

“What is it, Father?”

Gerith bent over the map. “I want you to go see Attar before you retire and make sure the aircraft will be ready by morning. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course, Father.” Guillen gave a resolute nod.

“My thanks. There is something else.” Gerith stood straight and made his way around the table. He walked to his son’s side and placed a hand lovingly on his shoulder as he looked him up and down.

It was not difficult to see the father-son resemblance. While Guillen’s scales still held a shade of gray-green, Gerith’s had long turned a deep green as a result of his age. Guillen was slightly taller than his father, and his body rippled with well-developed muscle. Gerith had been told that he slouched slightly, and his body was much more lithe than that of his son. The largest difference was the violet krialin growing along Gerith’s arms and face, a product of his being chosen as an Ezaran.

Gerith’s next words came slowly, anticipating their reception. “I want you to stay behind as we begin the assault tomorrow.”

Guillen’s face first showed shock before morphing into anger. “I cannot do that. What will–?”

Gerith knew what his son was going to ask and cut him off. “They will see that you’re an obedient son and a loyal soldier. Anyone who says otherwise does not have the mind or the spirit to realize that rushing into battle isn’t always the best path.”

The anger melted from Guillen’s face, and he looked down sullenly. “Why would you ask this of me?”

“I wouldn’t unless it was of extreme importance,” Gerith shook his son's shoulder affectionately. “And you needn’t fear; you will not be the only one I’m asking to stay behind. I’m leaving a small portion of the army with you.”

“But why?”

Gerith’s answer didn’t come immediately. He looked back at the map momentarily, his mind wandering to the events that lay just beyond the coming dawn. He turned back to Guillen. “We don’t know what may happen tomorrow. I’ve been spared this far, but my survival has never been assured. Should we fail and I fall, it will be left in your hands to continue what we began here. One of us needs to be here to see to that. Do you understand?”

Guillen was silent for a time, looking unblinkingly into his father’s eyes. He sighed.

“I don’t think I can,” he said. “ I’m not an Ezaran. I haven’t been chosen by a Sharan and given the abilities you have. I don’t think many think about it, but this is an Akriala war. There’s things at work here far beyond…well, far beyond me, at least.”

“Perhaps,” Gerith admitted. “Perhaps it is beyond you, beyond any of us. I felt much the same way when I was first summoned to Akrial to begin my training as an Ezaran. Do you know what Sharan Menrair said to me when I shared my feelings?”

“What?”

Gerith smiled. “He said that if everyone waited until they were sure they were up to par for a challenge, then the many great things that have happened in this world would never have been accomplished. The Ascension would never have happened, and the Sharans as we know them would never have existed. This war of ours would have gone unfought, and we’d still be living under the Empress’ rule.”

Gerith led Guillen over to the map and pointed at Paraven.

“Tomorrow, the fate of the world as we know it lies in that valley,” he said. “I don’t know what will happen. What I do know is that I want someone here who I can trust to carry out our plans if things go awry. I know you feel like you’re not up to it, but I know you are.”

Guillen was silent for a time, his gaze resting on Paraven as it was depicted on the map. Finally, with a sigh, he said: “I’ll try my best, Father.”

“Good lad.” Gerith patted his son on the shoulder. “I don’t say it often enough, but I’m proud of who you have become. You’ve proven yourself to be far more than any father could ever want in his son.”

A smile came to Guillen’s face, and he started to reply, but a commotion outside the tent drew both of their attention. Gerith turned to see the tent flap fly open as Yuzgin and several others stepped through, holding a slim arkhel figure between them who wrestled to get away from their grasp. The figure's hands had been bound behind his back, and a sack had been placed over his head, obscuring his face.

“I suppose our guest has arrived,” Gerith remarked wryly as he watched Yuzgin and the others pull the figure into the tent.

“Damn you all!” the figure, who Gerith knew to be Prince Helthar, growled. “I’ll make sure you–”

Helthar’s words were cut short as he was unceremoniously thrown head first to the ground, a dull thump sounding as his skull connected with the earth.

“Careful what you say, princeling,” one of the guards said as he spat on the prostrate arkhel. “You’re not in your mother’s palace anymore.”

“That’s enough,” Gerith said firmly. He stepped forward and came to stop just in front of where Helthar lay. He looked to Yuzgin. “Pick him up.”

Yuzgin bent down and grabbed Helthar by the shoulders, bringing him to a kneeling position. The threats that had poured from the young prince’s mouth a moment before were glaringly absent.

“He was carrying these, sir.”

One of the soldiers stepped forward and laid a bag of coin and a folded cloth parcel on the table.

“My thanks,” Gerith said. “Leave us.”

Yuzgin and those who had come with him turned and made their way out of the tent, but Guillen remained where he was.

“That was intended for you too, Guillen.” Gerith kept his gaze on Helthar as he spoke. “Go attend to what I asked you to.”

“But, Father–”

“I’ll be fine,” Gerith assured him. “Tell Yuzgin to wait outside. You and I will speak in the morning.”

Gerith sensed that Guillen wanted to protest but was giving his best effort not to. Instead, he merely nodded, and Gerith watched him leave the tent.

Once Guillen was gone, Gerith turned his eyes back to the figure who knelt in front of him. Helthar shifted uneasily on his knees, obviously unused to spending much time on them.

“Unexpected, indeed,” Gerith’s words reflected Shok’s earlier statement. He reached forward and pulled the sack from Helthar’s head, tossing it aside. Helthar froze and looked around wildly for a moment, his chest rising in quick and light breaths. After a moment, he came to rest his gaze on Gerith.

Gerith had seen portraits of the royal family and even seen Empress Pen from a distance once, so he knew he was indeed looking at the prince. Helthar had the striking green eyes his mother was said to have had before becoming an Ezaran, and his dark hair matched hers. It was impossible to tell from whom he had inherited his narrow nose and crooked skin markings, since–like the many siblings who had not made it to adulthood–he had surely been fathered by some long-forgotten concubine.

“You should be ashamed!” Helthar spat. “I’m heir to the Empire, not some common soldier. I–”

“Be grateful you’re even alive, Your Highness,” Gerith said, his voice stony. “You’d be dead now if I had let the Tanyarans have their way with you.”

Helthar made a sound of disgust. “First you throw the nation into chaos, and then you appeal to those savages? We both know they’re hardly better than lethats. Although, I suppose I shouldn’t be–”

“If I wanted to hear your opinion on myself or my allies I would inquire as to such,” Gerith growled. He made his way over to the table and began to look over Helthar’s possessions. “I’d watch your next words very carefully, Your Highness. This war has worn my patience awfully thin, and it hasn’t much room for tolerating spoiled bastards.” Gerith reached down and picked up the coin pouch, dangling it between two fingers as he cast a glance at Helthar. “Did you come here to try and bribe me? You’ll have to do better than this.”

Gerith tossed the pouch to the side, letting it slouch on the ground with the jingle of the coins it held. He then turned his attention to the folded cloth. He pulled back a corner, and a glimpse of carved black stone peeked out. Intrigued, he unfolded the parcel, revealing two large keys that were entirely unfamiliar to him.

“What are these?” he asked softly.

“Part of some project of my mother’s,” Helthar’s voice was soft, bitter. “I’m not planning on going back to Paraven. Not while she’s alive. I thought I’d slight her one last time before you killed her.”

“And these two keys were your way of doing that?” Gerith asked dryly.

“My mother has been working on something. Something that everything else has become second to, even the Empire. My family has a secret passage below the palace, underneath the dungeon; originally, it was meant to be used in case a hasty escape needed to be made. Over the years, my mother has grafted krialin upon krialin down there, all connected to some kind of… machine. I’m not sure what it’s for, but I doubt it’s for anyone’s benefit but her own.”

“And the keys?”

“She needs them to activate it, if I’m correct.” Helthar grinned, pointed teeth gleaming in the combined light of the fire and krialin. “I can only imagine how upset she’ll be when she finds they’re missing.”

Gerith didn’t reply, gazing down at the keys in his hands before setting them back on the table.

“Whatever your mother is working on is of little consequence. By this time tomorrow she’ll be off the throne and rotting in a dungeon; that is, if the people haven’t called for her head first.” Gerith turned and came to stand in front of Helthar. “Now tell me why you are here.”

Helthar seemed to put on a dignified air, straightening himself before speaking. “The people hail you as a hero, Gerith. An average citizen, out to right the wrongs in the world. I think we both know that your cause wouldn’t have come as far as it has without that appeal.”

“How astute. What’s your point?”

“My mother has failed. She’s neglected her duties to the Empire, and to me, and has very obviously squandered everything my ancestors have built. The only thing that matters to her is her potions and her experiments, as we were discussing a moment ago.”

“As you say, your mother has done the Empire and its people a great injustice. A change has been long overdue.”

“Yes,” Helthar agreed quickly. “We both want what’s in the best interests of the Empire, and we both wish to see peace restored. A mutual collaboration between us would be most beneficial towards that end, I think.”

Gerith gave the Prince a long look. “What are you saying?”

“The tide of victory is obviously against my mother. Even the blind beggars of Outwall can see that. Once she is defeated, I’m sure that the people won’t be satisfied until they see her dead. Once that is accomplished, the right to the throne will fall to me as her son. I will seek to undo the damages caused by my mother’s neglect, and I ask you… Gerith… to aid me in that endeavor. Place me on the throne upon your victory, and I will make you my chief advisor, High Protector even, should you wish. You will have all the power in the realm, second only to myself. What do you say?”

Gerith chuckled. “So I was right. You are here to bribe me.”

“If you wish to call it that,” Helthar conceded. “But not with a mere pittance of coin. I know well enough that men like you are seldom bought with money.”

Gerith didn’t reply, continuing to look unflinchingly at the prince who knelt before him. Although the prince first kept his chin up, maintaining an air of dignity, Helthar soon shifted uncomfortably, looking to the side to avoid Gerith’s eyes.

After another moment, Gerith turned his back on Helthar and walked slowly back to the war table with the large map spread over its surface. He gazed down at it, looking over the territories of Alvitas and Tanyara depicted there.

“What say you?” Helthar repeated uncomfortably.

“I promised the Tanyarans their independence.”

“Of course.” Helthar’s voice was lined with renewed disgust. “I wouldn’t expect them to have fought for anything else. However, once my mother is defeated, there would be nothing stopping you from putting them back where they belong. Even now, they’re no match for the Alvitans currently under your command, I’m sure.”

“And undo everything I’ve attempted to accomplish,” Gerith’s words came as a hiss. “I’m sure you’ll be surprised to find that this war is about far more than simply deposing an empress and righting wrongs, despite all appearances.”

“Meaning?”

Gerith turned back to Helthar. “Tell me, Your Highness, how much do you know of the Sharans of Akrial?”

“You mean the beings who hold your leash, as well as that of my mother?” Helthar’s voice was dripping with venom. “I know as much of them as I care to, and then some. My mother was particularly insistent that I be tutored concerning them. I can’t imagine why,” he remarked dryly.

“Indeed?” Gerith asked. “What do your tutors say about the Sharans?”

“They’re near gods, from the way they’re described,” Helthar replied. “They nearly destroyed the world during the Ascension, and now they look down at us like puppets on a stage. Hell, they don’t even bother to fight their own wars by themselves. They have to choose people like you and my mother to do it for them.”

“Very good,” Gerith said. “It seems you at least learned something in that stuffy palace.”

Helthar’s expression darkened. “You’re nothing more than a lap dog, Gerith. The Sharans are too cowardly to fight themselves, so they recruit people like you and turn you into Ezarans so you can do it for them. For some reason you decide to drag the rest of us into it as well, and we all end up trying to resolve the Sharans’ petty squabbles.”

“‘Petty’, boy?” Helthar bristled at being called “boy,” and Gerith felt a rush of satisfaction at the indignant look. He stepped forward and came to squat in front of Helthar. “No. Not petty, anything but that. The Sharans’ vision stretches far beyond anything you, I, or anyone can even begin to dream.” A smile crept onto Gerith’s face as he relished the discomfort that Helthar suddenly displayed. “What is it others say I fight for? To free the oppressed from their rulers? To right the wrongs in this world? While they are correct, in a sense, my goals are so much larger.”

“What are you saying?” Helthar asked softly.

“I’m saying that you think I’m merely here to free the Empire from your mother,” Gerith replied as he stood, “but I’m here to free the world. You say the Sharans should mind their own affairs; Sharan Menrair and I would agree. Too long has the common person been forced into fates chosen for them by those in power, whether that be Sharans or emperors. The world I’m building will have neither of those. For the first time in history, every man and woman will truly be at liberty. And you will be there to see its dawn.” Gerith looked towards the door of the tent, “Yuzgin!”

Helthar turned wildly as Yuzgin stepped through the door, accompanied by a handful of other soldiers.

“Take the prince and put him somewhere safe,” Gerith ordered.

“I offered you a seat as my right hand!” Helthar exclaimed, twisting as he was seized upon. He continued to shout as the soldiers pulled him from the tent. “But you prefer to be the pawn of a would-be god!”

“A ‘pawn?’” Gerith’s voice was steady. “No. I promise you, young prince, I have never been more free.”

3

Ferrar stood gazing at a map within his makeshift office near the city wall when he heard the alarm horn sound off. Activity outside quickly increased, footsteps quickening and voices rising, as soldiers rushed to grab weapons and helmets.

Archaus, a younger Protector from the long-conquered east, appeared at the entrance, framed by smoky dawn light. “The rebels are approaching, sir.”

Ferrar reached over and picked up his helmet from where it rested on his desk, cupping it under his arm.

“See to the manning of the walls.” Ferrar leveled his gaze at Archaus. “Have the men ready the ballistae, and then meet me at the main gate.”

“Yes sir,” Archaus said. He saluted and left.

Ferrar strode quickly out of the hut that had been serving as his wallside office, stepping into the bustle of soldiers as they rushed to and fro. The main gate loomed nearby; Ferrar had made sure his office had been set up relatively close to the gate so he could reach it on short notice. Ferrar bristled at the disorganization of the soldiers before him, having to stop several times as they crossed his path. The panic mixed with urgency that filled their expressions did not help to fill Ferrar with confidence.

Upon reaching the stairs, Ferrar rushed up them, taking two at a time; meanwhile, soldiers rushed up and down on either side of him. By the time Ferrar reached the top of the wall, a light blanket of sweat slicked his brow. As he walked he looked out from the wall, taking in the glitter of spears and helmets that shined in the distance.

“Sir.” A nearby lieutenant saluted as Ferrar approached the gatehouse.

Ferrar acknowledged him with a nod before turning to watch the approach of Sanvalit’s army.

The rebels drew near rapidly, ranks on ranks of nourts and arkhel, Alvitan and Tanyaran, marching side by side. Many of them lacked any semblance of a uniform; most evidently only wore what they personally owned or armor taken from foes slain in battle, creating ghoulish patchworks of Imperial military garb. Despite their ragged appearance, Ferrar felt a hint of worry. This wasn’t a force of conscripts and peasants; these were fighters.

The front of Sanvalit’s forces came within a few meters of the empty outer city, the rebel lines coming to stop in a shambling halt. Silence hung in the air as both sides waited for the other to make the first move. In the silence, Ferrar placed his helmet on his head, tightening the strap beneath his chin. He then placed his hands against the merlons of the wall, watching the rebel lines for any hint of movement or preparation.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” a nearby soldier whispered.

“Shh,” Ferrar said. “Be at attention. Prepare for anything.”

Time seemed to slow to a crawl; even the wind appeared to still in anticipation of what was to come. The only sound seemed to be the creak of armor of the soldiers nearby and the occasional long, shaky breath. Ferrar’s heartbeat seemed to ring in his ears as he looked over the rebel ranks which stretched to the edge of the valley.

We won’t survive this, Ferrar thought to himself. The Empress. Myself. My men…

“Sir.”

Ferrar turned to see Archaus approaching him slowly, almost delicately; the younger soldier watched the rebels with a look of anxiety. Once he came to stand by Ferrar he leaned in and addressed the general in a hushed tone.

“The ballistae are prepared and the men are ready. Should I give the order?”

“No,” Ferrar said. He looked back at the rebels. “Hold for now.”

“Sir?”

“We don’t know what they’re planning. And I’d rather not dive headfirst into what’s already promising to be a bloodbath. Hold for now, but be ready to give the order at a mome–”

“General Ferrar!”

A shout came from the rebel ranks, and the troops parted as a small party made their way forward atop the backs of fieruls. Ferrar squinted to try to make out who the riders were, wishing he had brought his glasses. He was fairly confident that it was Gerith riding at their head, however; the violet glow of krialin along his face and arms was evident despite the distance.

The fieruls passed through the front of the rebel ranks and came to halt partway into the outer city, allowing Ferrar to get a clear look at their riders. Just as he had guessed, a short, green-skinned nourt rode in front; accompanying him was another, larger nourt and a couple of arkhel that, judging from their attire, hailed from Tanyara.

“How are you this fine day?” the nourt in front called, offering a crooked smile as he rested an arm on his saddle horn.

“The famed Gerith Sanvalit, I presume?” Ferrar replied. He held his chin up proudly; it would not do to legitimize the threat too much in front of his soldiers.

The nourt spread his hands wide. “You presume right. I was hoping to have a word with you, if you are so inclined.”

“May I ask what about?”

Gerith kicked his fierul into a slow trot, pacing back and forth as he spoke; his gaze never left Ferrar. “To see if we can end this before we have to come to blows.”

Ferrar couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “And what have we done to deserve this courtesy? Surely you can just summon your flying machines and have this whole incident done without the complication of words.”

“Despite what I’m sure you and many of your men have come to believe, I am not a man of blood, General.” Gerith spoke cordially, but confidently. It was apparent he understood how little of a chance that Ferrar and his men had; they were essentially at his mercy. All this was just to emphasize that fact. “I am honest when I say I wish to avoid bloodshed if such a solution can be reached.”

“If that was the case, then none of us would be here,” Ferrar barked. He curled his fists where they rested on the parapet. “You’d still be out east tending to your duties. You never would have started this rebellion of yours.”

“Trust me, I wish I was back in Saaliat right now, living out my life as I thought I would.” Gerith brought his fierul to a stop, and his voice became harder. “But changes need to be made. It just unfortunately fell to me to make them.”

Ferrar shook his head. “No one forced you to make that decision.”

Gerith paused, and a white flash of teeth revealed his grin. “You know what both Nelamba and I are,” Gerith said slowly, almost coyly. “You know whom we serve. Perhaps, if you were so fortunate to be chosen, you’d understand that what you want quickly loses importance when you’re shown the vision of a Sharan.”

“I didn’t come here so that you could tell me of those delusional would-be gods,” Ferrar scoffed. “What is it you want?”

“My terms are simple. Surrender the city unconditionally, hand over the Empress, and I will see that none of you are harmed.”

Ferrar let out a short laugh, but to his alarm, he briefly considered the terms in his mind, and was surprised to find a part of himself willing to accept them. He looked over the ranks on either side of him, prepared to die to defend the empire they believed in. With one word he could end it all; he could spare them all the violent deaths that would inevitably face each one of them.

“As generous as that offer is…,” Ferrar turned to look back down at Gerith, “I must decline. We all swore an oath, Sanvalit, as you did once; I guess the difference is that we value our word. Come what may, we will defend this city to the last.”

Gerith lowered his head and looked down at his saddle for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then he raised his head with a wry grin upon his lips.

“Then I’ll allow you the honor of being the first,” he said with a shrug.

Ferrar heard the arrow before he felt it, a sharp whistle through the air followed by stabbing pain through his chest. His breath caught, and he looked down slowly to see the shaft of an arrow sticking out from his torso like a flag. Blood began to spill from the wound, trailing down Ferrar’s armor and staining his clothes red. The old arkhel looked up to the sky, his vision quickly fading. He tried to breathe, tried in some vain attempt to push back the darkness. He had to give the order, hold the wall, keep his word. Then he fell forward, over the parapet and towards the dusty street below.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

---

Gerith turned his fierul about and kicked it into a trot as he headed back into the safety of his ranks; meanwhile, the Imperial troops mobilized on the wall. Arrows began to fill the air, and more than one ballista bolt fell among Gerith’s lines. They had enough sense and discipline to raise their shields, and the first volley was largely ineffectual.

Shok pulled up alongside Gerith; Senri and Ferkel fell in slightly behind.

“Is that it?” Senri asked. “You made all that show to kill one man?”

“Ferrar was the last competent leader the Empress had within her grasp.” Gerith didn’t even spare Senri a glance as he explained. “With him gone, the Imperial morale and will to fight are sure to go with it. Don’t worry; there will be a few who put up resistance for us to put down. The rest, though–I suspect they’ll crumble within the next couple of hours.” He glanced back at Senri and Ferkel. “See to your men. We’ll join the main force once we breach the walls.”

Senri and Ferkel turned their fieruls away and went off without another word.

Gerith turned to Shok. “You do the same. We’ll want to be ready once the city has been breached.”

Shok nodded and started to turn aside.

“And Shok,” Gerith added quickly, before he was lost in the moving ranks.

Shok turned back to his old friend. “Yes?”

Gerith grinned. “Signal the airships.”

4

“No. No. NO!” Pen screeched.

She dug her fingernails into the railing of the balcony, her body quivering as she watched Sanvalit’s airships descend upon Paraven. Some lowered themselves into the city streets, while others nested atop buildings like gigantic birds. Even from the palace, Pen could see the rebel soldiers they held spilling out of the ships and into the city itself.

After a night of frantic and fruitless searching for the keys to the Lahesul-Varen, Pen had heard the alarm go off. She had come to her balcony and watched in silence as the rebels drew near the city. She had waited in anticipation as several silent minutes went by, and neither the rebels nor her own soldiers had made a move. All at once, however, it had seemed to explode as the Imperal forces opened fire upon the rebels and vice versa. The rebels had managed to stack ladders against the city walls, and the defenders had begun a melee atop the stone ring that surrounded Paraven.

That’s when Pen had noticed the small shadows that began to dot the sky; there couldn’t have been more than a dozen of them, but Pen knew what they were. The airships had quickly descended on the city, arrows and javelins flying down upon the Imperials as they fought on the walls and within the city. Now, the airships were landing within the city itself, and Pen was running out of time.

Pen curled her fingers into fists, driving her nails into the palm of her hand as she beheld the scene before her. A small hiss escaped her mouth, and she felt a small drop of blood spilling onto the tips of her fingers.

The door to Pen’s chambers flew open, and the Empress turned to see Larspur rushing towards her.

“My Empress,” he huffed. “The rebels–”

“I know, damn it!” Pen growled. She quickly gazed back into the city, “I’ve been watching the whole time.”

“What are your orders?”

“Hold the palace,” Pen said softly. “Keep the rebels from setting foot inside as long as you are able. I need time.”

“Yes, Empress.” Larspur bowed quickly and hurried away to carry out Pen’s order.

Pen looked back at the city, the sounds of fighting already seemed to be dying. No doubt, what was left of the garrison were quickly surrendering to Sanvalit in hopes of being spared.

It doesn’t matter, Pen thought. She turned, striding through her chamber and into the hall outside. In the end, no one is going to leave this valley. I’ll deal with the survivors on the other side.

Pen moved down the hall, paying little heed to the guards or servants who passed her by. In her mind, nothing seemed to matter anymore, nothing but making sure that her work for Sharan Felar did not come to nothing.

She came to the familiar stone arch that led into the dungeon below the palace and hurriedly started down the steps. As though walking through a horrific, repeating nightmare, she passed cells and storage rooms, eventually arriving at the door to her laboratory. Unlocking the door and making her way inside, she opened the door to the secret passage and was enveloped in multicolored light.

Pen rushed down the passageway, ducking low to avoid the krialin lamps that hung from above. The passage wound left and right, snaking through the earth on its way to its destination; she eventually reached the chamber which housed the Lahesul-Varen. Pen made straight for the machine, never breaking her stride as she entered the chamber. She had yet to find the keys, but she knew that she was out of time.

I’ll simply have to do without, Pen thought.

Pen reached forward and grasped both of the handles within the base of the Lahesul-Varen, taking a deep breath as she did so. Without the keys, it would be difficult to activate it, but if enough force was exerted on the threads of the machine itself it could be done. She closed her eyes, shutting off the visual in favor of the total absorption of Threadsight.

The chamber around Pen quickly became outlined by a cascade of bright white streams of light–the Threads that filled the krialin in the room. Pen came to distinctly sense the krialin veins that snaked through the tunnels; however, the Laheshul-Varen occupied most of her vision, so full of vivrialic power that it was akin to a burning pillar of fire.

Pen focused on the Threads within the Lahesul-Varen, reaching out and sending commands to them. Pen reached out to the Threads, causing them to move as if she had picked them up in her hand. With some difficulty, she managed to rotate the levers, watching the Threads twist and shift as she did so.

Feeling perspiration on her forehead, Pen renewed her focus. Willing them to bend according as she had designed, she pushed forward and drove the levers deeper into the machine. Once this was accomplished, a dull hum began to emanate from the device; meanwhile, Pen reopened her eyes and fell to the ground, panting.

Pen’s breath came in ragged gasps, but she smirked to herself. The Lahesul-Varen was meant to be activated with the keys; but she had managed it without them. Soon, a second Ascension would occur, taking her and her city to Akrial where the Sharans resided, and hopefully, it would tear the rebels apart in the process.

Pen paused as the hum of the Lahesul-Varen turned into a horrid grinding and screeching. The light of the krialin overhead began to fade.

Something’s wrong, Pen thought. It’s malfunctioning.

White Threads began to seep from the krialin, making their ways towards the Lahesul-Varen, leaving the krialin behind it dead and lifeless. Upon reaching the machine, the Threads dimmed… and vanished.

It’s eating the Threads, Pen realized.

After all those years of preparation, Pen thought she knew everything that was needed to make the Lahesul-Varen work as she desired. She had worked meticulously so that Paraven would be ready to experience its own Ascension; this was not it.

Pen began to feel a strange tug in her own body; a tingling that covered her head to toe. It rapidly turned into a searing pain; Pen found herself collapsing to the floor in agony. Her vision blurred, filled with a white light as the threads in her body ripped through her skin.

I…I’ve failed, she thought.

Through the pain, and the knowledge that her plans had been foiled, Pen found consolation. Though she would die, surely the rebels that now swarmed the walls would perish with her.

“I’ll… see you in hell, Sanvalit,” Pen muttered through clenched teeth.

The rest was agony.

5

Gerith drove his spear into the Imperial soldier; then, giving it one last jerk, he drew it out. The soldier, one of the last to stand against Gerith’s men, let out a wordless exclamation before falling still.

“That should be the last of them,” Shok said as he approached Gerith. His sword dripped with fresh blood, mingled green and red. “Only a few pockets of resistance remain. However, we still have not breached the palace.”

“See that someone is appointed to the security of the city and the prisoners,” Gerith said as he bent down to wipe his spear on the robes of the Imperial soldier. “After that, round up some men to escort us to the royal palace.We’re going to pay Empress Nelamba a visit.”

Shok flicked his sword clean and went on his way; meanwhile, Gerith crouched down and attempted to catch his breath. His gaze remained on the palace, its tall spires hanging over the city.

I’m so close, Gerith thought. I’m so close.

It had been a long journey, one that had left impressions that changed Gerith forever. He’d been a regular guardsman, until he had been dragged into a world he had never dreamed of on that fateful night so many years ago. Ever since Sharan Menrair’s halo of light had surrounded him and first carried him to Akrial, he had become increasingly convinced of the world Menrair was trying to make.

Almost there, Gerith thought. Almost there.

Gerith heard footsteps and stood, turning to see Senri approaching with several other men in tow. Shok and Ferkel stood among them, their blades and armor covered in signs of the battle.

“This is it,” Gerith said. He pointed over his shoulder to the palace behind him. “Within the walls of that palace is the one person who could end all this. We get to her, and then this war will finally be resolved.”

Gerith looked over the men before him, seeing the resolution in each of their eyes; the desire for freedom, the desire for peace. Desires that hung barely out of reach as long as the Empress still remained in power.

Gerith turned and began walking towards the palace. “Let’s go get ourselves an Empress.”

The small group of soldiers followed Gerith, staying close as he led the way through Paraven, the city sacked and bloodied. Signs of violence could be seen covering every inch of ground: bodies, those of soldiers and civilians alike, decorated the streets and buildings; shattered windows gaped open; and splinters that had once been merchants’ stalls paved the roads.

Despite Gerith’s expectations, they met no resistance as they stalked through the city streets. Gerith eventually concluded that whatever Imperial forces still remained must be holed up in the palace with the Empress.

Suddenly, Gerith paused. Something was wrong. The air seemed heavy, like on the eve of a storm.

“What…what is that?” Shok asked. He looked this way and that, obviously aware of whatever Gerith was feeling as well.

A tingle shot through Gerith’s body, and he found himself struggling to stand. He reached out and rested a hand against the wall of a nearby home, his brow beginning to become covered in perspiration.

“Y-you…f-feel it too?” Gerith asked, his limbs beginning to shake.

Shok opened his mouth to reply but never got the chance, suddenly falling over in pain along with the rest of the party, Gerith among them. A rumbling emanated from the earth, felt more in the mind than in the body, and Gerith’s vision shook.

“What is…h-happening?” Senri was barely able to form the words as he weakly pushed himself up into a kneeling position.

Gerith slowly raised his head to look at the palace.

Helthar was right, he thought. Whatever the Empress was working on, it wasn’t good.

Gerith’s vision abruptly filled with white light, its brilliance covering everything within the city. Screams erupted from those around him, and Gerith slowly realized his own was among them as his body filled with pain. The rebel leader crumpled to the cobbles of the street as his body convulsed and contorted.

N-Nelamba… Gerith thought slowly. What… have you done?

Gerith watched as his skin began to burst, black bruises spreading before lines of fresh green blood split the surface. Threads–living, vital Threads of white radiance–burst from the wounds, pulled by an unseen force.

M-my Threads, Gerith realized. N-no. Not…just mine…everybody’s.

Gerith’s face hit the cobbles of the street; the last of his strength ebbing out of his body. All he could hear was the deafening hum that came from the earth. Before long, Gerith’s vision became clouded, black swirls creeping in on the edge of what he could see.

G-Guillen, he thought weakly. I… I hope….

Then everything went dark.

6

Guillen gazed into the fire, a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders to shield against the cold of the night. A plate of food rested untouched in his hands, having long gone cold. It had been hours since the scouts had been sent out into the valley, searching for any sign of survivors following the massive explosion over Paraven. Guillen waited restlessly, hoping that they’d bring some word of his father.

The battle had unfolded as Guillen waited in the camp, receiving frequent missives from couriers on the course of the conflict. The hum of the aircraft's engines had sounded in the distance, rivaled by screams, shouts, and the clashing of armor. Hours had passed, and those in the camp grew to hardly notice the sounds of carnage that emanated from the valley.

That’s when the light had appeared.

The ground had begun to shake, and then a great burst of white light had shone from the city, engulfing the entire valley. Almost blinding in its radiance, it filled the sky and appeared as if the sun itself had descended. Guillen and the others had gazed on in awe and wonder, not knowing what the lights' appearance could mean. It had faded away just as quickly as it had come, seeming to shrink in on itself in one rapid motion. The ships hovering over Paraven had dropped out of the sky, and the sounds of battle that previously had been so constant had died away, leaving eerie silence in its wake.

Now soldiers hunkered in tents or gathered around fires, softly whispering as they debated on what the light could mean. Guillen, for his part, was convinced that it was nothing good.

A weapon of the Empress, perhaps? Guillen thought as he gazed into the fire. One last effort to repel us?

Guillen had watched and waited, looking for someone to emerge from the valley, rebel or Imperial. Any sign that there was someone still alive in the valley, any sign that his father might have survived.

Hours passed, and Guillen had finally decided that he couldn’t wait any longer, selecting a handful of scouts to go into the valley and investigate. He found that most expressed reluctance to do so, fearful of what they might find. Once he had found some that were willing, he had sent them into the valley with orders to observe and report on what had taken place.

“Commander Sanvalit?”

Guillen’s contemplation was broken, and he turned away from the fire to see Yuzgin approaching tentatively, his gaze lowered to the ground. When Guillen’s father had prepared to move on Paraven, he had left Yuzgin behind, despite his experience as a soldier. In case something should befall him, Gerith had reasoned that Yuzgin would be a good support to Guillen in whatever followed.

“What is it?” Guillen asked, setting his food down and shifting in his seat to face the arkhel.

“The scouts have returned,” Yuzgin said slowly. “They–”

“What did they say?” Guillen asked eagerly. “Did they find any sign of my father?”

Yuzgin lowered his gaze even more before looking up at Guillen with a shake of his head. “It’s not good.”

Guillen felt a pit in his stomach, and all of a sudden it was a struggle trying not to puke or weep. He had known. He had hoped, but he had known. He breathed deeply, taking in air through his nostrils and then letting it out in a long stream from his mouth.

He looked up at Yuzgin, his next words coming slowly and evenly. “What did they find?”

“So far as we can tell, there’s no survivors from whatever happened,” Yuzgin related the report stoically as if it was any other assignment. “It didn’t just kill everyone in the valley, though, it killed everything else along with it.”

“What do you–”

“The Threads,” Yuzgin continued. “They’re gone.”

Guillen sat slightly straighter, resting one hand on his knee. “Gone?”

“So far as our scouts can tell, every living thing within the confines of the valley has been completely stripped bare,” Yussgin said. “Trees, grass, animals, insects. It’s like walking into a massive graveyard.”

“What of the people inside?” Guillen’s mind was racing. “Is there anything left?”

Yuzgin shrugged as he turned and began walking around the fire, gazing into the flames, “Dead and drained. Already dry, but not decaying, from what the scouts say.”

That means…. Guillen squeezed his eyes shut as the bitterness of tears began to well up. Father….

Guillen felt a hand on his shoulder, and opened his eyes to see Yuzgin kneeling with him. Guillen let the tears run as they looked at each other, and for a moment, he thought he saw as much sorrow in Yuzgin’s eyes as he himself felt.

“He was a great man,” Yuzgin gave Guillen’s shoulder a light shake. “I don’t think I’ll ever have the honor of serving under anyone as noble, passionate, or dedicated. Except you.”

“Me?” Guillen felt shocked at Yuzgin’s words.

Yuzgin looked down at him with a faint, sad smile. “He chose you to lead this army should anything happen to him. Your father rarely did anything unless it was with good reason. If he chose you, then it was because you’re the most suited to fulfill whatever future he had in mind. Now I suppose it’s just a matter of what you do with it.”

Guillen turned and looked into the flames, thinking of his father: cunning yet just, firm but never merciless. He was passionate in his role as an Ezaran, and in his belief that he was truly creating a better world for everyone.

Guillen smiled.

“What is it?” Yuzgin asked.

Guillen shook himself and looked at Yuzgin.

“I'm just thinking of him,” he said. “I don’t know if I can ever live up to him, but I can try.”

Guillen stood, shaking the blanket from his shoulders and tossing it aside.

“Spread the word,” Guillen’s voice was heavy, authoritative. “We fall back to Saaliat tomorrow. I want riders out first thing in the morning to all of the major garrisons. Tell them to crush any remaining Imperial resistance and begin restoring the people to their lands. This war is over.”

Yuzgin straightened and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He marched into the darkness, leaving Guillen standing alone by the fire. Guillen watched him go, his mind filled the number of things that would now require his attention. Alvitas had been fractured by the war; it would take a lot of work and healing to restore it anywhere near to what it had been before.

“This war…is over?”

Guillen startled, turning suddenly to see who had spoken.

Tesh stood at the edge of the fire, the arkhel’s dark eyes reflecting the flames as they lay on Guillen. Tesh was a leader amongst the Tanyarans, a secondary chief to Benri, and had been left behind to guide his kinsmen should the attack on Paraven fail.

“How long have you been listening?” Guillen asked.

“Long enough,” Tesh muttered. He strove further into the firelight, walking to the side of the fire opposite of Guillen. “I hope you’re prepared to uphold your father’s word. We have shed our blood just as much, if not more, than you Alvitans.”

“We were at war mere hours ago,” Guillen replied. “Once we reach Saaliat and see what needs to be done–”

“Don’t stall!” Tesh hissed, coming to a stop. “Our price was independence. It is time for you to deliver. We will accept nothing less.”

“Very well,” Guillen didn’t realize how tense he had been, nor how hard his heart had been pounding. He relaxed and took a deep breath. “Very well. You and your kind are at liberty to return to Tanyara at your first convenience.”

“My gratitude,” Tesh turned towards Guillen and bowed, his tone much more civil than it was moments before. He turned and walked towards the edge of the firelight before pausing. “There is one more thing.”

“What is it?” Guillen asked, sensing the edge of impatience in his own voice.

“The princeling,” Tesh said. “The Empress’ son. Give him to us.”

Guillen struggled for words, an ample reply failing to come to his mind.

“Why?” he eventually managed. “What could you possibly need him for?”

“Need him? No. No….” Tesh’s words were cold. “He and his family have committed great crimes against our people. We intend to make sure he pays for it.”

“Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed?” Guillen spat. “My father, your chiefs, all lie in the valley lifeless. Most importantly, the Empress is dead, and your people are free. Let that suffice.”

“You Alvitans have always been so squeamish,” Tesh said. He stepped further into the firelight, speaking in a low voice as he did so. “In Tanyara, we are not so afraid to take what we desire by blood. Those who fall will be honored, while those who live will boast of their achievements.” Tesh reached down and drew a large dagger from his belt, holding it up and inspecting the blade. Guillen gulped, feeling his heartbeat quicken with nervousness. Tesh looked sidelong at Guillen, “I was wondering if I had sent enough Alvitans to meet their ancestors.”

It was a threat, Guillen could see that. The issue lied in that Tesh had no doubt set the remaining Tanyarans at the ready, to watch for some signal to fall upon the rest of Gerith’s army should their request be refused. Guillen thought of shouting, trying to grab someone’s attention, but it would probably be far too late by then.

Guillen’s face twitched in suppressed rage, but he attempted to keep it hidden. He didn’t want Tesh to feel like he had any more power than he already did.

“Damn you all,” Guillen spat into the fire. “Take him. If the turnkeys give you any trouble, send them to confirm with me.”

Tesh grinned, lowering the dagger and sliding it back into its sheath.

“I’m pleased we could come to an arrangement,” he purred. “Good luck. You’ll need it to rebuild this shithole.”

Tesh walked away, quickly vanishing into the darkness of the night. Guillen watched him go, making sure he was far enough away not to hear the string of curses that escaped Guillen’s mouth.

“Nothing to be done now,” Guillen muttered, pacing back and forth, his hands on his hips. He turned his gaze to the skies above, taking in the stars that hung overhead, and suddenly thinking of how expansive they seemed to spread. The thoughts of everything that lay before him suddenly came flooding back. “I take that back. There’s far too much to do.”

Guillen turned in the direction of Paraven, wondering where his father lay amongst the ruin of it all. He would like to go and search for his body, but there simply wasn’t time, and Guillen wasn’t sure he’d even be able to recognize him amongst the Threadless corpses that would dot the ground.

“Rest now, Father,” Guillen muttered as he turned and made his way into camp. “Gods watch over you…”

THE END

"Bloodkin: Nightfall" was written by Tavo Scholes and edited by Brynn Davidson.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this short story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from Tavo Scholes and Brynn Davidson.