The Birthright of Empire

Aronn Dameus Tamanayan the First wielded his pen with practiced confidence as he prepared to write the most important words of his life. Weeks of negotiation, deliberation, and revision among his high judges and royal barristers had led to this moment, this treaty, which would at long last sign into law the free and open practice of high magic in his empire. He would be the savior that dissolved the pact that had taken advantage of the mages under his bloodline, binding them, oppressing them, for centuries. He would take the step that every other ruler in the known world feared, and cement Demenula in history forever as the first true magical superpower, and his name as the first in a new line of wizard kings. Not that he could practice the art himself, but that mattered less than his relationship to those under his rule that could. He could already see the plaques that would be graven, to be placed at the feet of his monuments: Aronn the Arcane, Aronn the Wise, Aronn of the New Dawn. For it was a new dawn, one that would be celebrated with fountains of magefire and heralded by the wail of trumpets from outside time. 

He skimmed over the first line: I, Aronn Tamanayan, sovereign and emperor of Demenula hereby declare that from this day forth… He needn't go on any further. He had been read almost every new draft that had come up from the courts, and had listened at least half-heartedly, so he was confident in his familiarity with its many terms and clauses by now. This glancing over was more a formality, and a way to savor this moment, this threshold between ages. 

With a few pen strokes it was done, and he smiled as his attendants and judges chortled and shook hands, the first of many celebrations to be had in the coming days, Aronn was sure. In fact, he would make sure of it. Perhaps a new holiday?

The small crowd left him, and he was alone in his chambers, given time to further mull over this momentous occasion. He stood up from his desk and walked to the balcony, which jutted out of his palace’s side and looked out over the seat of his empire, its great ports, and the mouth of the great bay, which broadened into a sea that glimmered with moonlight. He breathed in the night air and…

And he was suddenly no longer alone. 

He turned, opening his mouth to address what he was sure would be one of his attendants come back to address him, but found instead, standing in the center of his chambers, a peculiar creature.

It was shaped like a man, tall and imposing, with broad shoulders, and a strong chin below chiseled features. It wore what looked like some kind of royal garb, patterned and pinned up at the shoulder and hip, though it was short, and after no foreign fashion that he knew. Most notable, though, was that the thing seemed to be made from black rock, like a statue, carved with symbols and crumbling in places. Its eyes were a luminous, volcanic orange, as was the inside of its mouth as it opened to speak.

“Good evening, Aronn.”

It addressed an emperor with his given name? And with such confidence. What manner of creature was this? An archmage, maybe? One of those who had left their human body behind long ago, come to congratulate him on his victory. Yet, something about its demeanor spoke not of the mere centuries offered to those powerful practitioners of the arcane, but rather millenia. Even Aronn could sense that his creature was old. Old as the stones it stood upon with bare, obsidian feet. “I am he,” Aronn said. “Who are you to address me as such?”

“I am called Namon,” the creature said, still and straight as the pillars it stood beside. “spirit of the collapse.”

“The collapse?” Aronn said, wary. 

“The end. The fall. The demise.”

Aronn scoffed. “You are death, then? The Red Reaper? Where is your sickle of frozen blood? Your cowl of crimson feathers?”

“Not quite. My domain is different from Ozyumoth’s,” Namon said. “I come not for men’s souls.”

“Whose, then?” 

“Empire.” The word hung in the air, writhing. Namon continued: “I am he who guides all civilizations to their destruction. To hear their last rumbling sigh as the final pillar falls. To witness the slow grinding into dust. The collapse.”

“How can an empire have a soul?”

“They are born, they feed, they bleed, they die, the same as you. Marching for a heartbeat, gold and silver for blood; the laws and dictates of its greats are the formation of its thoughts. They are a different class of life, but they are alive indeed, would you disagree?”

Aronn found that the spirit’s words rang true. He had long thought of Demenula as his child, or his friend. There was a life in this thing which he had nurtured and raised up.

“So it is true then,” Aronn said. “Victory over my enemies is near at hand?”

“No, you mistake me,” Namon said. “I come unto you, Aronn Tamanayan, because it is Demenula that is set to fall.”

“Impossible.”

“Is it?” Namon said, and seized his mind. Not with hands of stone, but with the cold touch of magic, familiar to Aronn after years of working among sorcerers. It filled his mind like an icy river and resolved into images. Flashes of people and places. Within his own city, he realized. One by one they paraded in front of him. War prisoners strung up for the crows. Children shivering in the dark streets, their rib-cages casting shadows on their sides like a dandy’s silk coat. Circles of red-robed mages deep within the bowels of his own palace, drawing the blood of a man who lay prostrate on an obsidian table, the blood and power of the ritual collected for research into a serum of immortality. Aronn tried to avert his eyes, but could not close them on his own mind.

“Do not show me these things,” Aronn said. His stomach churned within him. Was this really happening? Had his sanity begun to slip? No, he reminded himself, he had wards against madness and influence placed upon him by his mages. His mind was guarded.

“This is Demenula, your majesty. Do you recognize it?” the spirit said. The visions withdrew, and Aronn was back on his balcony. 

“Not all of it! You show only its worst parts! A fallacy!” Aronn paced back and forth, and Namon clasped his stone hands from where he stood, just inside the bedchamber. “I am not proud of these things, but they are the sacrifices I have made for the good of the majority. Look there!” He gestured out over the city, toward the bay, where giant frigates were docked, massive sails bearing the decorative royal crest, their figureheads made of solid gold. “My fleet is the greatest ever assembled! We trade across the world, feeding countless thousands!” He waved his hand then toward the many spires and domed towers in the city below. “Look at the richness of our architecture! Our culture! We are the center of art, philosophy, and magic! Our influence has spread across this continent, and only grows! How can you, seeing all of this, still say that we are on the brink of collapse? We are at the pinnacle of greatness! I have brought Demenula to heights that my forefathers could scarcely dream of, and all because they were too fearful to do what was necessary!”

Namon waited patiently for him to finish. “Indeed, it is impressive, but you must understand that greatness and fragility are not mutually exclusive.”

Aronn turned from his view out toward the city and approached the creature, who, up close, appeared even taller. Steadier, immovable as a mountain. He would not let himself be intimidated by this… this agent of discord. For all he knew, it was some kind of trick, sent by his enemies to shake him. He would not give them the satisfaction.

“So what happens now? What is to become of us, as you say?” Aronn challenged.

“See for yourself.”

A tremor shook the palace, and with it several explosions from behind Aronn. He whirled and found flames. Rising slowly above rooftops, as though pulling themselves up from the belly of the earth, were flames. Some glowed with the neon-silver, ethereal shimmer of magefire, scattered like melting pearls on a backdrop of ordinary fire, too, the color of Namon’s eyes. 

“The wizards you have just freed, that you have just armed with freedom and authority, will rise against you. They have been waiting for decades, in fact. Your armies are no match for them. Your navy will have no purchase when they drain the seas.”

From the streets, strange, wobbling forms stood up and became giants, thirty, fifty feet tall, made from living darkness. Vengeful storms gathered, guided by unseen hands who called forth lances of crystalline lighting. Aronn’s heart dropped, and he gawked as destruction settled on his home. 

“Your towers will crumble. Every record will be destroyed. What history remains of your people will be preserved as vague and misremembered fragments, chewed upon by worms of bias and conjecture from future philosophers. Demenula will become naught but dust and rumor.”

“I…” Aronn said, but his tongue failed him. Sulfur and firmament burned on the wind. More images flashed across his mind, but this time they did not need Namon’s visions to be clear to him. Piles of bodies heaped and burned on the battlefields of his conquest. Fortunes gambled and spent, all in the name of creating something he had always assumed would by centuries outlive him, and in time justify the blood and steel spent in its afterbirth.

No parent should have to live to see their child buried.

 “Is this… was it really all for nothing?” He hated Namon suddenly, for being so calm, so insensitive, watching his life’s work burn and outlining for him the extinction of his people, as though it were news of a distant relative’s passing. But… who else did he have to turn to, now, witnessing this horror of horrors?

“It is the birthright of all empires to die,” the spirit said. “and each must hope that it may be the one that will live on. It is the way of things, for civilization to feed upon the hope and vigor of humanity. The cycle must continue. 

“I am not here to comfort you through this passing, Aronn Tamanayan. But, I can say that you will not be entirely forgotten.”

“I… I won’t?”

“No,” Namon looked out over the view passively. “The stones will remember you. The land itself changes, but does not forget, as it does not forget Aksimian Stone-queen, or Tolemule Manyspear. Ejmish, Selida, Spokkun. They are remembered.”

“...Who?” Aronn asked weakly. Namon merely smiled, eyes glowing like the embers of a funeral pyre. It was a genuine smile, and knowing. Seeing it broke something deep inside of Aronn. 

“Do not worry, it will be alright.” Namon placed a heavy stone arm on Aronn’s shoulder tenderly, and a new sensation flowed into the emperor. This time it was warm, comforting. It was peace. Acceptance that did not buoy up his heart, but rather let it rest in its grief. The true essence of this being, which was the slow, grinding movement of time, hesitating neither for mourning nor for fear. “This will not be a swift process. You will not die tonight, and will still be expected to lead campaigns. Your people will look up to you during this time of trial, and you must be their emperor until the end.” Namon removed the hand from his shoulder, and Aronn gasped as the peace was withdrawn from him. Fear, anxiety, and anger throbbed in his body once more.

He focused on the latter of the three and channeled it. “Then lead I shall,” he said to the spirit. “I will defy you! Do you hear me?! I WILL DEFY YOU!”

Namon smiled again. “We will be in touch,” He said, and in the blink of an eye, disappeared, as though he were never there, or rather, like he was all around. The very soul of this moment. The embodiment of the tragedy unfolding below.

Alone, Aronn’s blood ran hot, coursing with courage instilled within him from a hundred conquests, a thousand battles. He would find a way to save his people and rebuild his legacy. He would defy fate, or Namon, or whatever twisted will had brought this upon him. This fight was only just beginning. 

Yet, beneath it all. Lying like a pool of stagnant water, festering with doubt, was that feeling from the spirit’s hand on his shoulder. That cursed inevitability. That peace which haunted him, taking the shape of Namon’s stony face inside his mind. Solid, unmoving. 

There was no room for argument in that smile.