Sitting on a golden throne was a large man, his image was that of a king. Whitened hair, though younger of age then his features would portray, crows-feet sat heavily at the edges of his eyes. A window of massive proportions coated the throne room with a dull light from the cloud-stained sky. His crown seemed more ponderous than usual, forcing him to slump his back.

His long coat of thick furs draped down the seat, pooling under his feet. They were of blacks, silvers, and golds to match his kingdom. Yet, as he sat upon his throne, a gloomy expression hung on him, causing visible waves of heat billowing, rising from his body. His wrath was endless in its unfathomable scope.

“You mean to tell me, the boy escaped?” The seated king said in a deep voice cutting the silence like a sword cuts cloth.

Shivering before him, the merchant of death, his envoy to the cities and nobility nodded stiffly. The man’s head was hanging low, too afraid to look anywhere but the smooth floor of metal below him. Reflecting his image, he stared into his own eyes watching his own fear laden and hands shaking without control. Gulping, he waited for the King to speak his mind.

A pillar of metal erupted from under him, coating him completely. It only left his face exposed to breathe. It molded to fit the pudgy man’s form, keeping him in a crucified position. Though pain wracked him, he dared not utter a single sound lest he angers the Emperor evermore. The solidified metal slowly raised his head until he had no place else to stare at except to the steel colored eyes of rage before him.

The King rose from his seat, taking nothing but a step forward. Standing in an upright position, fist clenched in an attempt towards restraint, the ground became liquid. And as its walker, it formed and grew towards Gendril as he floated above it taking him with it. Grabbing the merchant of death’s face with his right hand, he clenched in a fury.

“And how did he escape?” The King said in a quiet whisper, his deep voice emphasizing a raw edge honed through ages of battle.

Lips quivering, Gendril tried to speak, but no sounds dared to come out of him. His mouth moved with futility, his lungs exhaled without effect. Tears began to stream down his face as he felt his jaw crack under pressure.

“Speak!” The King roared.

“D-death Forest,” Gendril said the only words his mind could have thought up, hoping it was enough.

A look of surprise passed over the King’s face. The fury, all but forgotten to this new tidbit of information. Releasing Gendril’s face, he rode away on the liquid metal towards the huge window behind his throne. The weather was darkened, a foggy mist covered the city below. A sign he should have noticed sooner, but he had been too distracted by the flaming sun above. It burned too brightly, way too brightly for this time of the year.

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“I thought them dead,” the king said to himself. “Such coincidences do not bode well. The child must have somehow helped them recover, no matter how improbable that sounds. Yet, with Ges’s fortunes what isn't possible. Old rival, I thought your legacy dead, but here you are forever to annoy me even as you lay under dirt,”

As the King mused, the metal pillar that coated Gendril like a second layer of skin slowly descended to the ground. Flowing of the weakened body of the merchant of death, he fell to his knees in a huff of exhaustion. Looking up to where his King floated on a wave of liquid metal, his shoulders seemed too broad. Covering the entire window, casting a shadow too colossal to ever overcome. One does not become a King without an overbearing aura that shook the natural world.

For long minutes, almost an entire hour, Gendril sat silently on his knees quietly thanking the higher powers for the reprieve from scrutiny. All the while the king stood motionless in deep thought. The sun blazed ever strong even past the strange mist that surrounded the city walls and buildings.

“Gendril,” The King said suddenly, making him jump in his seated position startled.

“Ye-yes, Your Highness,”

“Send envoys to every nation following the Honored Roads. And write this exactly to each, Kings of The Free World,

On the Eve of the 7th of Merary, The sun of the Everflame rose to its olden heights. Prepare the engines of war, Prepare your soldiers of war, Prepare your greatest for another World War. For they have finally risen from the hellhole they called home."

Sighing, the king had a frown on his face as he spoke to himself once more.

"Ges, did you know? Is that why you sent your child towards the Kingdom atop the Mountains? You conniving bastard, you could have at least warned us of the impending doom,”

Taking this as a sign to leave, Gendril hurried to get up. Grunting with effort, he huffed as he got to his feet and bowed as low as his body could allow.

“Of course, Your Highness,”

Turning around, his stubby legs carried him as far as possible and as fast as possible. He would need to get the quickest riders to deliver such a mysterious and frightening message. Only the best would do for this task. But, as he reached the door, the King called his name again. Forcing him to stop just a few steps away from glorious freedom.

“One last thing, Gendril,” the King said as he turned around to stare at the Merchant of Death. “You are to go to Death Forest. Find the titans who inhibit its depths and warn them of this as well. The exact words, Gendril. They will do what must be done and send Ges’s boy towards the path set for him,”

Cursing his terrible luck, Gendril bowed again as his anxiety had him sweating more than realistically possible; his luxurious robes were soaked. Swiftly turning away, he raced out the door and down a long hallway. Preparing his mind for the death this mission would impose on him. Ruthar would be there, he knew it to be true. Those craven eyes, Gendril remembered them with full detail. The promise in them was of cruel and hopeless pain and suffering. Even death would be a better outcome than what Ruthar had sworn to do if he ever had his hands around him. Gendril was much too young to die such a gruesome death, he was only thirty-seven winters old.

Running down a set of stairs, he found his slave guard waiting for him were he left him. Obedient that one was, one of Gendril’s better projects to be truthful. Strong, intelligent, and fiercely loyal to him only. Walking up to him, the soldier saluted his master bringing a smile to Gendril’s face. Patting him on the shoulder, he waved him to follow as they continued down their path, descending a large set of stairs towards the entrance of the palace.

As they exited the opened gates, they were twenty feet in height, fifteen in length, and four wide, they were blanketed by the waves of fog that covered the city. If Gendril didn’t know the city like the back of his hand, even he would have been lost and unable to make it anywhere of use.

“Come, my trusty soldier. We have to meet with a mercenary company. Put on your most frightening look, they will not bow except to those they respect,” Gendril said.

In response, the nameless soldier frowned heavily, as though he was reprimanding the heavens for bothering him. Turning around, he and his master disappeared into the fog heading towards an uncertain future.