“Her will was split into six, and from the fractured pieces, power rivaling the Stars were granted upon the remnants of humanity. They who hadth been blessed by a fragment of her will became known as the Inheritors, of which only six shall ever exist together in a singular epoch. When the time comes for the wills to gather into one once more, Cosmos - the mother of all - shall finally have her lostward wish be fulfilled.”

- A Passage From Aria of the Great Mother: Penned by Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

———

Seasons have come and gone since the slaughter at the bloody field. Now, immortalized in the annals of history as The Night of Crimson Tears, the battle is but a sorrowful fable to those of the land—a legend sung by poets and passed through the lips of downtrodden souls in remembrance of what used to be.

It is a record of the last time humanity would gather together, united under a shared cause. But, in the end, no one would return on that fateful day. The fragile bond connecting the people together has shattered, and now, the earth is in an age of strife - nations waging war in a desperate attempt to claim dominion over what little of the land remains.

Deep within the chambers of one such nation - inside a grand throne room of white marble and limestone - a procession of knights march to the side and line themselves along the edges of a violet tapestry. There, at the very end, lies an ivory throne. A rainbow-stained panel of glass looks out to the bustling wards of the kingdom behind it, illuminating the air with crystalline twinkle whilst royalty and adjutants of the nation’s administration mingle all about the space. They whisper fearful concerns of the present and the future to come.

Their voices halt to a silence upon hearing the shifting groan of a colossal, oaken door parting way into the room. The knights clang the ends of their weapons upon the flooring and descend onto their knees as a royal herald steps forth, unravels an aged piece of parchment, and clears their throat before announcing for all to hear.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court,” they decree. “Entering his royal majesty: beloved ruler of the Polus Monarchy; Inheritor of the Will of Freedom; and he who doth lie closest to the realm of the Stars above. Bid welcome to King Ascalon of the Highest Seat.”

The court attendants bow their heads; the very air itself appears to sever, sending rays of prismatic shine in a welcoming arc of color overhead as the King of Polus advances into the light. Every step of his sabaton echoes a resounding stomp. Gold wraps around every surface of the full-plated bulwark fitted onto his frame, an insignia of a greatsword wreathed in a pair of snow-white wings emblazoned upon the cuirass, while a glimmer of amber hue faintly emanates from within his helm. The very same wings pictured on his chest are adorned upon the helmet’s summit, jutting out high towards the upper canopy with a sparkle that attracts awe from everyone in attendance.

But it is the giant blade sheathed onto his rearward that glistens with the greatest of pressure, as if demanding for all to gaze upon its blue-steeled edge. The royal zweihander, Mattatron - a relic of the first King of yor - exudes an overflowing aura of sapphire that curves throughout the greatsword’s base, dancing around the gilded yellow pommel while following alongside the pristine, razor-sharp rim.

The Mattatron glows with a consciousness of its own, basking in the attention from the surrounding onlookers while the King stoically makes his way towards the throne. His guiding aura fills the room with comfort, easing the minds of the anxious as thoughts of worry and restlessness soon begin to disappear.

When he finally arrives at his solitary seat, Ascalon turns around and faces his subjects with a gaze that envelops them all in a spine-numbing sensation of grandeur. He raises the Mattatron up high - blade shaking in triumph - and without a sound, begins to manifest a pair of jewel-bespeckled wings onto his back from the ambient air. Onyx surrounds the border of the soft feathers, lining the wingspan in a sparkling black, while opal and orange merge together in a mesmerizing pattern at the epicenter of the feathered embodiment. Little specks of diamond are splashed across the wing, and upon the final gathering of radiance, a surge of light springs forth from Ascalon’s being and dyes the vicinity in a wonderland of vibrant crystals.

“Everyone, please. Raise your heads,” he beseeches with a voice as soft as the morning dawn. “Let us give thanks to the great matriarch Cosmos.”

“In the name of the Mother,” the court recites.

“Let us give thanks to our beloved progenitor: the first King Arthur. May he watch over us all as we strive towards the realm of freedom above.”

“In the name of the lord.”

“And finally, let us give thanks to the people of the present. To every citizen of Polus. To honor their lives, for which we would nothing without.”

“In the name of the spirit, may peace be with us all.”

“And may we all be hallowed under the boundless grace of the Stars above,” Ascalon concludes, rescinding the light and returning the court back into its normalcy. He lets out a small, exhausted breath before taking his place on the throne. “Now, let us begin the session.”

———

Ascalon

A barrage of sound and jumbled voices assaults Ascalon’s senses all at once. The entire room erupts into bedlam as administrators and parliament members attempt to relay their concerns to him, but all they’re met with is an empty look and weary sigh—their King all too used to the chaotically familiar setting. Court sessions have begun this way since the very first day of his inauguration, and unfortunately, shall appear to continue so for the future to come.

“Everyone, I understand that our time is limited, but we must not allow ourselves to fall into disarray,” he commands to the flustered crowd. “One matter at a time. Begin with our dealings between the Ishmahab Federation.”

A rosy-cheeked official stumbles to the center of the room and addresses Ascalon with a vigorous greeting. “Yes, your majesty! Business talks with their representative, President Latizia Babylon, are proceeding as per scheduled. However, we recently received a notice of concern about the current stability of our economic trade. Their ultimatum states that we must provide more funds than initially agreed upon, or to settle for a lesser acquisition of their autonomous transport carriages.”

Hah… that gold-blooded crone wishes to haggle even further? What a truly terrifying person.

“What is the basis of their concern?” Ascalon questions. “We have yet to falter on their demands thus far. She cannot simply adjust the stipulated contract without plausible cause.”

“Unfortunately my liege, her doubts are not entirely unjustified. Our productions in handicraft and fine sculpture have slowed the past year due to increasing tensions in our war with the Nox Caelum Empire. Furthermore, we’ve barred anyone not of Polus origin entry into our entertainment district in order to prevent spies from infiltrating the capital. This has upset many influential figures from Ishmahab who used to regularly frequent our theatres and taverns.”

A petty grudge then, is it? Woe be their slimming bellies while our people slave away because of Caelum’s dream of conquest. Still, he cannot afford to lose the Federation’s support at this critical juncture—even if it means purposely allowing themselves to be swindled.

“How much has the Federation requested?”

“Fifty linen bundles, twenty jeweled necklaces, and another marble statue in the President’s image.”

Oh, for Star's sake…

“For now, send half of the additional luxuries they desire,” he commands. “And we will not build another statue. Make it very, very clear in our response that any more will force us to slow production even further. If they still persist, refuse them. No matter how ravenous those magnates are, they will not idle by if our nation were to truly be on the brink of collapse.”

The official salutes with a “Yes sir!” and quickly orders a few scribes to deliver the message. The session has only just started, and already Ascalon is overcome with a gnawing headache.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Moving on, what is the current status of our border-fronts against the Nox?”

“The Caelum legionnaires have halted their advances on our territory for now, though we know not when they will resume once more. Dame Lorelai of the Heaven’s Throne is set to return from the frontlines by tomorrow for her annual report, and if no complications occur, we shall have her back on the battlefield before the enemy forces can discover her absence.”

“Ah, that is fortunate news indeed,” Ascalon says, face softening in relief. His mind has been cast adrift through the shadows of uncertainty for the past year, but knowing he shall soon reunite with Lorelai sets his burdens at rest. Even if it is only for a singular day that they may meet again, it shall be enough.

A King must not allow themself to be greedy.

“And what of Grand General Xeros?” he says with disgust as if the very mention of the name is akin to poison upon his tongue.

“Not much, we’re afraid,” the officer apologizes. “All we know for certain is that Xeros remains enclosed within the Nox capital, Caligos Imperium, and has not left for an extended period.”

Although inactivity may appear to be a blessing, Ascalon believes otherwise. Xeros is a cunning man; every one of his actions always has a purpose behind them, a scheme or plot waiting to bear fruit. But even if one such trap does lie in wait, there is nothing he can do but to rely on the sacrifices of his knights.

He is trapped. The King must be forced to reside within this castle while his people fight and die in the filth of some faraway land. He detests his powerlessness; he abhors the chains shackling him from aiding his fellows. But, nonetheless, his duty binds him. Ascalon’s captivity is for his own safety. It is Polus tradition, as it has been so since the very founding of the nation.

A King must not allow themself to be selfish.

“Bah, that crow-like scoundrel is up to no good. Mark my words!” a stout, elderly man exclaims with a gruff voice, turning the attention towards him and waffling about as he spits all manner of colorful curses towards the Caelum leader.

“Is he ever not, Chancellor Gadreel?” Ascalon chuckles. His thoughts have been wandering again, but he can always count on the Chancellor’s temper and fiery will to lighten the mood.

“Ah, but mine discourse is of no mere vehement on this occasion,” he says, cheeks turning a rosy blush. “Twenty long years has he plagued our lands with his baleful ambition of conquest. You were but a babe when it all started, and a budding young man upon inheriting the throne.”

“Indeed, but…?”

The Chancellor meets his question with a wry smirk, voice practically begging to be let loose from his lips. “Humor this old man: Has the Grand General ever once suspended his army’s advance to such a degree?”

“No. Not once,” Ascalon murmurs. “But is this not another new scheme of his to let down our defenses?”

“Mayhaps if the halt lain only with a few odd battlefronts, but that is not the case.” The elderly man turns towards the puzzled crowd and points to the same officer from before. “Dariel, my boy: Bring forth the map!”

“At once sir!” Dariel rushes back into view with a large sheet of parchment - the map barely contained within his scrawny arms - and displays it out for all to see.

“There we are!” Gadreel lumbers forward and points at the symbol of a castle enshrouded by wings. “This herein lies our capital: the Castrum. To the south stands only three possible routes of invasion to note that we have situated our bastions upon - for the towering mountains and bottomless ravines dotted along our borders will wither away at even the most stubborn of men. They are by no means fortified in small number, each one guarded by a member of our trusted Thrones, and to require a withdrawal of Caelum forces from these locales would take considerable time and effort.”

Realization finally begins to dawn on Ascalon’s face. “When Dariel reported Xeros had halted his advances onto our territory, I assumed he meant only the main frontline where Lorelai resides. But, you can’t possibly mean—”

“Oh, but it is exactly that!” the Chancellor says with a nod of the head. “Every single one. The Grand General has retreated his forces from every single one of our fortresses.”

Ascalon clasps his gauntlets together and ponders in silence for a moment. Has Xeros truly given up his dreams of conquering the continent? No, that cannot possibly be. That man’s ambitions outweigh the Stars themselves. But if not, then why go to such lengths to withdraw his forces? Questions amongst questions rush through his head in a moment that seems to last for eternity until, eventually, he settles onto a singular assertion.

“The Grand General is preparing for something,” Ascalon says. “It is neither an ambush nor scheme of deception; he knows attempting to invade through any other route will only yield decimation to his troops, thus a precarious matter must have appeared requiring his full scrutiny.”

“Precisely!” Gadreel booms with a smile full of pride. “That foul knave is conducting a full restructuring of his legion. Unfortunately, I know not exactly why. Perhaps the Augurium Thaumaturgy is planning to assault his eastern border, or possibly a revolt is to soon occur amongst the nomadic tribes Nox Caelum has enslaved. Whatever it may be, this yields to us an opportunity...”

“...To serve as the invaders for a change.”

“Yes, Yes! You see it clearly, my King! Perhaps we may even slit the neck of that corvid once and for all! ”

The courtroom descends into a mixture of excited, and hesitant, whispers. Long have they suffered as the meek, so it is no surprise that they would grab onto a sliver of hope, but there are still a few who remain skeptical about the sudden opportunity.

“Is that not what Xeros would want us to believe?” Dariel protests to the chancellor. “He spared no attempt at hiding his withdrawal... perhaps even to a suspicious degree.”

“Your point is valid, Dariel my boy!” Gadreel replies. “But you do not need to worry about such circumstance, for the thought of us acting as the aggressor will never pass through that vile man’s head. He views us feeble, weak-hearted and cowardly with nary a speck of courage. To him, we are just a gathering of prey. Stubborn, yes. Sturdy, indeed. But prey nonetheless, and such helpless quarry biting back is but a laughable ruse to him. We are pathetic before his eyes.

“But that is precisely why we must no longer be still!” he roars to the other court members, their eyes lighting aflame with passion. “We know not when such an opportunity shall ever be availed to us. We must take the initiative and slay that foul cur once and for all!”

An eruption of applause follows his speech, cheers and frenzied hurrah’s filling the room with the spirit of solidarity from everyone in attendance. Everyone, except Ascalon.

Though he knows Gadreel’s ire is spit towards the Grand General’s name, he cannot help but flinch as if the chancellor’s words are directed at himself. Who is responsible for Polus’s image in Xeros’s mind? Who is the cause for these last few years of uncertainty and unease? The fault lies with him for being a tentative ruler; a nation is represented by the might of their leadership, but all Ascalon has shown is stagnation.

Perhaps this is finally the moment for change. For him to rid this guilt within his heart and take charge as a true monarch: as a true King. But even if he approves the decision, a bitter truth still remains.

“And I assume I shall be denied the right to lead from the forefront once more?”

Silence. The cheers disappear, and in its place, a suffocating emptiness. It is a simple question, but none dare have the courage to answer it.

After a second of hushed murmurings, Gadreel is pushed forth to deliver the inevitable.

“I…” he begins, hesitation writ across his face. “I know thou suffers more than any other upon hearing the cries of our people, but—”

Ascalon raises his hand. He doesn’t want to hear any more of what has been already said time and time again.

“No need, Gadreel. I understand.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. All it has done is darken the air, but his heart spews it forth nonetheless. Perhaps this is what he desired, deep down within: to see them burdened with guilt.

How vile of you, Ascalon. Look at what you have wrought; is this how a true ruler should present themself? Childish, how utterly childish - like a babe demanding to be dote upon.

A King must prioritize the safety of their citizens above all else. For those who wield not the strength to protect their own; for the vulnerable and sickly confined to their bedside; and for those who wish to live in peace - to foster in a sense of normalcy, no matter how poorly fabricated it may be.

That is how it has always been, and that is how it shall always be.

“I understand your proposal, and I see many in this court eager to act upon it, but I cannot approve it just yet. I… I need time to think, Gadreel.”

The chancellor bids him an understanding nod, face softening back into the gentle elder who has always been by his side. “But of course, my liege. ‘Tis not an easy judgment with the weight already upon thy shoulder. Be assured that everyone here shall always respect your final decision.”

He has always been like that: kind. But those words only serve to further ache Ascalon’s heart.

“Let us continue onto another topic,” Gadreel says.

“... Thank you. Now, how goes the—”

The chamber’s doors suddenly burst wide open to the confused mumblings of the court members. A wave of pure aura floods forth, color awash with the vermillion light of the sunset, while a cool breeze flows in and spirals throughout the air.

The attending guards quickly rush to the peoples’ protection, but soon drop onto their knees in reverence as a heavily armored knight marches with thundering steps into the room. Their armor is dyed in hues of pale white, and their helm is molded into the shape of the progenitor Throne: Valkyrie. Though the front is obscured by an ornate visor, a wisp of flame burns within the darkness of the narrow slits. Off to their side are two dual blades shining with similar tint: one embodying the sun with its bold edge and golden pommel - the other evoking the moon with its curved frame and silver hilt.

Unlike the King who radiates grandeur, the new knight begets a different feeling from the awe-struck mass: Safety. Shelter. The knight is a guardian - a symbol of hope.

“E-Entering the Dame of the boundless sky,” the royal herald stutters, scrambling to unfold their scroll. “Polus’s ever-stalwart protector; maiden of the firm hand; and wielder of the twin celestial blades: Solga and Lunas. Bid welcome to our lady of the Exalted Throne of Heaven: Lorelai Principality!”