“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 bloodied plane. Now, immortalized in the annals of history as The Night of Crimson Tears, the battle is but a sorrowful fable to the people 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 in a shared cause. But, in the end, no one would return on that fateful day. The fragile bond connecting the people together shattered alongside the hearts of the mournful, and now, the earth has transformed into an age of strife - nations waging war on each other in a desperate attempt to hold dominion over what little authority still remains on the earth.

Deep within the chambers of one such nation - inside a grand throne room of white marble and gleaming limestone - a procession of knights, armor clad in hues of polished silver, march to the side and line themselves alongside the edges of a violet tapestry leading to an ivory throne. A rainbow-stained panel of glass looks out to the bustling wards of the kingdom below at the very back, illuminating the air with crystalline twinkle whilst royalty and adjutants of the nation’s administration mingle all about the chamber, whispering fearful concerns of the present and the future soon to come.

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

“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 members of the room 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 echoing a resounding stomp. Golden tint 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 side engraved in decorate patterns of spirals and swirls. 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.

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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 frolics and 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 Ascalon stoically makes his way towards the throne, visage the very symbol of might and resolve. His guiding presence 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 throne, 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 within 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 dew - tone a delicate blend of encompassing kindness and stalwart determination - while his every word mesmerizes the people with its airy, song-like pitch. “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 who awakens every day to bring prosperity to this nation. To honor their lives, for which we would be nothing without.”

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

“And may we all be hallowed by the boundless grace of the Stars above,” Ascalon concludes, rescinding the light and returning the court back into its normalcy.

He lets out a hushed breath before taking his rightful place on the throne. “Now, let us begin the session.”