It always began at the end.

Upon a dias of candles and marblestein sat an image, flickering in the smoke of a little mound of sticks. The image of one, their black attire contrasting with their pale, almost ethereal flesh, a veil of madness and hatred shrouding their features. A moment later, the image of another, their clothing a patchwork of mottled art, a massive scythe barely concealed by a thin layer of shadows. Their blonde hair, a stark contrast to their dark surroundings, barely hidden, and a desire for vengeance, a barely contained fire in their eyes. The flames danced, and the image hardened beneath a renewed heat. 

The airy scent of light smoke filled the room, and the crackle of flames pierced the silence—a silence that lasted a moment before an aged breath broke through the serenity of the blackened room. It was dark, save for those candles, and incense had long since burned away to unveil the stench of the altar—the stench of fresh blood protruding from the scene beneath.

A long hall and a crooked door. The final steps to his old leader’s room. But as the door began to open, the white-haired man could look no longer. A gentle wave and the image faded. And the room emptied, leaving the old man in the darkened place alone. A shaivle sat across his lap, its long, thin, curved blade naked to dying flames and resting dormant across his flowing lijaki. Scripts and runes cast into the hilt lost to the darkness. But he did not move it and only took several calming breaths, his heart heavy with the weight of his actions. 

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A lifetime, and he could not watch. He had sentenced an old ally to death. 

While it was true that the victim of the two was no longer a man he knew, it was still the man he once served. He knew that if Khavel and Gratsinmorn were to break free of their chains, it would be with the ashes of the Khanil and the rubble of his corrupted empire. Still, he would never find it in his heart to be satisfied, as he knew what came next. 

The cheers. He could hear them. So far away, the rule of Miku Juharu and the people beneath his treachery. And so close, as their cries of victory filled the land. A cry echoed by all old enough to shout. Cailinto. Victory. Freedom. 

He closed his eyes. The rumble of success was coming to his hunika now. His folten took up the cry and cheered his name, their screams filling the air along the shrieks of steel from bared weapons. He was a champion now. A leader. But what leader sentenced his opponents to death? 

What leader, indeed. 

But his actions were his to keep. His wishes, made in haste, were granted. And he would not retract them. The guilt grounded him, but his pride and faith in his actions drew him to stand. He took the hilt of his weapon and buried its edge into the soft wood of his home, one knee bared to the alter before he stood. A flourish and his steel was cold, locked in its sheath to rest until the dawn. It had not tasted blood, but it knew its master did. And its warm pulses eased his shaking hands until the newly crowned Khanil could walk toward the cheers and cries. 

And he closed his eyes to remember before sliding open the door and stepping into the undeserved praise of the night.