On the 201st day in the 3523rd year of the imperial calendar, a boy turned 14 years old. On this terrible day, fools break the eternal ruler's decree for peace in the province of Talheim. In response to this foolish action, the 47th incarnation of the Thorneborn, Aeron Du Dragonclaw, declares Gothreg and his allies’ rebels of Imperdom.

Gothreg thought he was strong. He thought he was clever. He thought he would rule all. Why not? He united both the ancient dragonrider and dragonslayer clans. His forces were crushing the pathetic Clades army. And he sent merely five men; would the emperor care so much? Five men! Oh, he was wrong!

That coward Megon cried to his beloved emperor. In response, the boy rallied all the imperium. All 47 houses. He rode as a spearhead against him. In a day. One day, he scatters all Gothreg's armies.

And now the boy stood before him with his five golden eye servants.

“Gothreg, you fool. I would have let you continue your rampage. I might have let you claim the crown of Monkland. But you did the one thing I forbid. You attacked my home.”

Gothreg raised his great battle axe to slice the boy in half, but the young emperor vanished, and the arm that held his great battle axe went flying. Two hundred days ago, this boy was just a pathetic child. How did he become so strong so quickly?

Gothreg knew how. He heard the stories. The legends. This boy really did hold the soul of the being that conquered the world and kept the peace for more than three and a half millennia.

“Don’t you know who I am? You fool, you dare challenge me.” Said Aeron

“Ha Ha… I know who you are. You are the ruler of this world! And I do dare challenge you. Boy!”

Gothreg knew he was going to die. He slew dragons with his bare hand, but that boy was something else.

“Fight me. The Formless’s chosen one.”

Gothreg ran at the boy, but his right leg cracked with just a look from the boy’s piercing golden eyes.

“Very well, Warlord Gothreg.” Said Aeron. The last thing he saw was his body falling without his head before everything went black.

***

Ragnar spat in disgust as he sifted through the smoking ruins of their once-proud encampment. That damnable false emperor Aeron had obliterated their forces in mere hours, slaughtering warriors Ragnar had known since childhood. Their mighty army lay in tatters; all grand plans turned to ash by the wrath of that golden-eyed demon.

"Chief Ragnar! We found some survivors beneath the collapsed tents," called out Ola, his burly second-in-command.

Ragnar hurried over as bedraggled warriors were helped from the rubble. His gut twisted, seeing how few had endured Aeron's onslaught.

"Curse that unnatural beast Aeron!" snarled Bryn, one of Ragnar's fiercest shieldmaidens, her face etched with fury and grief. "I will soak the earth with his blood!"

Several others echoed her vengeful sentiments. But Ragnar raised a hand for silence.

"Speak no more this way," he admonished sternly. "That was no mere boy we faced, but power ancient and terrible beyond our reckoning."

He met their eyes grimly. "Even with our full numbers, we could not stand against such sorcery. Pray we never draw his ire again."

"So, we cower before this emperor after he slaughtered our kin?" Bryn challenged hotly.

Ragnar gripped her shoulder. "I mourn our dead as deeply as you. But more violence will only bring down greater ruin." His voice turned gravelly with emotion. "I must safeguard what few of our people remain."

Bryn looked ready to argue further, but Ola interceded gently. "The chief is right. Revenge would make martyrs, not victory."

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With the survivors placated for the moment, Ragnar turned away to hide conflicted tears. Oaths and blood feuds called for vengeance, yet wisdom warned that the path led only to annihilation. For now, helping his beleaguered people took precedence over blind vengeance.

But privately, Ragnar swore to never forgive or forget Aeron's cruelty this day. That accursed emperor had turned him into a broken chief overseeing ruins, not a proud warrior safeguarding his kinsmen's honor. Such humiliation could not stand unanswered forever, no matter how daunting the foe. The Sun-Mark's spears may rest in darkness for a time, but they will rise again one day to reclaim their dignity beneath the open sky. This was but the first blood-drenched chapter in their bitter tale of retaliation. Their hour would come.

***

Prince Malrick glared out at the bleak, lifeless expanse of the Blasted Heath, the no man's land separating his forces from his rival Oswald's. Out there, his father and Oswald's had killed each other in single combat, leaving their kingdom locked in this futile war of succession.

A war Malrick never wanted, but as crown prince, had no choice but to prosecute. Oswald was once like a brother to him, but lifelong bonds meant nothing now with the throne at stake.

"My prince, the scouts report Oswald's forces prepare to advance," his general Gregor rumbled. "We must countercharge soon or lose the momentum."

Malrick waved a hand wearily. "Let them come. This butchery solves nothing."

Gregor bristled. "You cannot mean to surrender our position! Think of your father's legacy."

Malrick rounded on him fiercely. "It's father's damned legacy that traps us in this wasteful conflict! No more."

Before Gregor could argue further, Malrick stalked off, rubbing his throbbing temple. He was done with the pointless violence. If walking unarmed to Oswald himself was the only way to parley, so be it. Their people deserved peace, not two more generations pointlessly interred beneath this poisoned earth.

Reaching his tent, Malrick began penning a letter to Oswald. "Cousin, my heart weeps constantly for my father and yours. Let us meet upon the heath at sunrise alone and unarmed to discuss reconciliation..."

Malrick knew both their generals would protest this reckless gambit, but he was past caring. If words could not sway Oswald to end the bloodshed, then Malrick would gladly give his life instead of taking countless more in fruitless battle. These lands had seen enough futile death over claims to a chair made from melted enemy swords. It ended now.

Sealing the parley offer, Malrick felt only weary relief. Oswald may yet strike him down unthinking, but Malrick welcomed that end if it brought even a chance of peace. Their fathers' irrational hatred would drive no more sons to slaughter. With fortune's favor, two broken families might yet mend a land torn asunder. Malrick prayed Oswald saw hope still worth fighting for beyond the poisoned legacy left to them. If so, perhaps their people would one day watch children, not armies, run joyfully across the flowering fields of the mended heath.

***

Cyron paced his bedchamber, mind churning anxiously. Since he openly defied Aeron in council, he had awaited the emperor's vengeance. Aeron was not one to tolerate dissent, even from the high lords.

A knock startled Cyron from his brooding. One of his household guards entered, looking grave. "My lord, you must come quickly! Your family..."

Ice flooded Cyron's veins. He rushed down to the grand hall and froze in horror. His wife, children, and siblings all lay strewn about, writhing in agony, limbs visibly broken and mangled. Standing coldly above them was the emperor's assassin, Gideon.

"No!" Cyron cried, rushing to his youngest son's side. The boy sobbed, clutching his shattered hands to his chest. Cyron turned on Gideon, eyes blazing. "Monster! Aeron will pay for this barbarity!"

Gideon glanced around impassively. "The emperor merely wanted to send a message regarding the cost of defiance. Be grateful he ordered your family spared from death."

With that, the grim assassin strode out casually past Cyron's bellowed curses. Collapsed in despair amidst his whimpering, broken kin, Cyron trembled with fury and fear. That sadistic beast Aeron would show no mercy now.

Cyron wept bitterly, and all hope turned to ash.

***

Aeron sat brooding upon his obsidian throne, simmering with bitterness. He felt the courtiers’ whispered fears swirling around him, yet none dared speak openly of the harsh justice he had inflicted on the treacherous Cyron. They were finally learning to hold their tongues.

The doors groaned open, and Gideon entered, kneeling with his usual icy composure. “It is done, Your Eminence. Cyron will not soon forget your message.”

“Good,” Aeron said coldly. “Let this be a lesson to all who dare obstruct their emperor’s will.”

He studied Gideon’s impassive face curiously. “Does this trouble you, Gideon? I merely ordered you to demonstrate my authority over the defiant.”

Gideon paused before answering carefully. “I serve your wishes without question. But we must be cautious such actions do not breed more dissent over time.”

Aeron’s eyes narrowed. “You lecture me on ruling now?”

Sensing danger, Gideon bowed lower in supplication. “No, Your Eminence, I only wish for stability and prosperity across your lands.”

Some flicker of conscience stirred in Aeron. Once, he would have welcomed honest counsel, not silence born from fear. When had he become so quick to wrath over petty slights?

Shaking off this momentary doubt, Aeron hardened his heart. His tortured mother and memories of Talheim still burning drove him on mercilessly. This was no time for weakness.

“Your concerns are noted, Gideon,” Aeron said dismissively. “But never forget your place is to obey, not question.”

“As you command, my Emperor,” Gideon intoned, face expressionless once more.

Watching him leave, Aeron felt only cold satisfaction at having reaffirmed his dominance. What did he care if they obeyed from respect or dread so long as no dissent stood? All would kneel before imperial might, of that he was determined.

Yet a small voice inside whispered warnings that this path led only to isolation and ruin. Aeron silenced it angrily. The time for mercy was past. His towering wrath alone must rule if order was to be restored across these fractious lands. So what if his heart hardened fully in the process? A strong emperor could have no room for doubt or frailties. The Imperium's fealty must be hammered into obedience by any means necessary.