The Kallistian Encyclopedia; Chapter 9: On the Kingdom of Azer Luceras; penned by William Hartford, Exploratus.
Azer Luceras, formally the Kingdom of Azer Luceras, is a landlocked country in the South-Western part of the continent of Kallisto. It is the third-most ancient of the nations formed after the Fragmentation. The Kingdom is an aristocracy governed by a House of Lords under the King, convened in the Capital city of Canstein, the most populous city and province. Azer Luceras is bordered by Doza Nausia to the Northeast, the Kingdom of Seyi to the Northwest, the Monarchical Republic of Buatar to the South, the City-States of Udine to the South-west, and the Estalf Barbary to the East - all parts of the former Solurusian Empire - and the Alfish Verdant to the East. The country occupies an area of 76,293 km^2 and has a population of 8.3 million.
Azer Luceras emerged from the remnants of the Solurusian Empire after the Fragmentation. Originally a ducal-province commonwealth, it developed into a monarchy after the Mirast rebellion of 27 A.F. with the restoration of the Canstein bloodline [SEE: Adelaide von Canstein: page 893]. The Kingdom was briefly dissolved when annexed by the Kingdom of Doza Nausia in the 94 A.F. war of Fulep [SEE: Fulep War; a border crisis caused by the murder of two ducal heirs...; page 934], but the Canstein sovereignty was diplomatically restored by the post:war formation of the Solurus Commonwealth.
Azer Luceras has been a member of the Solurus Commonwealth since 124 A.F. [SEE: Solurus Commonwealth; a collection of Kallistian nation-states that...; page 897] and of the West-Kallisto trade federation since 194 A.F. It used to use unmarked silver specie as its primary currency, but has since adopted the Kal [SEE: Brass, Bronze, Silver variants; page 764]. Azer Luceras has the second highest GDP per capita among the Kallistian sovereign states, and is ranked 13th globally on the GDP index.
Azer Luceras contains a wealth of historical and religious monuments. Most notable of these is the Herofall, grave of the Ninety-Ninth Hero Medea, the handmaiden of the Aerith. Pilgrim theologists speculate that the Herofall is the source of the Dukedom of Medea’s eternal blessing, although the truth is a closely guarded secret by the Medean Guard [SEE: Medean Guard].
Due to the country’s theocratic nature and widespread worship of the Hero of the Sword and the Handmaiden - Azer Luceras has strained relations with states such as-
“-Huh. Well, at least they have proper history books here.”
The silver-haired girl sighed, before snapping the tome shut. She rose, adjusting her witch’s hat and brushing dust off of her robes.
An endless glut of books surrounded her - tomes upon tomes upon tomes. Each were of differing subjects; history, culture, cuisine, politics, philosophy- everything the Azer Luceran royal libraries had to offer. There were so many that the sheer volume of paper took up most of the space in the tower she had requested for her personal use, which had turned out to be a sizable wing of the Canstein palace.
Did she care that she was intruding upon the privacy and sovereignty of the King?
Not really. She had been courteous to them in return, after all, offering them her services - and indeed, the circuitry she had carved for that academy they called Therellian’s was some of her bestish mediocre work. It would increase the ether circulation of the noble children that studied there for... sixteen months or so.
It had been five years since then. What? Why was it her fault that the Chanters in this kingdom were so useless? Can’t even figure out a basic algorithm, she grumbled to herself.
She shrugged, sighing. Well, it wasn’t purely because of them. With the Seal, it was much harder for people to attain divinity, which
The girl stretched out her limbs. She let out a satisfied yawn; she’d spent the past five years sleeping, reading, and experimenting. Even one such as her still possessed those… adorably human idiosyncrasies.
At least, in this body, she did.
She turned to the tower exit, a grin spreading across her face. “I suppose I should see what little Adelaide’s place has to offer me after all these years, then."
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Canstein was in chaos.
Well, I suppose that’s an understatement, Henry thought, suspiring, as his carriage drifted across the ancient cobblestones of Canstein. These past few years had been tumultuous - even for the usual years of chaos that followed a monarchical succession.
Henry had been one of the lucky minority to escape the Purge, and had even benefited from it. He was of the noble class of merchants that had either ascended through or to the nobility after the dissolution of much of the previous aristocracy.
Most would be glad simply because he hadn’t been exiled or executed. But to a business-minded man like Henry Deacon, that alone couldn’t be considered a success. He was a wealthy baronial scion that had, in his past thirty-so years, co-founded Canstein’s merchant union and restored his House to its former glory - that alone couldn’t satisfy him. As an immigrant to these lands, Henry had ambitions that oustripped most. He was no ballroom-peddler, content to rest on his laurels like the landed nobility with their blood- given magicks. No, the true source of his pride stemmed from the fact he had carefully navigated the political floodwaters during the Purge so that he avoided any implication of House Deacon.
And it had all paid off. He was a count, now, having taken the place of former Count Visitheon. And he had done it all without supporting any of the Princes in their respective bids for the throne!
That does remind me, he thought, tapping his finger on his chin. Prince Lucius is set to be exiled, isn’t he?
He’d thought the prince-King would simply keep him under house arrest in the Summer Palace as he was currently. But it seemed the new monarch refused to spare that much courtesy for even his own brother.
“That’s going to be chaotic,” Henry sighed. “I do wonder if there’s anything I could do to-”
“Do what?”
Henry jumped, hitting his head on the roof of his carriage.
He also yelped rather ungracefully.
“Who in the blazes are you?” he snarled, whipping out his wand from his coat pocket. The Acetanite crystal embedded in the very tip of it pulsated, glowing as it amplified the force of his own magic.
“That’s an interesting toy,” drawled the voice. It-she had the nerve to sound bored, to Henry’s gall.
“And where are you?” he spat. “Do you have any idea of who I am?”
“Ah, there we go again,” said the voice. Being a merchant, Henry was an intuitive man, and he could almost sense the woman rolling her eyes. “Always so self-important, you noble types. I’ve heard that exact phrase so many times that it all seems to blur.”
Henry glanced at the front of his carriage through the small glass, only to find to his shock that instead of the back of his coach- driver - a very skilled fourth-circle Chanter and Imbiber that Henry had hired upon his ascendance to counthood - there was nothing but an all-encompassing tenebrity.
“Where-” he choked. “What blasphemy is this?”
“I’ve merely phased you into a minor Layer,” drawled the voice. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would I? Not in my old associate’s pet-project of a city.”
Henry blinked, barely processing what he’d heard. “I’m sorry?” he said, voice meek.
She ignored him. “Ah! There we go,” she said, and then something popped into existence in front of him on the opposite seat. Henry jumped, scrambling backwards- before realizing that he was in a carriage, and that there was nowhere to run.
“Your sort are also shocked very easily,” she said. “It makes you all the more pitiful.”
Henry’s vision wavered. He stared in some confusion as he realized the voice in front of him was but a silver haired child - a teenage girl, at most. She wore a wide-brimmed witch’s hat embroidered with blue and silver lace, and a magician’s robes that looked suspiciously archaic. A wilted sunflower decorated her lapel.
That alone would have marked her as an eccentric and possibly dangerous figure. Henry’s attention, though, was mostly focused on the sheer power emanating off of her.
I’m dead if I offend her, Henry thought, shivering.
Ninth-Layer figures were rare. There was said to have been more of them before the Fragmentation, but even then to reach the pinnacle of magic was rare, and the records of such a happening were few and far between. Exceptions could be made; each of the Hundred Heroes was a figure that had ascended even beyond the Ninth Layer, and aside from them there were few individuals throughout prehistory that had supposedly ascended.
But now? After the War of the Heavens, mankind had grown much weaker. After the last of the Heroes disappeared, civilization was left with but a few scraps of power, upon which their current dignity was built.
Henry could scarcely remember having met two eighth layer figures, let alone a Ninth. There was none in this country, or even this part of the continent. Of this he was certain.
And as a second-Layer magician, he would be dead anyhow, regardless of which side of the distinction this individual fell.
Wait- he paused, eyes widening. “Are you that strange individual that made a mess of the capital five years ago?”
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Well, calling me strange is a bit rude, isn’t it?” she said. “Though I suppose it is accurate, to a degree. All of us are.”
Henry’s heart shuddered with relief, although his mind - being so sharp - twitched at the very last thing she’d said. He ignored it for now, though; scheming could come later.
“Then, why-” he frowned. “Why are you here? What is it you want from me, Great One?”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, and Henry immediately felt awash with new fear. However, her gaze quickly softened. “I just needed a ride. And to answer some questions. Fate tells me you’re at an interesting intersection, and I decided to capitalize on that.”
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Henry, rather wisely, decided not to think and just answered. “Very well, then,” he said, steadying his voice. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Why’s the old King dead?” she demanded. “What the hell happened while I was hibernating?”
He blinked. “King Luceras the former died of natural causes, I’m afraid,” he said, frowning. “The Purge and the war for succession that followed passed some four years ago.”
“Right after I decided to enter conservation mode. Great.” The girl snorted. “Fine. At least whoever’s the new King had the decency not to disturb me while I was sleeping in my tower.”
Henry shifted his feet, glancing uncomfortably to the side. “So. Then. Anything else that’s interesting?” she asked.
“Not... really?” he said. The Purge sounded pretty interesting to Henry, but he supposed ancient beings like the one before him wouldn’t really be interested in minor affairs like such. “Aside from King Elias’ ascension, there’s not much that occurred.”
“You sure?” she said, tilting her head. “Huh. That’s strange. I was set to awaken upon a Cardinal disturbance of Fate. It should have been a maximum of... three years since then.”
“Three years ago?” he said, blinking. “There was that small elven incursion in the Dukedom of Medea, but aside from that Azer Luceras was peaceful.”
“Medea...” she said. “Huh.”
Henry waited, fiddling with his Acetanite wand. The meager magic he held in his palm and chest seemed almost pitiful compared to the raging star that the woman had on display.
“Well, that settles it,” she said, suddenly standing. Henry almost fell off his seat at the sudden motion. “Off to Medea!”
She spread out her arms, etherfizzling around her arms - which for some reason, seemed almost tangible in this strange realm. A Lesser Layer, she had called it. The girl opened her mouth, face contorted in concentration.
Henry watched in bated breath - whatever required a Chanter of this caliber to use an actual ritual must be a grand spell the likes of which he would likely never observe again in his life. He might even gain insight from this for his own development.
The seconds trickled past. Then, the girl’s shoulders sagged, and she fell back into her chair.
“Right. I keep forgetting that regular teleportation doesn’t work anymore,” she said, sighing. “Great. There goes my goal of being cost-efficient.”
Henry’s eyes went round. “That was a teleportation spell?” he blurted, before remembering who the person before him was.
His curiosity - both as a mage, no matter how weak, and a businessman - wouldn’t let him stay silent for long, though, because this could be a discovery of epic proportions, should he manage to capitalize on it. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I was just curious. Your esteemed self called it a teleportation spell?”
The girl-being stared at him, eyes glimmering with amusement. “That I did,” she said, sighing. “And clearly, it didn’t work. Regular space techniques just don’t stick anymore - they never have. At least, never since the Fragmentation.”
Henry blinked.
“I thought it might work if I tried it in a Lesser Layer, but it seems that woman did her work a little too well,” she groaned, leaning backwards. “I’ll have to head over to her place the old-fashioned way, then.”
“Oh,” Henry said, slumping.
Upon seeing Henry’s disappointment, she raised an eyebrow. “You know, you wouldn’t have been able to replicate it had the spell even worked,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Spatial techniques require a certain affinity beyond just how many Layers your core has. There’s more to willpower than just power.”
“I understand,” he said. He was unhappy, but Henry wasn’t exactly surprised - he hadn’t expected very much of it. “I’m not a very good mage, miss. I’m only Second-Layer, and barely a First-Circle Chanter at that.”
The girl studied him. Henry shifted, Acetanite wand falling to his side.
In a dog-eat-dog world like this one, Henry had met many obstacles ascending to his current position. Especially with magic as weak as his, which meant - even as a Baron - he had to outsource all of his strength via his wealth, which was considerable.
It was unsustainable, and Henry knew it.
He was a Count, now. His late father would be proud of what he had accomplished. And yet, sometimes, Henry wondered if it was enough. His success was, at best, fleeting; despite his ambitious mind, Henry knew he still thought in mortal terms.
Old monsters like the one that stood before him could wipe out his life’s work in a heartbeat.
And yet, was that not the truth of the world? The strong ruled the weak. Henry loved magic - had always tried to attain more of it - but his inferior bloodline meant he had more difficulty finding the right Path, for there had been no forefathers to forge one for him.
Of course teleportation would be beyond him. Space-magic was the stuff of legends. Henry didn’t know what had gotten into him.
Perhaps I’ve fallen into hubris, he thought, sighing, with all my recent successes.
A tap resonated across the void. Henry raised his head, blinking, ‘till his eyes came to rest upon the girl. Something unfamiliar seemed to shine in her eyes.
“You call yourself weak?” the girl said, tilting her head. “That’s interesting. Very interesting.”
Henry swallowed. His Deacon pride made him want to retort, but the very presence of this woman was a reminder of his weakness. The impulse died before it even began to flare.
She broke out into a smile. “It’s nice to see that you’re a reasonable person. The last so-called Count I talked to tried to kill me. Was it... three hundred years ago?”
The magician sighed. “Well, whatever. That’s besides the point. But-” she paused. “You called yourself weak?”
Something welled up in Henry. Was it a pent-up emotion? Anger, at his own weakness? Frustration at the landed nobility, lording over enterprising men such as he simply because of their sanctified, blood-given powers and affinities?
“What does it matter to you?” he said, bitterly. “You’ve taken what you want from me.”
Then a pressure weighed upon him. His core sputtered under the sheer power of her will. It was unlike anything the Deacon count had ever felt before - more like a star in pressure than any physically possible mass.
“Answer me.” The girl glared at him, and Henry felt his soul freeze. “You call yourself weak?”
Henry swallowed. Fear threatened to overtake him - but he clenched his fists. He fought back.
“Yeah,” he choked. “I’m… I’m not strong. Is that what you want me to say?”
He now fully expected this strange mage to kill him. That was what the powerful did, after all - they took and they took and they took. The few scraps left behind were the sort of things men like he picked up to cobble together a small measure of success.
But if Henry were to be trampled underfoot, then at least he would go down swinging.
Then the pressure subsided. Henry crumpled, gasping for air. His Acetanite wand clattered to the carriage floor, forgotten.
Then the sound of clapping filled the air. “Interesting!”
Henry looked up once more to see the monster of a girl smiling. Her hat had fallen askew, revealing to the Count her porcelain face.
“You are an interesting man, Count Henry of House Deacon,” she said, chortling. “Very well, then. It seems fate has smiled upon you after all.”
She waved her hands, and something impressed itself upon Henry’s core. Both surprisingly and not, Henry’s core didn’t fight it: magic belonged to the wielder, and was supposed to fight back against foreign intrusion, though it likely didn’t matter with a power disparity this high.
“I’ve marked you as a person of interest,” said the girl-monster. “Stay alive. Build your power. Accumulate your wealth. You are weak, Henry Deacon. But I see potential in you.”
She rose. Despite her diminutive size, she seemed to tower over Henry. “If you do so, when I revisit Canstein, I will bestow upon you a reward. An artifact, perhaps, or a secret. Or maybe even a sliver of my magic. Something worthy of an inheritance.”
“What-” Henry blinked. “What are you talking about? Why are you doing this?”
“Is it not obvious?” she said, a grin on her face. “You are an interesting man, Henry Deacon - the first, I expect, of many interesting people I will meet throughout this cycle. I saw potential in you and decided to seed it.”
“With the magic I have bestowed upon you, and these words of enlightenment I speak to you,” she said, “Your willpower will finally be able to grow unabated. Your strength will surge - perhaps enough to even meet the heavens.”
Then the girl paused, turning to stare at him. Only this time instead of fear, Henry felt a small, albeit growing, emotion - that felt oddly like reverence.
“You asked why, however,” she said. “And I shall answer.”
The girl spread out her arms, as if harkening a tide of new. “I am the seed of new. The spark of progress. The ember of beginning. I have been called a Hero. A witch. But in this day and age, I am known as the Crossing-Thread. But I prefer the title of String-Weaver.”
Her impossibly pure ether surged, and Henry felt his body being whisked away. He felt it distinctly - before, his meager core hadn’t been able to even notice the change of phases. But now, it was as if his being was able to sense Existence itself better - as if the magic the Weaver had bestowed on him had heightened his senses. His willpower.
As his vision faded, Henry felt the girl- the Weaver’s breath on his neck. In his ears. He felt her presence everywhere - it was so, so overwhelmingly vast.
But it no longer felt unattainable.
“And that’s what is important, Henry Deacon,” the Weaver whispered, giggling. “It is the answer to the question all magicians ask themselves: What is Magic?”
“Now, you have begun to know. And now, you shall grow. I look forward to witnessing what you become.”
Henry blacked out.
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He awoke to the sound of footsteps on cobblestones; the grinding of gears and the sparkling fizz of runic magic, lifting his carriage; the small exhales of Henry’s coachman as he reined in the unruly automobile into the direction he wanted it to go.
Meanwhile, from her alcove in reality, the Weaver watched. An eons-old smile danced across her face as she watched the nobleman splutter, causing his coachman to turn to look at him in alarm.
The Phase - or minor Layer - that she had phased the Deacon man into was technically still part of physical reality and therefore superimposed beneath it. The only distinction between the two was that one had, before her intrusion, no matter inside it - only an endless void.
Oh. And time ran a trillion-trillion-times slower in it, too. And it was only one of a nearly infinite number of Layers she could choose to travel to.
Honestly, Phase Magic - the natural evolution of Space-Magic - was unironically the most useful branch of magic she’d ever discovered. If it isn’t for that Seal, she grumbled, then things would be even more convenient.
After all, the Seal meant that Divine beings such as herself, their souls no longer able to reach the root, could not exercise their full power. She was restricted to the nine cardinal layers, and that difference in power had been a constant ache in her side for these past thousand or so years.
She wasn’t foolish enough to want the Seal gone, though. Oh, no - regardless of what thoughts about that woman she had, the Weaver knew the cost of losing her power had been well worth it if it meant keeping the interlopers out of her world.
“Well, then,” she said, uncrossing her arms. Her gaze drifted east, where the sun had only just begun to rise. Her core flexed, and she felt her consciousness spread over the horizon and across the entire country.
Unlike the rest of the world, much of which seemed vastly different compared to prior her hibernation, Medea had scarcely changed. Fields of Yauzenflower greeted her, drifting in the gentle spring wind - the silver-blessing that comes with the yearly Permafrost.
Betwixt the stalks ran prairie dogs and squirrels and other small creatures. Honeybees pollinated the bulbous flowers at the ends of the crops. Farmers, clad in overalls and strawhats, walked the roads intersecting the first of their many harvests. Soon, the monthly crop would be bundled into bushels, transported to the granaries and stripped. The flowers would come off first - their nectar extracted, and sold to various magical unions, thinktanks, universities, and research-groups who used the material as catalysts and reagents in their various experiments. Their leaves would be ground into tea. Their stalk into grain, which would be shipped all across the continent of Kallisto and beyond. The farmers and their wives would feast on their labor, and the fruits of Medea’s blessing.
The Weaver cracked her knuckles. At least for this trip nothing untoward would happen. Her last wish would make sure of that.
And then magic boomed in her head, echoing throughout all the Layers. Every spiritually attuned being heard it, regardless of their location. The Weaver crumpled to the ground, void shattering into fractals as she screamed. Her features contorted and limbs went rigid as the magic of the most powerful being left in Existence washed over her.
More powerful than even her.
Beware of the Marked.