“To those I could not save. To those I killed.”

—words etched inside the cover of the original manuscript of the Imperial Prosperity Laws.

-

Remembrance 1, 2497 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Greyport.

Amongst the many traditions that came and went throughout the Radiant Empire’s vast history, there was none more enduring or more dearly beloved by the people than the Founder’s Festival—though it was named otherwise when it began some 2300-odd years ago.

No other celebration received the same ubiquitous observance or possessed such identical practices across the whole expanse of the empire: from the austral snowy foothills of the Shmavahal Mountains to the shores of the River Lueh (that marked the northern border with the Elves’ Sacred Forest), from the Gryphon Riders of the Spine Range to the sailors of the Leonine Ocean, and beyond, to the oft-overlooked Split Isles—whose inhabitants many mainlanders saw as barely imperial or civilised at all.

The Festival was so deeply rooted in imperial blood that the so-called Mad Emperor, Sekhma Nezir (948-1007 AK), after reforming the state religion to crown himself King of the Heavens, still dared not alter its customs. It survived the Fall of the First Dynasty, the Dungeons War, the Golden Reformation, the Era of the Lost Emperors, and the Great Dearth, and every period that threatened to shatter the Radiant Empire.

But what was it that commanded such dedication? What permitted the Founder’s Festival to persist from the days of Azahur the Unifier (third to sit on the Holy Radiant Throne) to the reign of Rasmar the Tyrant (crowned 2486 AK)? Like many such things, big and small, which endure the test of time, the answer lies in a conjunction of happenstances and conscious, targeted efforts.

It is no coincidence that the fortnight-long revelry was taken not out of the month of Shadows—the month of Darkness—when the nights are long and Whesi’s Light is at its dimmest, nor the month of Rest—the month of Death—when the days lengthen but the biting cold lingers and deepens, claiming more lives than anytime else, but instead took place at the start of the month of Remembrance—the month of Time—when the worst of the weathers faded past, allowing for merrymaking and honouring those who passed with hope for better days. The Festival was both a wake and a wake-up call, set when the people’s spirits were primed to reminisce about bygone days yet eager to look forward, spiritually contemplative yet hungering for uplifting thoughts.

And what more uplifting tale was there, than that of Kayden the Bright? He was a man who became a god, not through decrees of laws and oppression, but by climbing to heights of power unseen since the Cataclysm erased the ancient Jaldehim people—the “Children (of the Gods)” in the divine tongue—and using his arcane might as a bulwark to defend a divided Humanity against the Evil that sought to consume it.

From defeating the Dragon Demon King, Kayden went on to unify and restore the fractured human nations lying south of the Sacred Forest, which had borne the worst of the fighting. However, peace was no easy feat. All those countries had prior enmity with the Radiant Kingdom and with one another, grievances and blood feuds accrued over aeons of warfare since the Cataclysm. Not to mention Humanity’s poor relationship with the other free races of the continent: the Elves, the Dwarves, the Celestials, the Phoenixes, and smaller groups, who lacked even proper denominations in the human tongues and were broadly referred to as “the Wild Folk.”

Many times, the Alliance faltered, on the verge of breaking apart without a common enemy to unite them. But Kayden and his companions swiftly quelled any resurgence of hostilities and successfully forged new bonds of fellowship between the estranged races of Katenda.

In a much-criticised move, Kayden granted pardon to the remnants of the Demon Army: the Vampires, the Werebeasts, the Orcs, the corrupted Elves who later took for themselves the name Anshins (after the first of their kind) but are still colloquially known as “Dark Elves,” and the renegade Dwarves of the Rootbound Clan, who joined the Demon King’s ranks for promises of power and became known as the Doomforged. The Goblins were in there as well, though nobody quite knew which side they were on.

Kayden brokered a non-aggression pact with the surviving Demon Generals and allowed them the territories east of the Spine Range, where they retreated to establish the Black Sun Union. Many Orcs joined them, while some chose to return to the High Steppes their race called home, even though the welcome for the defeated warriors could not have been pleasant. Freed from their enslavement, the Anshins scattered, but several followed their former captors to the Union. Like the Orcs, they knew no other place would ever truly welcome them.

At first, many of the Radiant Alliance saw Kayden’s mercy as foolishness—a betrayal even. The blood spilt was too fresh, and the dead not yet all buried. Wounded hearts screamed for vengeance and retributions upon those they had taken to call “Demons.” But Kayden stood firm. Regardless of opposition, the Treaty of Ashes was signed.

The peace that followed lasted uninterrupted for three centuries—until the rule of Emperor Menkheprah, dubbed the Warmonger (289-358 AK). It granted the newborn Radiant Empire the time and stability it needed to rise from the ashes of the Fractured Era and usher in a glorious new Age of Rebirth.

With victories in their hands, old enemies out of sight, and reconstruction well underway, Kayden’s detractors and other naysayers gradually fell silent. Before long, all claimed proudly they had always believed in the emperor’s vision, hailing his wisdom and kindness as great virtues indeed.

In the second year of his reign, Kayden Nezir, now hailed the Bright, penned and ratified the Imperial Prosperity Laws. The preface read: “Too often have I seen those who call themselves Greats build ivory towers on the backs of those they deemed Lesser. Too often have I seen those who call themselves Benevolent share less than table scraps with the very people who prepared their meals. Too often have I seen those who call themselves Talented hog the opportunities away from the more deserving. Too often have I seen unworthy kings, governors, soldiers, and fathers bleed dry the ones they had the duty to defend. Nevermore.”

Later generations would worship the multi-tome manuscript as the sacrosanct, immutable pillar underpinning all of imperial society. However, many contemporaries of the First Emperor—chiefly among the nobility—decried it as the madness of a warlord unfit to rule in times of peace. The text imposed massive reforms to all of the empire’s integrated territories, outlining the rights and duties of both citizens and the state, with unprecedented severity towards the latter. Kayden’s vision reached every aspect of society, from public health to taxation, justice to culture, international relationships, land ownership, military affairs, trade, education, agriculture, transportation, resource management, labour, science, magic… No field was overlooked, and the majority of the changes aimed to dismantle the entrenched hierarchy that favoured the privileged few at the expense of the common folk.

Land deeds were redistributed so that even the smallest farmer had a stake in the estate they toiled. Education became a right, not a privilege, opening doors of opportunity previously barred to the masses. Secrets of magic, until then passed down from rare ennobled masters to a select few disciples to be used at the discretion of kings, became accessible to all who possessed the gift. Spells became publically researched instead of jealously hoarded by those who would take their knowledge to their grave. Trade flourished as the empire abolished borders between once-isolated kingdoms.

As the world’s strongest mage, leader of the greatest army in existence, and Chosen of the Gods, Kayden the Bright had both power and clout to act as an unopposed tyrant. Yet he chose to dedicate his life to the people, working tirelessly and leaving no stone unturned in his quest for a fairer, more prosperous future for Humanity.

The people of the empire never forgot it, and every year, they sang praises and raised their tankards in cheer at the memory of their Saviour.

* * *

“What a load of horseshit.”

Kaydence stood, arms crossed and scowling, at the back of a small crowd of children under a puppeteer’s tent: one of the many entertainment acts present at the Festival. She had refused to sit next to Sarmin on the large rug before the stage—to the boy’s relief, she assumed. The parents beside her certainly did not seem thrilled by her presence—or Lenril’s. Several shushed Kaydence for her crude comment, but she ignored their glares, too busy directing her own at the wooden dolls awkwardly wobbling on stage.

She did not know whether to be most offended by the performer’s lack of skill or the content of this supposedly historical play.

“After the war,” the puppeteer narrated, “Kayden returned to the Radiant Kingdom. King Rakham himself welcomed him like a brother and showered him with gifts and honours, shouting, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah for the victorious Hero!’” On stage, a smiling puppet sitting on a yellow throne and wearing a crown flapped its arms to hype the children. “Call him with me, children! Kayden! Kayden! Kayden!”

A few adults clapped politely in rhythm, but the younger audience members picked up the chant in earnest, Sarmin among them. And when a puppet in glittering white armour ambled stiffly on stage to resounding applauses, the Half-Elf’s cheers were the loudest. Kaydence’s gaze dipped to him dully before turning back forward.

“However, the Hero Kayden turned down the king’s praises, saying, ‘I only did my duty, to the Gods, to the kingdom, and to the people.” The glittering puppet faced the audience, raising his white wooden sword. “And my duty to you, little children!”

The kids were lapping it up.

“Stricken with awe, the king fell to his knees in front of Kayden.” The crowned puppet slipped off the throne. “Truly, you are the greatest amongst humankind! And all kinds. If you declared yourself second, who dares claim to be first? Take my crown. You alone are worthy to sit on this throne.” The puppet turned to the audience. “Isn’t he worthy, children?!”

The children cheered.

Kaydence’s nails dug into the skin of her arm. Her lips pinched into a thin, pale line.

“iSn’t He wOrtHY, chiLDreN?” The puppeteer’s silly voice echoed in her ears, sounding distorted, slowing and deepening into something old, cruel, and dripping with arrogance. The cloth walls of the tent suddenly seemed to close in. Before her eyes, the king’s wooden head swivelled to stare straight at her with its beady, soulless black eyes. Its benign smile stretched into a jagged, monstrous grin. “YOu aRE woRthLEss! Worthless, Seifer, you hear me!? What use is a rabid dog biting its master’s hand? At least your brother knows his place. He is worthy.”

Sweat pearled on Kaydence’s forehead. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, deafening, drowning out the festive noises from outside the tent and the audience’s cheerful shouts.

“Step back, Brother. Lower your sword. Or I will make you.”

A hand landed on Kaydence’s shoulder. She jumped and moved to strike back at her assailant—only to recognise the pale green eyes looking down at her in question and concern.

Reality rushed back at her, the noises of the Festival outside and the ongoing play audible once again. The two puppets were having comedic back-and-forths about who should wear the crown: the king kept trying to abdicate and the hero stubbornly refused each time. This is absurd, she thought bitterly. King Rakham would have slaughtered his entire kingdom before willingly stepping down, and Kayden was nothing if not ambitious.

Her aborted strike awkwardly transitioned into a slap to remove Lenril’s hand from her shoulder. “This stupid show is making me sick,” she said, not caring whether the deaf Elf could read her lips in the dim lighting. “I’m going to get some fresh air.” Without waiting for a reply, she stormed off and ducked through the tent’s flap. The crisp night air outside was an instant relief, appeasing her burning fever. She breathed out, and steam condensed before her lips, like the breath of an impotent dragon.

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The puppeteer’s mobile theatre occupied a corner of a courtyard adjacent to Main Street, which it shared with several other performers and food stalls. Festoons of reed lanterns hung between a tall central pillar and the surrounding buildings, lighting up the yard with a twilight glow. Up above, stars dotted the black sky. The air was filled with the scent of grilled meats, fish, and spices, and people meandered around, chatting and laughing, while kids scampered between the many acts concurrently on display.

For once, no one was paying Kaydence any mind, and she was thankful for it. Feeling suddenly parched, she approached a vendor for an overpriced serving of fresh water. The man cast her an unfriendly glare but took her coin all the same, though he kept a suspicious gaze on her the whole time she drank—as if worried she might run away with his wooden mug.

Kaydence considered her options. The play was likely to last a while longer, and she was loathe to witness another moment of it. None of the other performances interested her: not the man juggling knives and torches, not the jester on stilts navigating the treacherous cobblestones, not the contortionist making a knot of herself, nor anyone else. She recognised the feats were technically impressive for regular Humans, but to her, they all looked alarmingly clumsy. Watching them just made her uncomfortable, like looking at a bunch of toddlers playing with sharp objects—almost literally, in one case.

Having returned the precious empty tankard, Kaydence wandered to the wide carriage doors leading out to Main Street, intent on checking nearby stalls. Sarmin had dragged them to various places around the Festival so far, but she had yet to find the gift her mother had requested. It needed to be something of decent worth, but also mundane enough that no robber would covet it—and so Kaydence could plausibly deny putting any thought into it.

The moment Kaydence stepped through the doorway, she was swallowed by a Human torrent—a slow, plodding torrent, but a forceful current all the same. The crowd in the courtyard had been bearable, with it being somewhat out of the way, but it seemed all of Northern Greyport had gathered in its main avenue, along with visitors from around the province. She was instantly deeply uncomfortable. The claustrophobic press of bodies, the cacophony of voices, the cavalcade of feet, the music, the laughter, the shouts, the clashing smells of perfumes, incenses, tanned leather, herbs and dubious remedies, the foods being cooked, grilled and boiled, the dizzying lights of the lanterns and colourful canvas of the stalls, and, above all, the random burst of magic from the failed mages turned performers and weak artefacts on sale, all of it overwhelmed her senses and flayed her nerves raw. A mage could have stood close enough to stab her with his wand, and she might have been none the wiser.

Someone did run into her. Kaydence suffered a flash of deja vu, but it was only a random child, a boy carelessly waving around a tiny white wooden sword: a cheap replica of Mercy, the First Emperor’s Holy Blade. The boy looked up, probably startled at encountering what must have felt like a stone wall in his path, and met Kaydence’s crimson gaze. He blanched… but then immediately brandished his toy sword. “D-Demon! B-By the gods, I-I’ll slay you!”

Kaydence’s eyebrow climbed up. She was almost amused—almost. But what won out was a wave of tiredness. She suddenly felt ancient and out of place, alone despite people bumping into her left and right. She briefly considered leaving right then and there, disappearing in the crowd and never coming back. A moment later, an older woman appeared to snatch the miniature aspiring holy knight away, chastising him about running off and throwing worried glances at Kaydence while quickly retreating.

Soon, the shifting crowd swallowed them both.

Kaydence stood still for a bit, staring at where the anxious mother and her child had vanished.

Eventually, she shook her head and roughly shouldered her way to the side of the road, ignoring the complaints in her path. Idly, she wondered about buying one of those Mercy replicas for Annet. The strange woman might appreciate such a bizarre gift and perhaps even hang the toy sword in their home like a trophy. Kaydence could then enjoy the sick, twisted joke of having on display a model of the weapon that killed her.

The crowd spat her out in front of a neglected stall which sold ornaments carved from colourful seashells. The engravings were exquisite, yet no one appeared to be buying, and Kaydence quickly understood why after seeing the labelled prices.

The vendor was a Dwarf, which explained the quality of the goods. The stoutfolk—nicknamed so due to their squat, dense and muscular statures, averaging four-foot-six in adulthood—were better known for their grand masonry works and mastery of the forge. But they showed superlative talent in any craft they chose to specialise in. Legends claimed Kol, the God of Fire, Innovation and Craftsmanship, created the first Dwarves out of stones that he animated with his own fiery breath. The race was further divided into clans, which functioned as subraces in all but name for how greatly their appearances and cultures differed from one another.

The shell carver was of the Brinerock Clan, who dug their holds inside vast salt caves along the coasts of Katenda. They were easily recognisable by their pale squamous skin, barnacled faces, and scruffy white beards decorated with seaweeds and the same marine ornaments the Dwarf was trying to sell. Kaydence thought she might have seen this one at the Bear before—a quiet fellow, as were most of his kind, typically harmless if left alone. But she could hardly blame Human commoners for not wanting to buy what might seem like ridiculously priced pretty seashells from someone who looked like the drowned corpse of a stocky, grumpy old man. (The Dwarf could have been female, though. It was always hard to tell because the genders were almost identical in both morphology and pilosity.)

The Dwarf huffed what might have been a greeting. Kaydence nodded back but moved on. Even she was reluctant to spend an entire gold coin on a single necklace, even though it met her conditions for a great but inconspicuous gift. For context, a single gold could feed a small family for several months if they ate frugally.

The next few stalls were similar disappointments, offering either local products that failed to catch her eye or exotic goods beyond her budget: intricate Mettanean carpets, wines from the imperial capital, Elven teas, scented beeswax candles, various simple but practical artefacts providing light or heat, a set of paint brushes made of luxurious dark wood, and even a triptych depicting the birth, rise, and fall of the Jaldehim race, bearing the etched mark of the Custodians. Kaydence disliked how prominently it featured the Twelve Gods, but Annet would have loved the evident passion put into each of the three art pieces.

She was about to give up when she happened upon a stall she had thus far missed: a narrow, cluttered thing wedged between a jeweller and a rack of salted fish.

The vendor was from out of town—out of the archipelago entirely, it seemed like. He had a strange accent and looked Kaydence straight in the eyes—as best he could, anyway—without as much as a flinch. His only reaction was a broad business smile that revealed more than three missing teeth. A thin elven pipe hung limply from one of the holes. His left eye was swollen, half-shut, and crooked. His ears stuck out, one missing a piece that looked bitten off. Wild white hair erupted from his head, and long, bushy sideburns gave his wrinkled, narrow face a mischievous simian look.

“Ooh! Welcome. Welcome, young missy.” He waved Kaydence over as soon as he spotted her. “Old Dee’s wares have many rare things, special things, for special people. Old Dee will help you find what you seek. Yes. Yes. He will.” He nodded jerkily, rubbing his fingers together, several of which were missing. With his bad eye, he gave her a twitchy wink. It looked painful.

Confidence was not what the man inspired. Nevertheless, Kaydence approached to eye his wares, and indeed, the tiny stall overflowed with a mishmash of bizarre, mismatched items. Random books were strewn out haphazardly alongside strange ornaments crafted from scales and feathers, a small wooden statue of a cockatrice with stone for eyes, a collection of fangs and claws of many shapes and sizes, a bronze cup, a pair of woollen socks, a pair of wicker sandal, and a single engraved clog. A broken dagger made of green metal lay awkwardly on a heap of dried herbs and tea satchels, next to an amateurish painting of a rat in armour, a miniature model of gallows, a misshapen clay pitcher decorated with worshippers, a tin crown fitted with glass marbles, and an open case containing pinned dead bugs. One side had bottles filled with colourful fluids and bearing improbable labels such as “Instant Breath Freshener,” “Unicorn Tears,” or “Liquid Misfortune.” One vial filled with glittering powder claimed to contain “A Fairy’s Goodwill.” A small rectangular piece of parchment paper sat alone on a corner of the table, held in place by a rock. The visible part read “COUPON FOR A RANDOM ARTEFACT” from someone named Tim, with tiny text warning that every artefact was a prototype and that “Tim” was not liable for any unintended side effects.

All of it looked undeniably fishy.

However, one item stood out to Kaydence. Composed of a delicate web of strings, woven onto a circular willow frame and adorned with beads and purple feathers, it looked like the kind of oddity Annet might like. “What’s this?” she asked. She had never seen anything quite like it.

The vendor let out an excited hoot, picking up the woven ring delicately between his seven fingers. “The young miss has a discerning eye! The Dahathri tribes of the Far South call it a Web of Nightmares. It catches bad dreams and stops them from manifesting in the waking world. It also shields your home from curses and bad karma. This one is of special quality. As you see, it is decorated with real Darkness Phoenix feathers that greatly improve its abilities!”

“Right…” Kaydence was quickly losing interest. For one, she sensed no magic from the supposed artefact. Secondly, as purely magical creatures, Phoenixes were more immaterial than physical. Anything that fell off their body simply dissolved back into pure mana.

“Ah-Ah. Not your thing, we see. Don’t go yet! Old Dee has stuff for everyone. Yes, he does. Yes, he does…” The weird merchant ducked behind his stall and rummaged under the table.

Kaydence was close to walking away, but then her eyes caught onto an unremarkable necklace. It was truly a simple thing: an unadorned leather strap, threaded through a steel hook that attached to a single, faintly ridged, oblong black scale, two inches in length. The strap was tangled with a pile of similar ornaments. It can’t be. Carefully, almost gently, Kaydence extracted the necklace from its brethren and held it to her face. “It is. How…?”

“Oh?” Old Dee peeked up from beneath his stall. “Oh! Yes, yes, yes. These necklaces are all fashioned out of genuine Dragon scales! Quite legendary items, for sure. Very precious and rare. Yes. Antiques, even! No one has seen a Dragon since the War of Burning Heavens, not since the Demon King killed them all, at any rate. It was a grand adventure for this Old Dee to get his hands on these. Fingers were lost. They did,” he said, spreading his mangled hands.

Kaydence did not bother looking at him or listening to his dishonest salesman pitch. Dragons were similar to Phoenixes, ancient magical creatures, originating from the Old World, as intelligent as any mortal race, if not more so. Unlike their ethereal avian counterparts, however, Dragons were closer to the material. They did lose and shed scales, and they left corpses when they died. And every part of their body was a precious and sought-after magical ingredient.

However, Old Dee was lying through his gaping teeth. The necklaces on the table were all fashioned from regular lizard scales—not even coming from wyverns, the Dragons’ lesser bestial cousins, but from mundane large reptiles. Every word out of the merchant’s mouth only condemned him more as a scammer.

And yet, was it providence or a cruel joke of fate, that an actual, genuine Dragon scale found its way among those pale imitations and into Kaydence’s hand? A Darkness Dragon, too…

The scale was small, its original owner probably just a juvenile, and it lacked any lingering magic. After 2500 years, that was to be expected. It explained how it was overlooked for so long, mistaken for that of an ordinary beast. But Kaydence could never make that mistake. No one had a more intimate understanding of Dragons than she did. For years, she had hunted them, killed them, dissected them, eaten their flesh, drank their blood.

She had been them.

People had not titled Seifer the “Dragon Demon King” as a mere metaphor.

But Kaydence’s shapeshifting days were far behind her. The transformation ritual Seifer had designed required fresh blood from a live specimen, and in his madness, he had hunted his supplies to near extinction. Kaydence held hope that some Dragons survived, whether by fleeing the continent or hiding in seclusion, but for all intent and purpose, those magnificent creatures were gone.

And it was all her fault.

“Young missy?”

Kaydence blinked, realising she had lost herself in memories once again. She looked at the merchant. “How much?”

“Ah, for such a valuable antique…” he said, rubbing his hands. “Three silver.”

Kaydence held back a snort. The man had no idea what treasure he had in stock. “Eleven copper.” His ignorance did not mean Kaydence would let him fleece her, even in principle.

“Gah! You break this Old Dee’s heart! Much blood and sweat went into recovering this rare– no– this unique Dragon scale! Fingers too. This Old Dee cannot go below two silvers.”

“One silver,” Kaydence countered. The merchant opened his mouth in protest. She cut him off. “And I’m not reporting you to the Guard for selling contraband fairy dust.”

“Deal!” Old Dee cackled with a crooked grin, though sweat coated his forehead despite the cold. “The young missy’s business acumen is as great as her impeccable taste. Your mother will love the gift.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Only half-listening to the empty flattery, Kaydence handed him all the copper coins her mother had given her and a few of her own, totalling one silver. She looked at the necklace one last time before depositing it carefully in her pocket. It had been something of an impulsive purchase, but Annet would probably like it, and no one but Kaydence would be able to tell it was not some random painted crocodile scale.

Done with the annoying scammer, she started walking back towards the courtyard.

Wait, how did he know–

“Way! Make way for the Guard!” Half a dozen armed men suddenly came jogging down the street, the crowd parting before their shouts and intimidating presence. Kaydence, too, stepped aside, only to watch them rush towards Old Dee’s stall. “By the duke’s– Men! He’s running! Catch the criminal!”

As soon as the guards had shown up, the old merchant had swept most of his stock into a large sac and took off sprinting, showcasing stunning energy and agility for his age. “You’ll never catch me alive!”

“Surrender! By the duke’s authority!”

“Never! Old Dee’s not going back to prison! Hahahahahaha!”

The pursuit quickly disappeared into a side street, the old man’s mad cackles fading with the distance. After a brief moment of silence, the crowd started moving again, the cheerful din of the Founder’s Festival reasserting itself. Kaydence was left in utter confusion.

“What in the Void?”

* * * * *