Hanyon's life hung by a single word from the Empress' lips. Everyone's did, but most didn't have to meet her directly to hear it.
A hot gust of wind assailed Hanyon with the reek of rotting, dead gods as she lay prostrate before the Throne at the Ziggurat's apex. The smell wasn't new to her, nor was the sulfurous stench of the volcanoes tearing the land apart beyond the doomed capitol. The Throne though! She almost forgot she was about to die at the sight of it.
Shaped from frozen, liquid, milky-white light, the Throne's raw, humming potential set the entire Ziggurat trembling in resonance. A perfect, mirror-like pool of steaming, energetic watter ringed it. A fitting barrier to place between mere mortals and the Throne, its flawless surface reflected the dark ash plumes and dying, bloated red suns as though prostrating them too before the Empress.
Through a steamy veil, the First and Last Empress became a mirage of white and gold over ebony. Her voice sheared off all other sound. “Feral, bring her closer.”
A bone-masked woman clad in precious steel seized Hanyon, dragging her forward and throwing her to her knees at the border of the pool. Hanyon's terrified shaking intensified even as a dizzying exhilaration grew with each breath of the current-rich steam.
“You are the Seericide.” The Empress said as though commanding it be so.
“Yes, Empress,” Hanyon managed. She rubbed the bloody eye tattooed at the base of her throat.
“Fulfill your purpose then. Speak your death-truths.”
Hanyon produced a tiny vial from her sleeve and peeled the wax from the stopper, trembling so badly she feared she might drop it. Clay brushed her lip.
She froze. "I can't. I can't do it."
“Drink.” The overwhelming authority of the Empress' voice hammered into Hanyon's heart, breath rushing from her lungs as though a fist drove into Hanyon's gut. "Now."
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She screamed in futile defiance but drank, the Empress' words crushing her volition. A bitter, metallic trickle spilled down Hanyon's throat as she coughed and spluttered.
Her shaking slowly subsided as she stared at the empty vessel. A deep, perfect stillness fell over her. It was done.
“The slow death begins its work," she said, as much to herself as the Empress.
Her vision began to blur as ecstasy thrilled through her body. "The past and present tear apart before me. Threads beyond counting! By the dead gods, could this have been here all this time, just out of sight?”
“Are you a devotee of the Mother?”
The Empress' question caught her by surprise, but her response came automatically. “I'm loyal to the Empress Last and First. To you. To you as you have made yourself.”
“That's not what was asked.”
Hanyon hesitated for a moment. Saw it didn't matter now. “I once worshiped the Mother of Exiles, before she betrayed our hope.”
“Ascending is a betrayal?”
“Corpses mortal and immortal alike litter broken realms, the Book of Verses' spine tears and unravels while horrors feast upon anyone who doesn't starve first. What do you think?" Knowing she was dead already filled Hanyon with bravery unlike anything she'd ever believed possible.
In the pause, Hanyon felt the peace deepen and the fear dissolve as the infinite immensity of Reality presented itself naked before her. She knew everything. She was everything. Everywhere and everywhen she looked, she Knew.
“Good." The Empress' once-mighty voice barely touched her. Hanyon looked at her and smiled benevolently as the Empress spoke, knowing what the Empress wanted more truly and deeply than the Empress did herself. "Start then where every Dynast's story truly begins. Trace the Mother of Exiles' thread starting from one-hundred years.”
Hanyon took a deep breath, focused. Empress, Throne, Ziggurat faded. Words spilled unbidden from her lips: an endless streaming flow of Truth sourced in the rare toxin inexorably devouring her precisely shaped mind.
“Make a wish!”