“What have we done?” Raelendra wasn’t immediately sure that the choked words came from herself.

The other magi looked to her, eyes widened and bodies trembling.

“It was meant to repair the Weave.” One of the surviving magi murmured, his body jerking as tremors of the backlash still went through him.

Varen, the only other archmagus still standing, looked to Raelendra. “I do not believe that it performed as intended.” There was a dark, dry, humor in his words as his eyes roamed over the chaos of the weave. It was then that the seven magi were pulled through the tear they had created in the Weave.

Raelendra stumbled as she landed on the otherside in loose, well tilled soil. Around her were the stubs of some brown grass and large rolled mounds of that same grass. Her eyes, the green of fresh spring grasses, scanned the surroundings, seeking the Weave. She suddenly felt as though she had been struck blind.

The youngest among them, Baunin, wailed as he backed closer to the cluster of magi. “What happened to the Weave? It’s gone! Did we destroy it entirely?”

“Be still, child.” Varen snapped and the acolyte fell silent immediately. The eldest studied the plant life that surrounded them. “This is not our world.”

“Obviously.” Raelendra agreed, tucking her hands back into the sleeves of her ornate robes. “This world is dead.”

The four magi gasped, the acolyte looked confused, but Archmage Varen only nodded. “It is indeed dead. No magic at all.”

“Can we return through the tear?” One of the mages asked.

“We could.” Raelendra began.

“But we will not.” Varen finished as he nodded back in the direction of the epicenter of the tear. “The Emperor, blessed be his name, is bringing everyone through.”

“Blessed be his name.” The others chorused automatically.

“Is that wise?” one of the mages asked.

“Who are we to question his decisions.” Another retorted.

“Do not forget that we are Magi. We are allowed to voice our opinions, even to the Emperor.” Varen’s tone was lecturing. “The wretched army of Ogrekall was nearly upon us. It is wise for us to come through the tear. We can surround it and guard it preventing anyone from coming through after us. It will buy us time, perhaps enough to perfect the ritual and truly repair the Weave.”

“Perhaps,” Raelendra murmured as she looked around the scattered few that had come through so far. They were still pouring from the tear, there were tens of thousands of them gathered in this army, the last citizens of the Empire of Azmael. “What if this side of the tear is equally dangerous? Until we learn of this world’s magics, we are useless here.”

“That may be for the best,” Varen responded, “Magic may only draw attention to us. Until we learn more of this world, we should keep a lower profile.”

Raelendra watched as one of the Ograkalli soldiers broke through a ring of their own soldiers and approached a pair of strangers waiting near the fenceline. Her brow furrowed.

“Humans.” One of the magi spat the word out and followed it with a vulgar curse.

“I hope there are only a few here. They’re disgusting.” Another said.

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The Archmagi looked at one another, but neither spoke in defense of humanity. They all held them in contempt.

A command tent was already going up as the soldiers secured the perimeter and the rest of the Imperial citizens milled about seeking safety. Varen pointed to the tent and both Archmagi began walking toward it. The others stayed put, clustered together for safety. It may be that the Emperor had made a decision about blame…

His Imperial Majesty Pharendrus Gallentine, the first of his name, Emperor of Azmael, Guardian of the Last of the True Children, Keeper of the Memory of the Ancients, Harbinger of Justice and Diviner of Souls stood in the middle of the command tent. It was empty of all furniture and held only the highest ranking officers and now, as they hurried in, the last of the Archmagi.

The Emperor’s blue gaze felt hot as it swept over the two magi. “Certainly there is an explanation.”

Varen cleared his throat and prostrated himself upon the ground. “I beg your excellency's pardon, but we have not yet found the cause of this calamity.”

“Time has passed.” His voice was smooth like silk, but as dangerous as a snake’s rattle.

Raelendra joined her companion on the floor, not looking up into his excellence’s face again. “It is my belief that the Weave has torn once more.”

“Tell us, then, what happened when first the Weave was torn.”

Why is he asking us this? Raelendra wondered. His exellence was there when the Weave was first torn, he would know the results better than almost anyone.

“The First Tear occured 385 years ago in the lost kingdom of Ydrassa, in the capital city of Hymaera. The Great Enemy, may he never return, was rampaging through the world. The Ydrassans convinced nearly every spellweaver in the known world to begin a working that would destroy the magic of the Great Enemy and all of his followers, forever. The spellweavers gathered on a night of power and drew on all the power that had been imbued in the working. They attempted to change the very Weave itself, denying power to certain individuals. The casting backfired, killing most of the magi and ripping the Weave to shreds for hundreds of miles. That became the Outlands and on their edges, the Wild Weaves.” Raelendra summarized.

The Emperor nodded only slightly, “The ritual went awry.”

“Yes, your Excellence.”

“The… volunteers were imperfect.” That statement brought a leap of hope to Raelenra’s breast.

“They were imperfect by their very nature, your excellence.” Varen responded, “Elfkin to the last.”

“Of course.” The Emperor waved the notion away. “They are expendable. We have more, should we decide to attempt the ritual again.”

A sickening feeling curled itself tightly in Raelendra’s stomach. 4e There was a moment of pure revulsion inside of her but she ruthlessly crushed it down as the piercing blue eyes of the Emperor met hers. “Yes, your Excellence.” Her calm voice gave no hint to the turmoil within.

“You are dismissed from our presence.” The Emperor said with a lazy wave of his hand.

The two archmages climbed to their feet and backed several steps away from the Emperor before turning and leaving the command tent.

“Chancellor.”

“Yes, your excellence?”

“Begin to fortify our position. We must keep hold of the tear in the Weave that we are not pursued. Our lines must continue.”

“Yes, excellency, your will be done.” The chancellor turned and left the tent, but only after backing out of the Emperor’s presence.

The Emperor stood for a moment, silent and as still as a statue. With an almost imperceivable nod, he strode from the tent. At his nod, a half dozen guards fell in around him. He stopped at the edge of the cleared circle amid the teeming camp and stared into the Tear for a long silent moment.

When he turned to survey the surroundings, his blue eyes narrowed. Surrounding the Tear was farmland, rolling hills of it, nearly unbroken by trees or unbound nature of any sort. Crops ready for harvest or the stubbled fields of crops already harvested surrounded the last of the Empire. For a bare moment, the Emperor looked as though he had caught a whiff of a foul smell, but his impassive face returned.

This land was poor and forced into the confines of farmland, but the Empire would free it, bring it back to the natural order, and their Empire could flourish here, given time. One hand twitched as though to make a fist before relaxing, He would conquer this world if he had to. Anything. Anything to ensure the survival of his empire. They would not fall. They would never fall.