When Zephen didn’t return after six months, Coltair did feel a small sense of loss. Despite the hard approach to his own life, after sixty-five years, he’d only ever counted one person as his family and that had been his younger brother. He had been strict with him, but only because, as second-born, Zephen would inherit none of the responsibility or destiny that was reserved for Coltair. He’d not only have to worry about the ascension but also the heirs, the crown and, finally, the gift. After becoming emperor, he’d grown resentful that Zephen hadn’t realized his privileges came at Coltair’s sacrifice and that his brother hadn’t grown any more serious or trustworthy for him to share in the intricate details of the ancestors’ plans. His brother was too tender-hearted for the sacrifices required, so he’d cut him out and kept him apart to not interfere; it was best he did not know until the end.

To be immortal, that was what the voices had enamoured him with all those years ago. First, it had required he master the art to interpret the undead, learn their ways, and that had required an enormous amount of personal sacrifice. The voices had been unyielding about harbouring relationships, getting too close to people, that it would ultimately interfere with what he needed to do to ascend, not as emperor of Rogun but as the immortal Keeper of the Darkness Realm. Affection created emotion. Affiliation created bonds. In order to break the barrier of the veil, at that moment, he would need to unquestionably sacrifice every living thing around him so that he could survive. Afterward, he would be the Emperor Everlasting and he could do whatever he might want. Live among the living was what he envisioned, unable to die, with all that remained of his people, forever superior to any and all mankind.

With that firmly etched in his mind, Coltair had given up on all questions or evaluation of what they had offered. At ten years old, he knew his father feared death to manic levels. Born to a line of ever-evolving rulers, you were raised to expect your father’s death was imminent and your son's ascension inevitable. You grew up and lived in the constant knowledge that you were just waiting for those two things to happen. So Coltair’s father didn’t have affection for his firstborn son; he feared him as the sign of his own mortality that he was.

Coltair didn’t care about death, even before he’d heard the ancestors’ offer. He had been raised to the ‘ways of things’ and, as the heir, was pampered and elevated above his brothers and sisters to believe in his superiority, warping his sense of morality and mortality early on. It was only after his father finally died that his true life could begin. But then the ancestors had told him of the true ascension, the ultimate pinnacle of leadership and control. Never again would he need fear a child could usurp him or an enemy assassin end his reign.

At the last stair down to the crypt, Coltair slowed. The whispers met him like old comforts and the cold hung around his ankles like an invisible fog. He was content here, at peace. It was like coming home. What gave him pause was the groaning coming from inside the vault. He listened carefully, walking lightly to make no noise. Mostly it was long moaning, but occasionally, he could glean a word.

“Coltair!” he heard a gravelly voice bark from the opposite side of the door. “Immortal Keeper!”

He smiled and laid his hands gently against the polished surface so he could lean with his ear very close.

“Coltair!... Father! Protector! I will love him. I will love him forever!”

Coltair smiled in satisfaction. He tapped the door lightly with pride and turned to leave. He’d find Izik and order him to send the blind maids to change and bathe Dascus: a reward for his good behaviour by listening to the ancestors and letting them in.

---

Dascus could not tell how long he’d been imprisoned in complete darkness. All he knew was it was long enough to fray the edges of his mind. At random intervals, someone opened the door but did not bring light. Faint illumination from somewhere else lit the visitors' path when they entered and the bronze door would remain open for the duration of their stay. He breathed the new, disturbed air like he’d been about to die of asphyxiation, but he’d never been able to run as he was continuously tied to an iron ring in the wall. The visitor would feed him broth and water, give him bread and one fruit, move his hands from front to back so they would alternate and walk him around the room two times. Then he would be re-bound. A servant with milk-white eyes would come to change the loincloth that was the only thing he was allowed to wear, soiled as he was not afforded a bucket, and she would wash him.

He wept. It was an indignity he could not have imagined. In addition, he was weakened by starvation and the instant violent beating he would receive if he resisted. He’d stopped long ago any and all reaction in hopes of hiding from his nightmare. He stood there dumbly, weakly, while she wiped him and inhaled sharply when the caustic soap burned the rash-torn skin of his genitals.

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He barely noticed when a robe was layered over his shoulders and pulled tight at the waist with a rope. He became more aware when someone pulled on his chain-bound shackles and wrists.

“Come,” a gruff voice he did not recognize grunted at him. The chain tugged a few more times. Dascus moved with shuffling bare feet. Gradually, he was pulled from the room and doubt congealed in his core, gripping him in instant fear.

The plush room he was moved to did little to calm his anxiety. He was unchained and left to stand in the middle of the opulent suite alone.

When the door closed, he looked around. Seeing nothing that he wanted, he sat slowly in the middle of the floor, cross-legged on an oddly fluffy rug. The wind billowed the curtains at the windows, bringing to mind watching them as a child.

A short time later, the door opened again and a band of young women arrived with baskets in their arms. An old man he thought he recognized and a woman who had been his former governess followed after them. He noticed the guards outside the door before they pulled it closed behind them.

The man came to a stop before him, his expression dark and unimpressed.

“These women will prepare you,” he said coldly. “Izik will come to collect you and explain things. Remember the ones who were kind to you… Majesty,” he added.

Dascus lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at him.

The valet left for another room, lighting the braziers along the way.

It took some convincing. Dascus was in no mood to cooperate, but finally, with the valet’s persistent nagging and huffing and Sala’s gentle concern, he was moved to the bathroom and into a sweet-smelling bath. After an hour, he had no more beard and his hair was back to a respectable length. The valet appeared with a very dark blue, airy pants and long chemise, edged in gold and he helped him into it. Still weak and unsteady on his legs, he stumbled a few times, but the valet kept his comments to himself.

At the conclusion, the gaggle of servants left him, Sala also, but she’d patted his hand and genuinely wished him well. The valet stayed behind. He stood with him, in the middle of the room again, but Dascus, tired after only a moment, helped himself to sit in an oversized divan facing the door.

“What am I doing?” he grumbled, almost tired enough to just lean to the side and sleep. After not having regular exercise, light, food and fresh air, an evening ‘re-emerged’ had exhausted him. “What does Coltair want now?”

The valet cleared his throat but remained straight behind him. A long moment passed and Dascus’s eyes drooped, but the valet touched his shoulder once. Gently.

“The chief commander comes to deliver the news of succession, Exalted One,” he said barely above a whisper. “It would be wise to appear strong at this moment,” he added.

Dascus turned sharply to see him, but the man’s eyes were on the door. He shook his head once and resettled his shoulders, his hands clasped firmly in front of him and clearly not about to speak anymore.

The door did open then and Dascus, still settling the valet’s words, turned to see the new visitor. Izik stormed in, followed by no less than ten lavishly dressed men of varying ages. Izik, for his part, looked angry and dangerous.

“He’s here,” he barked and threw a hand at him. “As promised, in good condition. The emperor certainly did not lie to anyone. The heir has been at the palace all along.”

Dascus eyed the other men, gradually beginning to understand that something important had happened.

One by one, the men moved closer until they formed a crescent shape in front of him. They bowed in unison.

“Prince Dascus,” the oldest said, “we regret we were not informed of your return, else we would have greeted you properly,” he added with an air that it mattered at this point.

“Held captive in a windowless room for… how many days, months, years, Izik?” Dascus asked him and the ten men turned to look at the scarred commander with shock and audible gasps. “I can only imagine a visit would have been difficult. I did not want your attention. I wanted to see my mother and my sister again,” he told them.

They turned back toward him. Izik had only crossed his arms and rolled his eyes at them. He was unafraid and unperturbed by their positions or pageantry.

“We will get to the bottom of this, Your Highness!” the eldest promised him.

“What do you want? What has happened?” he asked, irritation filling his voice. Clearly, their attention at this time had been prompted by something urgent. The valet had indicated something significant had occurred and he was fast growing impatient.

The eldest once again took the lead and approached him. He prostrated himself on the floor before him and held out a piece of paper for him to take. Dascus reached and took it, but as soon as it was safely in his fingers, the remaining nine prostrated themselves the same as the first.

Feeling awkward at the display, Dascus said nothing but pulled open the small sheet of rolled paper to read. Scrawled in clear, smooth lettering were the words of the emperor:

“I, Coltair, Emperor of Rogun, do declare Dascus, my third son from my second wife, as my legal heir. Upon my death shall he rule absolute and without opposition.”

Below was the verified signature of Coltair himself, along with a wax seal with an elaborate signet melted into it.

Dascus looked up. The only face that was looking at him was Izik’s.

The chief commander frowned and pushed from the wall where he’d been leaning.

“His Exalted Highness died last night,” he told him, anger burning in his voice. “That was found in his hand; it has been verified. You’re the new emperor, you worthless git. Congratulations!”

He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.