The wind caressed the velvet curtains, slipping through the quiet as moonlight touched the veranda. Twelve lamps, each the heart of a fallen sun, lent their warmth to the room. Their light gave the beige walls a golden glow. Even in death, the warriors of the Helios Imperium continued to serve.

Two corpses were strewn on the marble floor. Both maids, victims of chance, lay face down beside each other in their respective pools of blood. Smiles stretched across their tender necks. Hopefully they would be happier in death.

One spewed golden ichor. She was a descendent of the sun. The other's lifeblood was as black as ink. She was a slave shackled by the night.

Death did not distinguish between the two, but their blood, gold and black, never mixed. Both cried out with a quiet hiss whenever they touched. For while all were equal in the face of oblivion beyond it, there was a divide.

The dancer glided towards the golden cradle at the centre of the room, sword in hand. The weapon's hilt was made from obsidian, with the blade forged by the liquid silver flowing from the cut on her left wrist.

There was a pause as she came to a standstill, gazing down at the child. Slowly, the raven-haired babe, wrapped in cashmere, opened his eyes. With death reflected in his golden pupils, the child smiled. Ignorance was poison. Footsteps resounded behind the ebony doors. This act was almost at an end.

The dancer took a breath. Her silver eyes blazed as her blood began to boil. Twenty eyes. Forty limbs. Ten silver ghosts.

A scream tore apart the silence as an angry storm charged through the door. Behind it came a cowering sun. Though dim, the light it brought forced the hand of Providence out of the darkness.

The dancer had been both hunter and prey. Chaos ensued. Providence met contempt, and the sun was extinguished. The storm stilled, and the dancer was left broken. But in the end, the child was stolen.

Seventeen years on, the echoes of the past still screamed.

***

Blood. That was the only thing the finger could smell behind his iron mask. It carried a piece of each death he wrought and each massacre it saw. Pitch as night, smooth as glass and cold as the grave, at least on the inside. It was a thing of wonder able to steal faces. Thus hidden behind the guise of a doe eyed boy, the finger watched as his plan came together.

Anticipation hung in the air as the whispers of the gathered audience rose to a deafening roar. A diverse crowd, from slaves to aristocrats, were in attendance. About fifteen thousand people. Commoners occupied the stone seats in the lower stands. While nobles observed the proceedings from private booths of marble and gold.

Each individual reflected a different sentiment. Some wore faces of curiosity, others masks of sympathy. But the most common expression was excitement. Merchants peddling their wares moved through the aisles, but their voices were hushed, and the clinking of coins seemed muted in the weighty atmosphere.

Suddenly, silence fell.

Scarlet-stained teeth painted the Breaker's winsome smile in a vicious light as he was led into the arena. He would die the way he lived, as a spectacle. Nearly two and a half meters tall, he towered over the accompanying guards. His hands were bound by cuffs of blackened flesh.

Bloodbane. Neither living nor dead. It strangled the Breaker's breath and drank his blood. A creature born of suffering. Nurtured in it. And so misery was all it could offer.

Molten ichor from gashes on his battered body seared the earth as the bear of a man sauntered onto the granite stage flanked by two guards. Seemingly oblivious to the six metal rods jutting from his back, amusement danced in the depths of his crimson pupils. His tousled hair was slick with blood.

The small procession halted at the centre of the execution grounds. A pregnant pause lingered as the priest, positioned in the arena's most opulent suite, turned his gaze to the accused.

His demeanor leaned more towards that of a warrior than a man of the cloth. He wore silver robes of mid-calf length with wide sleeves, its cuffs embroidered with scarlet gold.

He was tall, standing at over 1.8 meters and robust, sporting a heavy beard that accentuated the intensity of his presence. Despite the ashen grey colour of his shoulder-length hair, it was difficult to determine his age due to the lack of wrinkles. Streams of violet smoke wafted from the bronze censer held in the cleric's right hand, adding an air of mysticism to his form.

Father Gaius, for that was his name, was a midlevel priest within the ranks of the Illuminarian Church. Though a key figure in today's proceedings, he wasn't the star. That honour fell to the man seated behind him. Decked in midnight armour, with his head propped against his right fist, he wore an expression of boredom.

Sporting rich Blonde curls and sun-kissed olive skin characteristic of the royal family, golden pupils reflected cold indifference as they gazed down at the gathered masses. An ebony great sword rested beside the bronze throne he sat upon.

Duke Lysander Travian Helios was a royal not in the line of succession. Though his title suggested he wasn't too far off.

But that was not important. What really mattered was that the sun was almost at its Zenith, and golden blood flowed through his veins. Here and now, the Duke would be near invincible. But would that be enough?

The Breaker was dangerous, but he could not be given too much acknowledgement. The nobility could not reveal how much he shook them. They could not show weakness. They could not show fear.

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Thus, on paper, the execution would be presided over by a thousand guards and three hundred ceremonial officials. But, as he observed the proceedings from the stands, the finger knew the truth. Members of the Dawnguard were scattered throughout the coliseum.

Kings bred to be servants. Their blood was so thin they were no longer considered part of the Royal line. Still, they did receive the sun's favour. Thus, they had to serve. Those who governed the empire were as cruel to themselves as to their enemies.

Stripped of their armour, the members of the Dawnguard hid behind their nameless faces. But they could not escape from Providence. No one could.

Its eyes were always watching, and its ears were always listening. Its mouth was a cesspool of the vilest poisons, and its hands never missed.

With a thousand lashing tails in the light and many more in the dark Providence was nearly untouchable.

Today, including himself, the seventh, the hand had devoted twelve of its fingers.

"This day, we are gathered here to witness the hand of justice!"

The priest's voice was deep and gentle, a sea of calm. It echoed across the Colosseum.

"Children of Helios! Behold the false saviour, the herald of ruin, the king of scorched earth—the Breaker!"

The tales about the man had become so embellished that few could remember his original name, Romulus.

"Oh, sinner, you have been weighed and found wanting." The priest began, waves roiling. "The judgment?" a hush filled the gap left behind. "Death!" The hammer fell.

"Now kneel!" The volume of the surrounding whispers rose in tandem with the building anticipation.

"No!"

Came the Breaker's response. His tone was casual as his words ushered a moment of silence. Unlike with the Priest, only those seated near the stage could hear him clearly. Though quickly loose tongues carried his whispers.

"Unrepentance is the fool's armour against the arrows of regret." The priest, seemingly unoffended, said, his voice heavy with resignation as he gently shook his head.

"What is regret but a castle of missed opportunities? I've taken my shots, priest. I have no regrets." There was something liberating in the man's tone. The finger found it strangely...annoying.

"Your blustering is commendable." The priest's gaze was gentle, but he could not hide the sneer that briefly touched his lips.

"And your hypocrisy is inspiring." Romulus countered, maintaining his rugged smile.

"It's a shame. Your words will soon be for naught. You will die remembered as a madman."

In response, the Breaker roared with laughter.

"Then I am amongst like company. Priest, oppression makes even the wise man mad! This kingdom is full of madmen."

Madness had different flavours, some far more dangerous than others. He couldn't help but wonder which ones the Breaker was talking about.

"If there is suffering, it is because of people like you." The priest's tone remained calm, but there was now a building edge.

"I confess, I'm no saint. Never claimed to be!" The king of scorched earth began. "But I'm not the one tearing infants from their mother's breasts!" There was steel in his voice.

"I'm not the one binding children in chains because of the colour of their blood!" The fires of hatred burnt away his smile.

"I am not the one that despoils another's daughter and names it her privilege! I am not the one who razes an entire village because of one man's misplaced curiosity! I am not the one dancing on the graves of innocent men!"

The finger watched as the Breaker's words squeezed the hearts of the people who had come to see him die.

"I am a monster, yes. But I am one of your making! And what creation can hold a candle to its creator?"

At those words, a suffocating silence descended.

"Only a coward would blame the world for their misery. It seems death's encroaching presence has chased away your reasoning." Father Gaius continued after a brief pause. Though subtle, the finger heard the ripples in the cleric's voice.

"Priest, " Romulus began, reigning in his wrath, " your false sense of righteousness has left you blind and deaf in the face of truth!"

The Breaker's smile had returned. Did it hold back his rage or mask his pain?

"Heathen, if not for Helios' mercy, we would have cut out your lying tongue!"

The ripples were turning into waves.

"Oh, didn't you know? Your people tried." The Breaker mocked. His chuckling a lesser man's full-blow laughter. "But after the third man lost his hand, they abandoned the pursuit."

"You are an animal!" Father Gaius said before taking a breath. "A rabid one at that!" He was trying to regain his calm.

"Do you know what separates a man from a beast, priest? It's self-control. In that regard, most of your masters are more animal than I."

The priest did not rise to the Breaker's taunts.

"I pity you, oh false saviour! But fear not, you are damned, yes. But, in death, you will save this land from the cancer of your existence."

"Kill me, and you make me a legend!" Romulus cried, laughing, "Kill me, and you make me immortal!" The steel in his voice returned.

"There will be more like me, priest! And inevitably, one of them will pull down you and your ilk! We'll welcome you all into this blood-soaked abyss beneath your thrones of glass!"

"A fool, that is what you are!" A veil of disdain now covered the cleric's face.

"Better a fool than a slave!"

"Oh, you poor soul! True freedom can only be found in the service of Helios!"

"Your god is dead!"

There was a collective gasp at the Breaker's words. And the sea was engulfed by a storm.

"How dare you!" The priest roared, his features marred by wrath.

"Helios cowers in the night! What kind of god knows fear?" The Breaker exclaimed, his grin widening.

This topic was taboo, for it brought damning questions upon the Church and royal family. Things would soon begin to escalate.

"Damn you!" Father Gaius screamed. "You wayward son of lies! Helios does not quiver in the face of darkness! He fights! He shields us from realms of horror! In those moments, he is unable to spare us his gift of might!"

The priest was losing himself. Draw out the wrath of a foe, and half the battle is won. Or lost, depending on the anger invoked.

"So, there are foes your god cannot best, wars he cannot win?" Romulus taunted, his voice laced with glee.

"Enough!" The voice cut down the mounting tension. Backed by the sun, Lysander's words could not be disobeyed.

"We are not here to debate. Lop off the cur's head and be done with it!" The Duke commanded.

But, the king of scorched earth was a mountain, blotting out the sky, so he ignored the child of the sun.

"You know, I despise your kin, but I do respect their strength. You are impressive. But for a member of house Helios, I thought you would be...more."

A slight twitch was the only indication of the Duke's irritation. Considering the rumours surrounding the man, the finger was mildly impressed at his composure. Pride kept his pride in check. Or maybe it was fear? The distance between them made it nearly impossible for the finger to tell.

"Was I not clear? Off with his head, now!"

There was rising heat in Lysander's words as he gave the command again.

The two guards beside the Breaker turned to face one another. Each held a heavy set halberd about three meters long. In a fight, the weapons would be cumbersome. For this execution, they were necessary.

"You know I see the resemblance. You do look a little like Vermont."

Romulus continued.

"If you do not cut his head off now, I'll cut off yours!"

The Duke had had enough. Fear warred against fear. Two blades came down and the wrong man lost his head. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. If he could, the seventh finger would have smiled.

The board was set, and the pieces were in place. It was time for the game to begin.