“Let’s start from the beginning. When exactly did you arrive at Soul?” the Blesser asked.

“I had been stationed there a year,” Harol answered. “Eight years after joining the Reds, twelve since departing Home.”

“And in that time, did you find a particular reason to kill the people of that planet?” the Gold Chair challenged.

“This is not the time for accusations,” the Blesser stated. “It is the time for questions.”

“Forgive me, Blesser, but I’d say we passed needing questions the moment Prophet blood touched their weapons.”

The Sept and those observing stood in an uproar of voices as they shouted condemnation at all parties. Three Prophets of the Red stood in the center of the Sept chambers staring at the Chairs and the Blesser, while the many Prophets in the assembly gallery surrounding the chamber spat and cried for their deaths. The first accused, Harol, wept, though he visibly forced his features to remain defiant. The second, Jerard, shouted accusations just as harsh back at both the Sept and the gallery. The final, Krish, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing a blank face. Invisible bonds kept his wrists strapped and a hazy aura covered him from the shield held by ten Whites, four reds with daggers ready standing behind him, and a sweating Gold cradling a half-sheathed long sword.

In the massive chamber of mixed metals and semi-precious stones, each one colorful and grand, the six Chairs looked down from their podiums as the Blesser rapped her podium with her weapon. The White’s mace pounded and the gallery silenced to listen.

“These Reds stand accused of Propheticide, Chair of the Gold. They have yet to be condemned,” the Blesser said as the echo of her mace swept over the silent gallery.

“Now,” the Blesser continued, “if you do not wish to join the ranks of the Pillar of Fools, I should expect some valid reasons for the violations for which you stand accused.”

“I didn’t kill any Prophets, Blesser,” Harol said.

All three White Chairs rose to their feet before the Blesser raised her hand to bite their tongues. “Even a first-year White can learn the trick of seeing the truth of words, Harol of the Red. Don’t forget that I am a White, and can tell if you’re lying just by looking at you.”

“Blesser,” the only male White Chair said, “there is a hint of truth in what he is saying.”

“I sense it too. That is why I think we should look further into this. You do know, Harol of the Red Prophets, that the penalty for Propheticide is immediate execution?”

“Yes, Blesser,” Harol replied, trying to make his voice sound less shaky.

“Circumstances change, Blesser,” the Red Chair interjected. “We have already made a ruling for several Prophets that killing a fellow Prophet in self-defense or in executing a cause approved by the Sept, the sentence can be lessened or even thrown out.”

“True,” the Blesser stated, shifting in her seat.

“I will not stand for that nonsense again,” the Gold Chair said, standing. “Killing a Prophet is never just. Never.”

The rapping of the Blesser’s mace was once again forced to silence the gallery and the Chairs as they argued over rulings only recently concluded.

“You will maintain a Gold-like demeanor, Chair of the Golds. And the Red Chairs will remain silent as well,” the Blesser said. “I would like to hear exactly what happened before we cast judgment. Harol of the Red Prophets?”

“Yes, Blesser,” Harol replied.

“You will tell us what you saw.”

Harol came along as an escort. In normal diplomatic situations, a White was all that was required. When the White may be in danger, a Gold would be sent along as well. Harol of the Red Prophets joined his Gold and White companions as they entered the granite-pillared capital of the First Empire. The White Prophet was scheduled to meet with the leaders that afternoon in a last-minute conference.

“You said you would come. You promised to be there — the two other imperial delegates are already there!” the White pleaded.

Emperor Boros didn’t respond. He merely stared at the display screen before him, leaning forward as his gold-lined breastplate chinked at the joints. Officers and attendants of the Imperial Armed Forces walked about in a storm of activity. Some bounced code off wires. Some processed recently taken photographs of activity. Some pushed the colored discs and shapes that cast large shadows on the map wall to indicate missile and bomber locations, both First Empire and others’.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Harol did no more than turn his eyes when an Imperial Guardsman inched forward.

“Emperor Boros, you must see reason,” the White said.

“I have seen the reason of your proposal, Jaret of the White Prophets,” Boros said, waving off the guardsman approaching the White before they could touch her. “And yet I see no value in it.”

“Deadline. Five minutes,” Orr, the strawberry-nosed Gold said. He checked the clock on the wall, its hand counting down from the time when the many other empires of Soul would attack.

Harol’s hand twitched on his red dagger as his teeth audibly ground.

“What reason is there in destroying the planet?” Jaret pleaded. “You must come with me to the conference. It’s the only way to save your people and—”

“As I recall,” Boros interrupted, “my intelligence informs me none of the other delegates, not the President of Alexia nor even the King of Ilay have shown up to this conference of yours.” The emperor turned to an admiral who had just walked to his leader’s side. “Have the ships lay in sight of enemy vessels. Hold fire till my order, and make sure their detonation systems have been installed correctly.”

“You installed those!” Harol blurted.

The admiral paused long enough to give Harol a look strong enough to make Harol’s hands go white on his dagger’s hilt.

“According to the terms of the Treaty of the Prophets—” Jaret began.

“Yes, my White friend, I know of the treaty. I signed it,” Boros interrupted. “Now, if you kindly would vacate the premises, I have work to do.”

“Boros, the death toll from those ships alone would destroy Soul’s oceans. I have to communicate this right away — who knows how many of the other empires have reactivated those things.”

A general who had been listening in while drawing code pulled his breech-loading pistol. Before he and the many other guardsman could direct their weapons at the White Prophet, Orr had his sword out and was holding its glowing blade before all. He also placed one hand on Harol’s dagger hand, keeping the Red’s blade forcibly sheathed.

“Four minutes,” Orr stated.

“General, the enemy is out there not in here,” Boros said as the imperials in the command center lowered their arms. “And don’t disregard my people’s ability to conquer over adversity, my good Prophets. We are aware of the lesser nations’ efforts to mimic our devices.”

“Emperor Boros, have you ever seen what those things can do?” Jaret asked.

“I should hope.” The emperor’s gilded armor jingled as he laughed. “Beautiful display. And how fitting that the year we reach to the sun, we are able to bring its raw beauty to the surface of Soul. Poetic, isn’t it?”

“Emperor. Millions of lives hang in the balance of what you’re about to decide.”

“And I am certain the men and women leading the other nations are very much aware of the same weight upon their shoulders, illustrated by the Prophets hanging on their every word.” He took a moment to shift the placement of a round disc on another continent and point out the change to a code talker. “I would dismiss you, or forcibly remove you if either would have any effect.”

“There is no reason in your actions, Emperor Boros,” Jaret said, and took one slightly too-deep breath. “You must explain—”

“Plead to me why. Beg for a reversal.” Those around the emperor joined in his mocking laughter. “Weep for the soon to be dead. Is that what your other Prophets are doing at this moment?”

“Three minutes,” Orr said, his sword still glowing golden.

“I shall explain what I do in simple terms, Prophet. I do this because it is the fulfillment of all the dreams of our fathers and sons, a dream of the First Empire since its founding.”

“Only in a nightmare could such madness seem like beauty,” Jaret offered.

“And yet my people cheer. Even now they line the streets in anticipation. You can see it! Use your White Prophet powers and view my imperial children singing songs of joy for the coming conflict.”

“Their emperor brings them no conflict, only death.”

“You underestimate my children, Prophet. We will endure this.”

“One does not have to endure something one puts upon himself. Why start this conflict if it accomplishes nothing other than causing conflict itself?”

“Still no sign of the other delegates, hmm?” the emperor laughed.

Jaret adjusted her gem-encrusted crown, trying to hide its White glow as she scanned the planet for activity. Though Harol couldn’t hear a word, it was almost as though he could sense the flurry of telepathic shouting going on from Whites across the globe.

“I will tell you why, Prophet,” the emperor said. “Because it is our time to rise above our planet. It is time for my people to rise.”

“Your madness has grown unbreakable if you believe that,” Jaret said.

“Madness, and yet it is the shared dream of all leaders of Soul. Only the Prophets are trying to stop this conflict. I ask you then, why? Why do you persist on stopping a conflict universally accepted by the people of this planet? Why are you interfering so deeply?”

“Because what you’re doing is wrong.”

“Two minutes,” Orr said. “Empires warming up launches.”

“Tactical information I am already aware of, my Gold friend,” Boros said, and gave quick orders to half a dozen officers.

“Emperor. Emperor! Boros!” Jaret screamed. “You can’t do this!”

“Will the Prophets stop me?”

“We will do all we can to convince you—”

“No, no. Will the Prophets stop me?”

“We are here to guide you to the—”

“Do not baby me, Prophet! We have harnessed the power of water to propel our airships and seaships. We have wrapped the sun itself in a box lying in wait for the will of a single soul. We who have been to space and set foot on the three moons we once thought untouchable — we and a hundred others on Soul who have done this, and the First Empire greatest among them, ask you: will you go against our will!”

Orr’s hand eased enough that Harol was able to slowly draw his dagger.

“We, we—” Jaret stuttered.

“Answer me, Prophet!” the emperor demanded. “Will you stop us!”