Imperial Record #10,856
'On the Desolyton' by Abiezer, Chief Scribe in the 112th year of Emperor Malkati III
The Desolyton has finally come to an end. Victory flags wave from every fort across the land, but the laughter on our lips hides the sorrow in our hearts. Three hundred years of war has wreaked endless horrors across our ravaged lands. Stryn and Jelkari are little more than smoldering ruins, the Harei Miqlat have enclosed themselves in their lands, and I fear the Fey are plotting an invasion along our southern borders. Four Emperors died in the conflict, and countless warriors joined them in the grave.
When Gemlir led his rebellion, we foolishly allowed him to live and journey to the west. He established his lands across the river, and from there his poison spread out throughout the empire. The nobles of Stryn and Jelkari adopted his wicked rites with glee, ever grasping for the power to secede from our rule. The efficacy of their rites was undeniable, the powers they exhibited rivaling the greatest of mages, but the cost was hidden. They sacrificed their prey in the dead of night, slaughtering hundred of thousands on their path to glory.
But men are weak, ever prone to listen to the false promises of power. Even our emperors embraced their ways, the lure of ascension too great to resist. Emperor Adiron VII spread Gemlir's cult throughout the land and raised his children to follow it. But by a twist of fate, his eldest sons died before taking the throne. A lesser son, Kairon, who had never been intended for such power, ascended instead. Unlike his father, Kairon was raised in the old ways and despised Gemlir’s cult. Forging an alliance with the elves of Yammaqom, he sought to rid the empire of their influence.
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But Kairon underestimated the power of the cultists. Shortly after the birth of his heir, Shamshadīn, the emperor and his wife were slain in their own courts. None of his lineage survived except the infant, who was successfully smuggled out of the palace by his mother’s handmaid, the Lady Nuriel. She fled with him to the courts of Hadīn, where the child’s aunt ruled with her husband. He was raised in secret, schooled in all the arts of war, while his uncle, Shamyana was placed on the throne by the cultists.
When Shamshadīn came of age, he renewed the alliance with Yammaqom and even secured the support of the Stryhtani. With the forces of Hadīn and its allies, he went to war with his uncle. Thus began the Desolyton, three hundred years of civil war as the cultists were slowly pushed back.
Our victory is now secure. The cultists have been scoured from the land, Gemliria is a salted wasteland, and Malechovia is little more than rubble. I myself personally renewed our alliance with our ancient allies, the Mwyrani, and placated the dwarven lords. But I fear the price for our victory is too high, that our forces are stretched too thin and our support at home is too weak. The Fey are sniffing at our borders, like sharks circling prey. If they invade, can we turn them back? Will our allies even answer our call, or will they watch as we fall?