The emperor tossed the letter back on his desk, anger pulsing through his veins. More bad news. Why is it always bad news?

Eligon stared out the window, taking deep, measured breaths. Flurries of snow swirled outside, coating in a fresh coat of spotless white. There’s nothing more peaceful than a snowstorm.

Slowly his anger ebbed into resignation, and he picked the letter back up, forcing himself to peruse the contents.

My Lord,

The rumors of unrest in Celestia have proven to be true. One of the heirs of House Nūrilī has gathered much support among the northern nobles. They do not speak of rebellion openly, nor were my agents able to gather evidence that proves their treachery, but there can be little doubt of their intent.

My Lord, if you proceed with your campaign to reclaim the capital city, I am afraid they will seize the opportunity to revolt and proclaim the return of the former Royal House.

Your servant,

Ardus̆ar

He tossed the letter into the read pile with a sigh, drumming his fingers across the desk. The fireplace opposite him crackled merrily, its bright flames lighting up the dark room.

When the capital had fallen into the hands of the enemy, Eligon had been left with few options. Of the three ancient capitals of Corsythia, only Celestia remained free, the proud bastion repelling any and all invaders. He doubted the city would ever fall - surely the elves would march to protect it if need be - but the streets of Celestia were not a safe haven for a Gonian emperor. Wonder how long I’d survive up there? A few days, a week or two? He shook his head, dismissing the thought. There was nothing that could be done about it.

With no other options, he had been forced to fall back to his father’s old hunting chateau, high up in the mountains of Western Corsythia. It was safe enough, for now at least, but the chateau was never meant to accommodate the hordes of soldiers, servants, and courtiers that now filled its halls. A racket in the halls outside his door broke his concentration, and Eligon stood up, agitated. Is it so impossible to give me one room of silence?

Frustrated, he threw a rich, ermine cloak over his shoulders and, grabbing another letter from the pile, stormed out onto the patio. His steps marred the perfect canvas nature was painting, ugly brown blotches blossoming on the pristine lawns. But the cold air, punctuated by the gentle pinprick of the snowflakes brushing against his cheeks felt good. The noise of the halls behind him fell away, replaced by nothing but the soft crackle of the falling snow.

Reluctantly, he opened the letter he had snatched, almost afraid to see what new set of bad news he’d find inside. Had more cities fallen? Had their Summoned turned against them? Or - he could hardly even acknowledge the possibility - will the king of Hadīn refuse to contribute troops to our campaign?

More and more, the king of Hadīn had been writing him, concerned about the movements of the dwarven kingdoms across the inland sea. Eligon couldn’t tell if the king was actually concerned, or simply wished to shirk his duties to the empire. But if the dwarves were to attack? There was no way they could fight a two-front war.

But the letter was not from Hadīn. He frowned as he struggled to break the seal, recognizing the pattern in the silver solder as the emblem of the royal house of Harei Miqlat. What could they want?

The metal finally crumbled beneath his fingers, and he tore the missive out, scanning it anxiously.

Lord Eligon,

He frowned, annoyed that they refused to address him as the emperor. It’s been three generations now - get over it, but he kept on reading.

I write to you with both good and bad news. As you may have heard, the empire has lost one of the Kakkabū. Following a series of unfortunate events, Lady Aphora and her kin have left the bounds of the empire, seeking sanctuary in the West.

Eligon frowned. If this was the Djinn’s bad news, it was pretty outdated. Of course, they are rather isolated in their mountains. He’d heard of the elf’s folly, which was only matched by her decision to take her people to certain death. If the empire wasn’t in such desperate straits, he would have intervened and sent troops to save them. But in the end, Lady Aphora, much like the Djinn, was in the Empire, not of it. He doubted she would have fought on their behalf unless her own people were endangered. But as he read on, his heart stopped.

Before she departed, the elven queen sent me a secret message. Lady Aphora, as you undoubtedly know is famed as a great scholar of the runic arts; what is perhaps less common knowledge is that she is equally skilled in the arts of divination. She has in her possession a set of the divine edekkû, a gift from the royal house of Yammaqom itself.

Her letter, my lord, told of coming disaster. Her edekkû spoke with one voice - the dwarves are gathering their forces for war.

With a silent scream, Eligon put his fist through the patio door, the shattering of glass breaking the still peace of the snowy night. Damn it. With a bitter smile on his lips, he looked up to the sky. The moon hid its face behind the thick clouds, but he knew she was watching. Have you abandoned us, my lady? Is it really our time to slip into the Sea of Oblivion?

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Selene held her peace, and no words of comfort fell on his ears. Reluctantly, he turned back to the letter.

Our House made a deal with your emperors long ago, and although their House has not yet returned to its rightful seat, we will not sit by and watch the empire fall.

His knuckles whitened, clutching the paper tightly, but he ignored the insult and pressed on.

We are currently attending to some minor issues amongst the factions, but when they are concluded, we shall send troops to aid your campaign, along with a young scion of our House. Although currently still quite young, we believe he has the potential to join the ranks of the Kakkabū.

Your royal cousin,

S̆ars̆adû VII

Eligon read the letter again, barely able to believe his eyes. The Djinn were actually going to send aid? Even a single unit of their famed cavalry might be enough to make a real impact. If they could push back the Zalancthians before the dwarves made their move - maybe they wouldn’t even attack. He found himself staring up at the stormy sky, almost afraid to nurture the faint seed of hope that had sprung up in his heart. Maybe she hasn’t forsaken us yet?

“Ahem.” The sound of someone clearing their throat disturbed his thoughts, breaking him out of his reverie. Eligon turned to see his faithful servant standing by the now-broken door. “It’s time, my lord.”

Eligon nodded. “Very well. I’ll be right with you.” He cast one last doubtful look at the hidden moon and reentered his study. The welcome warmth of the fire rushed over him as he tossed the letter back on the desk and shook off the layer of snow that had accumulated on his ermine cape. At last he was ready. “Alright, Kīnu, lead on.”

As he exited into the hall, the cacophony of noise that had irritated him earlier slowly morphed into a cheerful melody, accompanied by a chorus of boisterous singers. They quickly reached the end of the hall and, with a step composed and confident, Eligon descended to greet his court, slipping on a cheerful smile with practiced ease.

His elegant entrance was interrupted as two small rockets launched themselves up the stairs at him, latching onto his legs and arms with squeals of glee. “Daddy! Daddy - we thought you were never going to come down to start the feast.” Two beaming faces peered up at him, ringed by delicate, lavender curls. He scooped them up in his arms, hoisting them onto his shoulders as a genuine smile broke his lips. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” As he lumbered down the rest of steps, the gathered courtiers bowed as they greeted their lord.

He waded through their midst, the courtiers scampering to get out of his way as if he was Shamshaddin himself, as Eligon headed for the great hall, from whose doors the constant stream of music flowed. Stopping in the entrance, he turned to face his loyalists, lifting his hands in benediction.

“Welcome, my friends, to the feast of the Lord of Mirth and Frost. May Tsiāhu’s Star ever shine upon you.”

The night passed in revelry. Wine flowed free as the guest feasted on the bounty the land had to offer. That’s one good thing about our current location, Eligon mused. At least the food is plentiful and varied - a soldier with an empty stomach is no soldier at all.

Great flanks of boar and bear, of deer and bull, sat side by side with more exotic dishes, like tiger tongue and pickled rīmākal feet. The hall glowed with the light of a thousand candles, and the amber halls rang with cheer and laughter. The shadows of dancers pirouetted across the walls as the guests made merry, while outside the winter storm raged impotently, the sharp fangs of the icy winds scratching harmlessly against the ancient walls.

But the feast was only the start of the night. As the food was cleared away, the temple actors were ushered in, their customs glittering with gold and silver and jewels. In an instant, the hall fell silent.

It was the same play every year, but the spectacle put on by the priests never grew old. The court watched enraptured as the sun and moon were born from the eyes of the Progenitor. They watched the courtship of Shamsha and Selene, and the birth of the stars that filled the heavens.

They watched the rise of the dark gods, whose voracious hunger could never be satisfied, and the war that Shamsha waged against them, the fiery light of the sun driving back the encroaching darkness.

And as always, they watched as Shamsha fell beneath the blade of the dark god As̆ītu. With a flicker of their hands, the priests sent gusts of wind racing around the hall, extinguishing every candle save one. A single light burned against the darkness, as the Lord of Mirth and Frost emerged.

Taking up his lord’s blade, Tsiāhu continued the endless battle against As̆ītu. But he had not the strength of his elder brother. His light flickered, buffeted by the winds the priests sent against it, but it would not go it.

      But when dark days again shall fall, when Sol’s in cairn enclosed

        The Lord of Winter steadfast stands against the dark ones’ boasts

As the crowd sung the hymn of the Winter Lord, the solitary candle blazed brighter and brighter, until its light was so blinding that they were forced to avert their eyes as every shadow was scoured from them.

Tsiāhu drove the dark god back from the body of his brother, the brilliance of his light burning every trace of darkness from the sun god's vanquished form. And Shamsha arose, bursts of flames pouring off the priest as the heat filled every corner of the silent hall.

Reclaiming the sword from his brother’s hand, Shamsha renewed his fight against As̆ītu, once again holding the darkness at bay. With his purpose fulfilled, the lone candle reverted to a simple flame, as the other candles in the hall sprang back to life.

    All hail the Lord of Mirth and Frost, valiant peer of Sol

      His victory bought at utmost cost, he slumbers neath the snow

As Eligon watched the yearly spectacle, he found new meaning within. Was his House, the House of Gonai, not like the Lord of Mirth and Frost? Are we just a placeholder, a weaker light thrust into the battle against the mighty darkness, he mused. But like Tsiāhu, he would not back down: he would stand against the darkness.

Whatever it took, no matter the price, Eligon vowed to save the empire. And if the time came when his Shamsha arose, then like the Lord of Mirth and Frost, he would step aside.

If the Djinn truly sent the aid they had promised, Eligon felt confident he could shame the king of Hadīn into sending his troops as well. With their support, they could take the capital and, more importantly, what lay within. Once he opened the vaults, even the gods themselves would tremble beneath the wrath he would raise.