The Ninth Day of the Ninth Month, 1000 AA
Nasition stands patiently at the door of the mansion, his sword by his side. Underneath his uniform, he slips in several batteries for his pistol, currently hidden in one of his pockets. Nearby, several of his allies patrol the area, waiting for the moment when he would begin his revolution.
All throughout the Empire, his spies await the chance for them to forcefully take over the provincial governments, ensuring a smooth transition from Empire to Confederation. Yes, a confederation. As part of his negotiations with the individual provinces, one of the conditions was being a confederation, giving nearly total autonomy to each province. The central government, soon to be led by Nasition, and later elected leaders, would have little power over the provinces. Nasition had feared such a confederation may cause only exploitation of the provincial government’s power, but to please his allies, he had agreed to such a proposal.
He had waited so long for this very moment. A few days earlier, Faresoenn had been dispatched to quell a minor rebellion close to the capital itself. That rebellion, of course, was staged by none other than Nasition himself. The rotation of guards today is entirely in his favor, giving him full control of the areas surrounding the mansion. Even the people, bombarded with media describing Nasition in a positive light, are ready, with at least two-thirds, he predicts, that will support his rule. The preparations, meticulously planned for years, will finally come to fruition on this very day.
However, he will not be personally leading the attack, nor will he deal the finishing blow to Stasibel and his family. As much as he desires to take Stasibel’s life through his own hands, it would tarnish his reputation as a loyal soldier and guard to the Empire. After all, he has prepared an explanation for this apparent sudden coup d’etat. His years of instilling suspicion of corruption from Stasibel and building himself as a loyal guard has etched itself deep into the people’s hearts, making them ready to abandon the Empire for Nasition. It is simple, really. He only has to proclaim that he had not, till the very end, wished for the Empire to end, that even in this chaotic situation, he had ordered a subordinate to kill the royal family. The only condition he has to fulfill is to not kill the family himself. It’s a shame, really, but either way, they will die, and he doesn’t mind so long as that happens.
Tevlaia pokes her head out of a bush, looking around before retreating back into the plants. To Nasition’s disappointment, there had been no traces of magic from his experiment several months before. Tevlaia was, for them, simply far stronger than the rest. All those lives wasted with little to show. His only relief is the apparent lack of an emotional impact on her where others would’ve been driven to insanity. Still, Nasition trained her, secretly dispatching her to battlefields, teaching her the usage of a gun and dagger. Her skill improved day after day, as did her confidence and ruthlessness. Finally, just a month ago, Nasition finally deemed her to be battle-ready, the last piece placed into the board.
“There will be no wait. We begin today.” I’m sorry, Queen Macrera. My comrades. Forgive me.
He unsheathes his sword, revealing the bright light on his turquoise colored blade. Smoke emanates from his back, clouding the mansion’s entrance in a concealing fog. Pain courses through Nasition’s broken body, rattling his heart, but he only feels relief. Relief from years of pent-up anger and hate, that he may finally rid the world of Stasibel. He had killed Norai. It is only natural that he deserves death.
“For the people, for the lands, for eternal peace,” he declares, “For the greater good of this wretched world!” Hundreds of crystals materialize in the fog, shattering the windows and the door. Behind him, the traitorous guards appear from their predetermined stations, charging into the mansion from all sides. By the end of the day, the Paladeia and the Achien Empire will be no more. A thousand years of absolute rule will finally end in the hands of Nasition himself. A thousand years of history will be destroyed in the fire of one man. A thousand years of unity will be crushed and buried in the flames of war and chaos. A thousand years of the Achien Empire, the definition of civilization itself, turned to dust just like that.
It is all for the greater good, after all.
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Macrera sits on a soft chair, facing one of the many grand windows overlooking the Paladeia, her newborn son wrapped comfortably in her arms. It has already been almost a month since the birth of Avalel, but only his name has been revealed to the public so far. Nasition had insisted that the public must not know about Avalel until the child turns three years of age, when his education would begin, somehow convincing even Stasibel himself. However, Macrera managed to compromise greatly, allowing Avalel’s name to be known and his first appearance to the public one month after he was born.
She strokes Avalel’s thin strands of amber hair, the telltale color of all babies born in the royal family. “You’ll soon see so many people,” she says softly, smiling at the round, plump face of her son, “Just wait until they see your adorable face.” Just seven days left. Seven days until Avalel will be a full month old. The waning light of the Elyfesta reflects off her pale skin, weakened from childbirth. She imagines the days, months, and years ahead, looking at Avalel grow and mature into an intelligent, respected boy, the baby fat slowly receding yet still having that smooth skin. She looks into Avalel’s bubbly eyes. He inherited his father’s eyes, didn’t he?
A knock, and Stasibel enters, his forehead slightly sweating from the heat outside. Characteristic of an exhausted father and ruler, his shoulders are lowered, his arms and legs at the end of their strength. His eyes, however, brighten when he sees the kind, welcoming gaze of Macrera. He approaches her, kissing her lightly on the forehead before tapping a finger on Avalel’s tiny nose.
“Welcome back,” Macrera whispers in Stasibel’s ear.
Stasibel drags another chair by Macrera’s side, promptly making himself comfortable next to his beloved wife. In the well-ventilated, cool room, the three simply stare at the gardens below and the sky above, watching as clouds float by, leaves drifting to the wind. Even Avalel, usually whining and tugging at Macrera’s dress, looks out, before the silence lulls him, closing his eyes as he drifts to sleep…
The startling sound of windows shattering, splinters of wood exploding reaches the room, disrupting the peace. The rapid footsteps of guards rumble as they descend the grand staircase. They could hear the indistinct shouting of guards, the firing of rifles, the clattering of shattered glassware and other fragile items, and sounds Stasibel had heard too often in his days at the battlefield.
“Please wait here,” Stasibel quietly tells Macrera, raising himself from his chair, distress implanted on his face. He walks toward a sword, scabbard-less, resting on a stand and protected by a glass case. Although unused for centuries, the blade has never dulled, nor did the handle lose its color. The single jewel encased inside the guard begins to glimmer, as if inviting Stasibel to pick it up.
Forgive me, my ancestors. Without hesitation, Stasibel removes the case and releases the Anapadeia from its resting place. Giving one last kiss to Macrera and Avalel, he rushes out, throwing himself into the chaos itself, as the ones before wielding that weapon had done.
Below, in the main room, he finds the entire place shrouded in a familiar smoke, his outnumbered guards fighting blindly. In the chaos, no one could even see who is friend or foe, only crazily slashing, stabbing at each other. Stasibel prepares to step into the smoke when suddenly, a crystal shoots at him, aiming for none other than his forehead. He feels his arms swinging, bringing the Anapadeia to his face, cleanly slicing the crystal in half.
It should’ve been impossible. Was that just… magic? Raising the Anapadeia, he feels a surge of energy in himself, his body heating up like the overloading of electrical circuits. The lights crackle, exploding into shards. The stairs shudder, the wood bending like waves on a beach. Stasibel feels his head dizzying, his blood vessels contracting. Finally, unable to bear the burden, he slams the Anapadeia onto the floor. Immediately, the smoke swirls around the sword like a whirlwind, spinning wildly before dispersing in an instant. Before his eyes, an energy barrier springs up from the ground, separating himself and a large portion of the room from the remaining smoke.
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As the smoke gradually clears, so too did Stasibel see the sight in front of him. Before him stands his guards, weapons pointed at each other, and at the center of it all, Nasition, down on one knee, his sword stabbed in the stomach of a guard as smoke wraps around his body like a barrier. From his mouth, nose, and eyes, blood drips down, staining his trousers. There is no expression on his face, only the silent determination of one filled to the brim with contempt and hatred.
“So you had remembered all this time,” Stasibel says, controlling his breath, “I have never once doubted your loyalty… Is she the reason that you decided to turn against me, just as the Empire is about to recover?”
“You never doubted me?” Nasition pants, pushing himself up, “You had set up that test for our loyalty and you say you have never doubted me? Is this some sort of joke?” He plucks his sword off the dead guard, pointing the tainted blade at Stasibel.
“Do you know what you are about to do, Nasition?”
“I know very well what I am about to do.” Smoke again rises from Nasition’s back, rapidly spreading across the room. The crystals converge on his left arm, forming a hardened blade, filled with the crude, genuine rage, repressed for so long in Nasition’s broken body. “My name will either be of a traitor who turned his back on the world, or a hero who saved it. But that isn’t my concern. I am only here to deliver your long due punishment.” He tears away the emblem of the Guard on his uniform, throwing it to the air before his sword pierces through the fabric.
Crystals sprout from the air, raining upon Stasibel and his guards in a hail of ruthlessness. As a crystal strikes a guard, it suddenly expands, destroying the body from within, rapidly petrifying the insides into organs of stone. As the dead guard falls, his corpse cracks before dissolving into dust, leaving only a crystal blooming like a flower atop a pool of blood.
Nasition coughs, screaming from the pain. His eyes bulge out, the blood now uncontrollably flowing out like water from a leaking pipe. His head aches all over, the acute pain rattling his brain. Still, he fights relentlessly, conducting, controlling the massive flow of the smoke, directing each and every materialized crystal to its desired destination, even if it is swiftly destroyed by the barrier erected by the Anapadeia. He feels his strength rapidly being sapped away, but he does not care. The goal is near, and he wishes to see it till the end. The mere responses of the nervous system cannot be enough to completely halt his attacks.
“I am your reaper, Stasibel!” Nasition shouts, converging the crystals into four pillars before launching them between Stasibel and his guards. As the pillars strike the ground, they explode, piercing the bodies of the guards. Despite Stasibel’s efforts, a crystal pierces through the barrier and strikes his thigh. Feeling his leg freeze up, he scrapes away the crystal with the Anapadeia, biting his lips to control the pain. Wincing, he falls on one knee, and the barrier quickly disintegrates, exposing the vulnerable guards to Nasition once again.
Finally, Stasibel’s defense collapses, and the remaining guards hurry for the staircase, leaving their comrades behind. Stabbed, shot from behind, some of them fall, their bones trampled by the boots of their former companions and comrades. Even as some try to destroy the staircase, cutting off the traitors’ advance, they are quickly disposed of, their corpses rolling down the steps. The few guards left and Stasibel retreat to his room, locking the door as they nervously ready their weapons. Outside, the smoke gradually recedes, the sounds of heavy coughing reaching to Stasibel’s ears.
“Stasibel!” Macrera cries, finding her injured husband limping to her feet.
“Nasition has betrayed the Empire,” Stasibel utters, blood streaking down from his reddened lips.
“How…”
“Protect Avalel,” Stasibel gasps, his words garbled, “At least until Faresoenn returns.”
The door bursts open, and amidst the intense gunfire, Tevlaia enters, slipping, dodging the beams before delivering a gruesome death to each guard, slicing open their torsos with a single slash. In her hands are two daggers, the liquids sliding down its steel blade. Soon, she stands in front of the royal family, blankly staring at them like a machine. There is no remorse for the ones she killed, but nor is there joy. There is only blankness, a face of neither smile or frown.
“Per Nasition’s orders, we’ll leave everything to you, Tevlaia,” one of the soldiers says, “Thank you for dirtying your hands for us.” They exit, leaving only Tevlaia and the royal family. Compared to the magnificent, intricately-decorated clothing of Macrera and Stasibel, Tevlaia’s clothing is merely a set of crudely made, bland, hand-me-down clothing she had picked up from a local charity during one of her few holidays. Still, the girl, only fourteen years of age, now towers over the royal family itself, acting not as a servant, but as the executioner.
“How poetic,” Stasibel manages to say, “Founded by a woman, ended by a woman. A thousand years of the Achien Empire meeting its end not from external threats, but from within. Don’t you think it is beautiful, Tevlaia?”
“You know my name?” Tevlaia questions.
“I somehow found the time to memorize the names of every individual who lives and works in the Paladeia,” Stasibel answers, “You could say I couldn’t allow myself even a moment of inaction.”
“We saw your training sessions every now and then,” Macrera adds, “You would’ve had much potential in the Guard, maybe even surpassing Faresoenn someday.”
“You’re a good child,” Stasibel says in regret, “I wish I could’ve done more, especially after the incident that killed so many of your companions.”
How did he know of that event?
“We’ve talked for a bit too long,” Macrera says, “You still need to reunite with the others, don’t you? Finish what Nasition started.” Holding Avalel, she rises from her seat and kneels, exposing her neck. “We have served our purpose. It’s time for the people to move on.”
“There is something I would like to say to Nasition,” Stasibel requests as he hands the Anapadeia to Tevlaia, “Tell him: I’m sorry.” He opens his arms, staring at the ceiling. He closes his eyes, reminiscing the many memories he had. The silliness in Ipela’s classes. Teasing an embarrassed Nasition. Laughing with the lively Faresoenn. Falling asleep while listening to Norai’s ramblings. Realizing everyone’s varying degrees of maturity at the coronation. The many battles fought alongside Faresoenn and Nasition. The selfless errands Norai did at his request. He doesn’t remember the many days of sifting through files and doing administrative duties, only the moments he shared with his dear friends.
For the final time, he smiles.
Tevlaia releases her hands, one of her daggers deep inside Stasibel’s stomach as he falls on his face. “A death fitting for a king,” she comments, “A corrupted one, but still a king.”
She walks to Macrera, looking at her trembling body, her gentle eyes fighting back tears, and in her arms, the little Avalel, fast asleep, oblivious to the tragedy around him. “Good night, Queen Macrera,” she salutes, imitating the guards that she had seen almost every day in her life.
“Good night, Tevlaia,” Macrera replies, “Don’t make it too painful for Lel.”
In swift motion, she slices Macrera’s throat, and as a steady stream of blood begins to flow from the wound, Macrera’s body relaxes, the baby slipping off as her arms go limp. For some unknown reason, Tevlaia lunges forward, holding Macrera’s arms still as Avalel’s round head rests on her forearm just above the floor. She freezes, stunned at her erratic behavior. This shouldn’t happen. If she had walked away, the last heir of the Achien Empire would’ve died already. Her job would be finished. Why, then, has she succumbed to some sort of unconscious movement, saving him at the brink of death?
She looks at the baby, his plump hands crossed together, his mouth open, drooling, the saliva dripping off the corner of his mouth. Even in the chaos and ruckus, he is still sleeping soundly, just like a ball of serenity. Despite her best efforts to command her arms to release Avalel, they stay in place, unable to let go of him.
Don’t make it too painful for Lel. It is as if those words are protecting Avalel like an invincible shield, a final blessing from Macrera. Avalel stretches and yawns, his short arms punching the air before retracting again, almost blending in with his ball of a body. Tevlaia’s hands tremble, and she suddenly realizes… she cannot bring herself to kill a newborn child. It is not in any way contributing to the greater good, after all.
She drops her dagger, the metal clanking against the floor. Dragging Macrera’s corpse, Tevlaia props her against the wall, her arms resting on her knee, shaped like a cradle. Carefully, she places Avalel onto Macrera’s arms, turning his head away. By tomorrow, perhaps Avalel will have died too, but at least that is not by her hands.
“Tevlaia!” one of her comrades shouts in the distance, “Nasition will be addressing the army soon! Hurry!”
She takes one final glimpse at Avalel. Still fast asleep. Placing the Anapadeia by the baby’s side, she turns away, wiping off the blood on her face, leaving behind her a bloodbath, and the end of the thousand-year Achien Empire. All for the greater good.