The immortal empire has fallen. Words no statesmen believed they would hear. They did however, think the phrase with great repetition over the past few years. Their first progressive thought was when the inconceivable had finally come to pass. Lord Percival Mason had trained his ears to ignore the clamor behind him. Where once sumptuous balls entertained the prim traditions of the Aldren Empire’s elite, there those sycophants now cowered, trembling, rehearsing their stuttering terms of negotiation. What was meant by it was obvious; they had already assumed their lives would soon be at the mercy of the Faleri.

They weren’t entirely wrong. Percival oversaw his troops mounting Aldren’s last stand from behind the parapets. The pommel of his sword scraped against the uneven stone as he surveyed.

Trebuchets readied their massive munitions, each explosive shot flanked by torchbearers, eager to defend their home. The trebuchets were primed next to helepolises sporting multiple levels of weapon mounts. Distance humbled them all. His men were brown ants in leather and mail, carrying the flickering motes of torches down the streets of the capital. Boys forced to be men clad in armor that had proven ineffective against the enemy time and time again.

In the capital citadel’s highest towers, the last cadre of mages prepared their Spells, or what remained of them from the arcaneries Aldren had left. The atmosphere boiled with the energies of Mind and otherworldly planes. Percival scratched the mounting irritation at his exposed neck. He would have to endure being in the presence of those casters all night.

“Look at them Wayfarer. Feel the spice in the air. The final dish is almost ready.”

“You have had the power to stop this at any time during its procession,” Percival uttered. “We have nothing to say to each other.”

“Your manners are abhorrent. Was it not I that saved you from atheism when your Spanish Flu took your entire lineage? Who knew gods were real? Ooh just not in your world. All those churches built for nothing!” And then came the laughter, deeply settled in Percival’s ears. Like church bells.

A cracking sound tore his attention back to reality. He had shattered a brick on the parapet in the grip of his gauntleted fingers. The stone dust adhered to the metal links underneath the plates, then blew away into the wind. Armor clinked on approach behind him.

“Lord Mason!” The young soldier said. “Highcaster Tireliam requests your presence.”

“I’ll be there.”

The young man hurried away. Percival watched him go with a forlorn gaze.

“It will hurt you to hear. But there were instances where you could have slowed the fall of Aldren. Shall I tell you?”

Percival focused on the burn in his muscles, hauling himself up the spiraling stairs to the Highcaster. Every few steps he passed by a window, and his ears would pick up the faint crackling of fire and the dim echoes of orders. The oranges of manmade flame mingled with the tips of the setting sun. Another step, and it was dark again. Quiet. A few more, and the warlike orange returned. Then dark once more.

“You people can’t resist tearing yourself down. You build and build so high up so others may see and flock to your citadel, sequester your failures by rewriting history, then die a slow death to mother Entropy. Again and again your civilizations rise and fall. Praising your own accomplishments, hiding your insecurities. Empires don’t get to have skeletons in its coffers, Percy.”

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“You asked for me, Highcaster?”

“Yes…” Tireliam sat cross-legged a meter above the stone floor surveying a projection of the battlefield. The metal scales on his robes refracted a piercing gleam from an unseen source. The Highcaster’s attire fit him better than any tailor could design; the flowing, golden robes moved with him like a second skin. His hair waved as if underwater, never seeming to be at rest despite the stillness of the air in the room. When Tireliam turned away from his facsimile of the battlefield, that gleam seemed to come through his golden irises. “Percival, dear boy, you look exhausted.”

“These days have been trying,” Percival said, squinting. “Lower your guard please, sir.”

The light radiating off of Tireliam’s robes dimmed.

Percival sighed and approached the facsimile. Little figures moved in the diorama of the capital. Soldiers prepared defense helepolises. The image even relayed sound. It was a choir of metal, grinding rock, and footsteps.

“How goes the defense?” Percival asked.

“As well as could be hoped,” Tireliam replied. “I expect us to last one month in siege. Three weeks if we are pessimistic.”

“That is...”

“Within your estimation.”

Percival nodded grimly. “Yes.”

“I did not call you here to exchange what we already know. I want to extend an invitation. Once the gates to the citadel are breached the other casters and I will Embark elsewhere.”

“Where else is there to go? The Faleri will hunt the last embers of Aldren wherever the wind takes us.”

“The Faleri have stretched thin as is to arrive here. Divinator Malidy has just finished her consultation. Her estimate is two decades. Twenty years before the Faleri reconstitute the internal stability behind their recently expanded borders. In which time it would be unwise of them to devote resources to pursue a Highcaster.” Tireliam’s smile was magnetic. “All of you would be under my protection.”

“If the citizenry were to hear of this— why me?”

“We have observed your honest service to the late emperor. Your accomplishments, your victories. It would be a shame to lose someone of your character to this tragedy, young Percival.” Tireliam placed a gloved hand on Percival’s pauldron. There was a fizzle of static upon contact.

It bothered Percival to look into the endearing eyes of a man who appeared no older than he. The Highcaster had had that title before Percival’s grandfather would have been born. He never liked the casters. There was more to their dishonesty than what could be seen at face value. And Tireliam was too close, it aggravated the itch on his neck.

“I need to think,” he said.

“Of course.”

Percival stepped away and leaned on the edge of the tower’s window, his head slung down. A chain of failures had led up to this moment. He had a part to play in them. To watch Aldren fall and be offered a safe exit while everyone else died gruesome deaths to the Faleri…

“Oh don’t feel guilty now. You reveled for years in this world after mourning yours for but a few seasons. If only you were more proactive in those years. If only you didn’t ignore the signs.”

“Is that what you want?” Percival whispered. “An admission of hubris? A demonstration of humility? What do you get out of this?”

“I have no stakes in any world’s crises. You matter no more to me than a drawing on parchment. I do like seeing you struggle.”

“We’re real. We can feel pain. We can love and lose. Can’t you spare one iota of sympathy?”

“No more than you can spare a hand for the countless who will die before morning.”

“One day, your black heart will beat for a mortal in this world. When that day comes, I hope to the creator they never find themselves in a place like this.”

Percival returned to Tireliam’s side.

“I intend to fight as if we will win,” he said.

The Highcaster nodded. “So shall we. Our plans simply include the idea of defeat. Fight well, Percival. My eyes are above.”

Percival excused himself and headed for the stairwell, ignoring the Highcaster’s glowing gaze boring into the back of his head.

“After all this, at the very least assure me you’re not this naïve.”

“I know,” Percival said. “You could make this much more interesting if you tell me what he’s planning.”

“The best laid schemes of mages and men often lead men to their demise.”

“Figures.”