It rained ash.

No sun could be seen, yet there was light. An angry red twilight blanketed the land. A figure wrapped in a ragged, dark cloak approached the ruins of a large destroyed building. The building had burned to the ground not long ago, its ruins still smoldered. The outer walls stood still, and much of the roof remained. However, the inside was hollow. Empty windows stared out like a grinning skull.

Ash and debris crunched under the heavy foot of the figure as it picked its way deeper within the burned out shell. The light receded as he drew deeper within the complex. The only illumination inside was the occasional beam of red light that beamed through a hole in the roof or through a shattered window.

In no hurry, the figure reached a larger room. This one was lit by the sullen light that streamed through the torn open roof. What may have once been a glass dome was now a broken eggshell, open to sky. Ash drifted down lazily, it lay on the floor nearly a meter deep. The figure stifled a coughing fit as he methodically began to dig through the ash. Parts of the uncovered floor were uneven, cracked or even missing, making footing treacherous. unnatural formations rose above the ash.

The search took time. The ashfall had picked up, hampering it’s progress. But eventually, a cleared section of floor yielded a perfectly square outline in ash, two handspans wide. With the first signs of excitement, the figure scooped and brushed ash aside until the whole square was revealed. Unlike the stone around it, the square was clean, smooth, and undamaged. The ash had not stuck to it and the devastation has not touched it.

The figure bent down, feeling with its dirty ash-stained fingers until it found a ash-filled divot in the cool metal. With its nails, it dug more ash out of the hole.

Hands shaking, it drew a geometric, multisided stone from a pocket, and pushed it into the slot. Runes carved into the stone lit with a silver light. The light spread into the metal, revealing more runes. With an audible click, the square shifted slightly. The figure hesitated, then, holding its breath, carefully tapped the runes in a specific order.

A tense moment passed. Then a secondary, more muffled click sounded. A relieved breath turned into another coughing fit. The door revealed a compartment. Inside the compartment was an ash-stained book, a safe, and other boxes.

The figure withdrew the book. It backed out of the ashfall, movements jerky and tense. In the least ash-covered corner of the room, under an intact shard of the glass dome, the figure opened the book and began to read.

I don’t have much time. Holder of this record: what follows is a true account. True insofar as my actions and thoughts. I make no claim of of transient truth.

Reader, I make but one request. If what you hold is the original: Do not destroy it! Mock it as you wish, declare it false, disbelieve it, hold it as an enduring example of a mad tyrant for all time, but do not destroy it! Let it exist so that future generations, if they exist, should know this:

I, Kaiser Wahr D’mmerung, Hero, Savior, Villain, Tyrant, destroyed the world.

But I will also save it.

The circumstances must be explained to understand the above statement.

The world was at war. There were two sides to this war. Two sides, but five factions. The sides were clear cut. Those that wanted to use the developing magic and technology as tools and those who worshiped them as gifts from the gods.

The factions are more complex. There were the Orthodoxy. Those who served the gods. Most of the western countries made up the bulk of this faction. They opposed use of magic as a tool, but they also rejected technology. But, some held the view that both were given by the gods to be used freely.

There were the Templars. These embraced both but worshiped them as well. Templars were scatted far and wide, but their hub was to the south.

Those that attempted to make peace and accept all views were given the name Trustees. They were even more scattered, but they were trusted by all. Right up until they betrayed the world.

The Kingdoms are next. The Kingdoms were a collection of states caught in the fighting, between the powers. Their motivation was simply to protect themselves: to weather the war or end it quickly by throwing their lot in with the winning side. It was here the main threat lurked, unknown to all but me and those I confided in.

The fourth faction was mine. I am Kaiser of an Empire and, moreover, Hero of the World. Our belief is that magic and technology is by man and for man. Out stated goal was to use unite the world using magic and technology as mankind’s tools. Our true goal was to end the gods and usher in a new era. One where man had the ability to make their destiny.

The fifth faction was not one of man, but of would-be gods. The Undying. Beings of great power, true, but as fallible, if not more so than any man. No one but I and their chosen knew of their existence. From the time when the true gods vanished, through age after age, these beings have guided and shaped mankind through gifts of knowledge and power.

In the not distant past, one of their chosen built a great alliance of the people of the world, ushering in an era of peace and prosperity. An era built upon a mountain of corpses. Their ultimate goals I do not know. Their motives are a mystery to me. But their cruelty and apathy are boundless. Humans are their playthings. Their toys.

This war, however, is different from those in the past. This war, mankind has power. Power like they have never had before. Power to level mountains and dry seas. Power even to destroy the world. Power to threaten those who would be gods. It is, for this reason The Undying instigated this war. A war with no winners. To raze the world and most of mankind with it, sending it back into an age of darkness. A reset.

But how would I, a man, however respected, stop this? A word to those who follow the will of the divine and Hero or not, my country would be at war for heresy. Part of the problem is my realization came too late: War was already inevitable.

Hero. I have referred to myself here as such, haven’t I? I don’t think of myself as one. But I feel compelled to explain why I was called ‘Hero’, for two reasons. First, this is when I first met the Undying’s hand. Second, in the event that history’s cruel hand distorts the truth. Because that is why I am writing this. The Truth. However, I don’t wish to cloud this account with my unimportant deeds, so I shall exercise brevity.

I was Prince and my kingdom was small when a great lich lord rose to power. He was a magus gone mad with desire for power. Classic fairytale really. It began conquering, setting its dark armies across the land. Mine was next. And its last. I lead my armies against it, and though it was a terrible battle, we prevailed. Our success was due to two things: a genius inventor whose magitech was far advanced, and a perilous mission I and an elite squad undertook to find and destroy the lich’s phylactery.

When the dust settled we were heroes. We saved the world from the lich.

I think we were only heroes because the other side were villains. We did horrible things. We had to.

I hear commotion. I have little time.

During the height of the war, I had a dream. In that dream, a glowing being offered me a Stone that glowed with the light of ten thousand stars. It promised me power to protect my kingdom and it promised to make my kingdom prosper until it covered the world.

I turned it down. Shocking, really. I still wonder why I didn’t accept. I might have saved countless lives. Back then, we thought we were fighting a hopeless battle. There was no hope of winning. Only to delay.

But I didn’t and we won. Human ingenuity and courage won the day. Yet the corpses piled high.

I forgot about the dream. After the war, my energy was focused on helping my father rebuild. We found ourselves suddenly enlarged, in charge of the countries the lich had already overrun. Less important things could wait.

Time passed.

Wounds healed, fear was forgotten and politics set in. Once again, war loomed, for the reasons I explained above. I find it ridiculous that so soon after mankind faced subjugation, it so readily turned on itself.

But I have no room to talk.

As the world hurtled to another brutal war, small details, small inconsistencies bothered me. No. They consumed me. I agonized over the details, doing research that would have gotten me killed had I been anything less then a very cautious crown prince and general of one of the greatest military forces in the world. Assassins came out of the woodworks for me. Again, none more than I am surprised that I yet live.

To make a long story short, I discovered the presence of The Undying. Not one night later, I dreamed of them. This time, I knew who they were. I asked them of their purpose. They told me. And again, they offered me power. A place, promises of protection. They had tried this before.

But I could not be part of their plan. They wanted to return humans to Stone Ages, eliminate all history that ever was and start over. In return, they offered to make me one of their number. With sickened realization, I knew this wasn’t the first time. That I was talking to once-men that had sold their race for power and immortality.

I turned them down again. I swore that I would stop them. I would tear them down from their empyrean seats and let the collective of man decide his own path.

They laughed. They told me that man would decide himself to extinction.

They could be right. But at least it would be his own choice.

My plan was a desperate one. I had to become something I wished never to be. A tyrant.

A week later, I killed my father. Took his throne. Declared war. I struck first. If I could gather the world’s greatest powers: miracles of magic and technology, and the might of man, I could unseat The Undying.

I have failed. Their champion, tempted with power, rose from Kingdoms, drawing out the war. In time, the Undying were able to engineer my doom.

I am a tyrant. I have painted the earth red with the blood of innocents. For my atrocities, I deserve my fate.

But, the future does not.

In my last moments, I have hope. Dear reader: I have sown seeds. Seeds that, if cultured, will grow into the roots of a new civilization. One greater then ever. One that may yet realize my goal:

To put the reigns of History in the hands of Man.

This vault contains the first seed, and clues to more, which lead to more.

The Undying are not infallible. They can be beaten. Do not give up hope.

The figure closed the book with a thump. There was more but it did not care. It considered the slim volume for a moment. Then, with a gesture, the book burst into flames. Protective runes burst to life, but flickered and failed as the octane fire consumed them. A flick of its wrist and ash joined ash.

With an air of satisfaction, the being walked out, more fire spreading in its wake.

Blood on the Rocks by @Kalleth WC: 1756

Water poured down the flagstones of the castle’s courtyard, which in the reddish gloaming kindled a likeness to blood. The wind rushed through the gates, torn asunder by some mighty blow, and produced a keening howl to put the fear of God in men. Such was always the way with these things, and though it made my stomach twist to face the horrors beyond, I girded myself. Steel to cut, flesh to split, and a wicked thirst… Ah to hell with it, I forget the rest. So I stepped up to those great yawning gates, and readied myself. Sword at hip, armour tightly fit, and my teeth grit against the sheets of rain.
I stepped through the threshold, and cast my gaze around, feeling my breath hiss between my teeth. A terrified scream, pitched high and dainty despite itself, met my ears. I caught a flash of light-coloured fabric from the parapet of the massive stone keep’s balcony. Something had pulled it back, though the accompanying flash of lightning revealed an opening far above, and a sensation of being watched rushed down my spine. Whatever hateful thing there lurked, I told myself, would be first to meet my blade.
The main doors to the keep were no obstacle, and I tried to listen for more cries as I stalked through the dimly lit hall. The table had been set, but the food remained untouched, and it still gave off the gentle vapours of freshly cooked food. Of the cook I saw no sign, and thus continued on, my appetite waning. The main staircase wound up in the center of the keep, a great stony pillar climbing through the air. Tapestries hung from these steps variously, depicting scenes I averted my eyes to, though I knew that in all likelihood a man with a morbid curiosity would linger. I am no such man.
The bedroom door, when I came to it, was open slightly. A flicker of candlelight shone through the opening to illuminate a silhouette standing just behind the door, peering in. From within came the sound of gentle sobs, and the sadness embodied in those pitious moans gave my hands a righteous tension to draw my weapon. The blade hissed loose of the scabbard, and the silhouette turned, a gasp of surprise breaking the quiet. I rushed, low and taut, arm as sword and sword as arm. Blood spattered the carpeted floor, and a thrill of excitement caught my breath. Run through, the villain sagged on my arm and a last whisper passed his lips.
“Why…”
Weapon forgotten, I strode into the the room. It was opulent, and there was some blood splattered off the door. It pooled inward from outside. Thunder rumbled distantly, when I saw her, all soaked and drenched from the downpour. She lay against a four-poster bed, frightened eyes staring out at me. She was much unkempt from what seemed a recently ended bout of crying, and her bleary gaze spoke of an innocence lost. Ignoring the manifest jewels and riches splayed about the room casually, as though to ward off the poverty of mortal existence, I crept to her side and knelt down in front of her.
“Come, sweet thing, all that must come shall pass, in time.” I extended a hand to her, and she stared for a moment before taking it.
“Cold.” She murmured, and I hushed her. I led her over to the massive hearth where coals flickered fitfully. A cursory examination of the mantle provided me with a flint and steel, which I handed over to the woman. She took them, though her eyes were far away, and her fingers had gotten stained from where she gripped the bloodied piece of steel I had given her. I added a couple large pieces of lumber into the fireplace, but a full minute passed between me and the woman.
“On nights like these, a fire can provide warmth where only cold would otherwise linger.” I prompted her softly. She blinked and set to work lighting the wood. It took longer than it might have, if we had had kindling, but there was none. When the flames finally caught, it was with much smoke and an unpleasant metallic stench that pervaded the room. The woman sat back finally and muttered something.
“What was it you said?” I asked, stepping back toward the flames and out of the shadows of the room.
“When I said cold, I didn’t mean me.”
“I’ve only just come in from the storm outside, which was quite chilling, as I’m sure you’re aware.” I nodded to her still damp dress, which clung to her form in a very revealing manner. She seemed to notice this fact and shifted her gaze, most likely looking for a cover.
I reached over to the bed and pulled away the downy quilt, extending it to her. She took it and wrapped herself in it, turning back toward the fire. My eyes roamed over to the growing pool of blood, and lingered there for a time, as I lost myself in idle thoughts.
“Why did you come here?” The woman’s voice jarred me from reverie, and I saw she was standing taller than before. She seemed to be regaining her strength.
“I came because I heard a monster had stolen into this castle, ravished the lord’s daughter, and begun all manner of devilish machinations.” I said this all as matter-of-factly as I could, for it was the truth, after a fashion. Her face twisted, and she glanced down at her hand, sticky and red.
“You look quite monstrous as you stand there, sir.” I couldn’t help but grin, and she took a step back, eyes wide.
“I suppose I do, all blood-spattered and pale. Though you must forgive me the first, the second is a result of my birth, and hardly a matter of devilish interference. No, I was born far from here, in a land of pale men and women. It is not so unusual for us though, to get a storm like this, all dark and fierce. And the sun shines not quite so strongly when the clouds blow away.” The woman seemed mollified by this, though she kept eyeing my mouth with the same frequency of young lovers yearning to kiss, with none of the tenderness.
“He beat me, you know. Ceaselessly. Always said it had to do with my face, though I never looked uglier than after he was through with me.”
“Who?” She frowned at my question, sniffling.
“My father, the man who you…”
“Oh him? He’s dead, he’ll bother you no longer.” That same keening cry, so very much like the castle gates where they hung askew, grated my ears. “Whatever is the matter? You said it yourself, he beat you. I’ve made him stop. Aren’t you relieved?”
I watched her turn about several times, a wild look in her eyes. Tears poured down her cheeks anew, and where she grabbed at her face she left a pinkish-red smear that reminded me of the rain on the flagstones below. When she tripped over the blanket in her frenzied movements, she fell perilously close to the crackling fire. I stepped forward to help her, but she screeched at me.
“Back with you, devil! I want no part of you!” Her flailing hands splayed with her fingers curled away from her, in some poor imitation of claws.
“The devil? Well that is plainly untrue, and I find the very thought offensive.” I reached into my cuirass and withdrew something shiny on a chain. I took a step forward even as the woman shied away, and held the object up against my flat palm in the firelight to better show her what I possessed.
“You see, I, am a man of God.” I proclaimed solemnly, taking my turn to admire the small silver crucifix that dangled from a long chain of the same. Where the metal brushed against my skin, a faint sizzling could be heard and small trails of smoke rose from my palm.
“Fire burns things like you,” she whispered, though her words echoed like thunder to my ears. “Silver poisons, and I’ve heard it said that all that is good and true in this world is your kind’s bane.” She was babbling now, and I watched her stumble, scrabble, and crawl toward the balcony. I followed her, silent as the dead, and listened without quite hearing her desperate murmurings.
“I’ve slain the monster, and now I’m to rescue the lord’s daughter and whisk her off to a lovely new life. Would you like that, sweet thing?” I bent at the waist and reached to twirl some of her raven-black curls. “Or have I truly come too late, and has that villainous fiend already turned you away from all that is good and true in this world?” She offered me no reply beyond her chittering madness. Poor girl. A shame I was too late.
We reached that same parapet from which I’d first spotted her, and as she clung to it, a raving fear upon her lips and in her eyes, I could not suppress a chuckle. The rain was beginning to subside, or the storm had chosen to quieten for a time, at any rate, the clouds parted. Sultry rays of moonlight washed the balcony in a passionate crimson, and the reds of blood grew redder.
“I’ve just remembered a little rhyme somebody told me a long time ago, back before I left my old life behind. Would you like to hear it? I haven’t been able to call to mind the ending in a mortal age.” The woman, balanced precariously on the parapet, was silent at last. Her vacant eyes stared back into mine, and it would be difficult to say whose gaze held less humanity.
“Steel to cut, flesh to split, wicked thirst and appetite. Keep your silver, sermons, fire, and hope the night will never bite.” She fell back into the void somewhere between the first and the second verse, but even with all of my magnanimity, I had in fact committed a small injustice. A pittance really. I lied about having remembered the rhyme, and I’m not even certain how many verses there are.
Afterward, in the courtyard I drank from the flagstones as a parched man inches from death. The water, such as it was, reflected cold reddish hues where it pooled in places. The blood, such as it was, burned like fire when it ran down my throat.

“He has to die.” Her voice was quiet, but unafraid, even though each moment brought a fresh tremor of anxious anticipation for the events that were about to unfold.

Whispered conspiracy had dogged the dark halls of the palace for months, following the princess like a pestilence and trying her immensely. Turning from the broad cityscape that her grand balcony afforded, Lyra sucked in a sharp breath. Even here, in the sanctity of her room, she felt the long shadows of furniture reach out and welcome her like an old friend. She mentally recoiled.

She was doing her duty. A duty to her city, her nation, and all the people that inhabited it. They would thank her, if they ever discovered the truth, and those that would know would think far greater of her. But, she might never forgive herself. Thin fingers plied one another like clay as she held them in front of herself, chewing her bottom lip in a way her mother had always despised.

A sharp rap on the door shattered the tapestry of introspection she had been weaving.

“Come.” Her voice was brisk, cold, entirely the cool character she intended to rule as. Despite such an icy reception, the royal valet - still in the luxurious purple uniform of the house - entered with a gentle smile and spoke with a congenial timbre.

“Guard-Captain Holte is here to see you, your highness. I would send him in, if it pleases you?” The young boy’s head was lowered in supplication as he posed the question and, aware of protocol, Lyra pretended to give the query a moment of consideration. Aware to give the impression that this late call was unexpected. The gown covering her silk nighty, and somewhat dishevelled hair, was the final piece of the puzzle intended to befuddle any attempt to put together the events of the night.

“Hold a moment.” She commanded, taking the time to deliberately pad over to her dresser and adjust the loose strands of auburn hair into a more respectable style. A true actor. “There.” She finally exclaimed, placing a single pin through the locks to hold them all in place. “You may send him in now.”

The valet silently slid from the room and could be heard whispering to an unseen figure beyond the stained oak door. Forthwith it opened and closed a final time, allowing entry of a scarred veteran in the livery of the royal guard.

“Your highness.” He greeted her in a tone almost as dark as her own had been to the valet, clearly he was struggling as she was. “I have come as your father has requested your presence.” The facade of their discourse was grating on them both and the princess raised a hand to silence any further part of the message she was supposed to receive.

“Your highness, I wish to inform you of your father’s wishes…” He returned to the rehearsed speech and Lyra relinquished this to him, adopting a stony portrait though listening to none of the words. Boris had served her father for decades, though he was not betraying a biological father, in his heart he likely felt he might as well be.

“Your highness, will you see him?” The question was posed with a greater severity than expected, and Lyra realised quickly she had missed the first time it had been asked. Straightening the pleats in her dress, though it had been in no way out of place, she nodded her assent.

“I will, inform the king I will see him now.” And, with that, the soldier departed to make ready the final preparations. Leaving the door open as he stepped through, Lyra realised the old man had meant for her to act now. The time for thinking should be done. Approaching the threshold she stared down at the invisible line in the floor, the point of no return, and faltered. If she went now she would not return to this room. She could not. Yet, if she stayed, countless would suffer.

Which is how she found herself marching down the long hallway that lead towards the royal quarters. Her valet followed two steps behind, lighting the way with a candelabra held aloft to guide them. Nobody ever lit the halls of the palace anymore. There were too many faces, cut deep into the stonework that put shame to the living, perfect as they were in nostalgic reverence. Approaching the gilded white doors of the king’s room, Lyra almost stumbled, though no fold of the crimson carpet had been there to trip her. Before she could cry out, or fall, an arm shot out and steadied her. It was the valet.

“Careful, your highness.” He said, reassuring in his grasp and voice. Lyra should have admonished the valet for an offence like touching the royal body without permission. Glancing back into his eyes, however, she read a desperate hope in them she had not expected. His boyish features put him only at fourteen years old, but there was a wise acceptance in how he spoke to her. “You have your duty to do.”

“What?” She hissed, fear mixing with vocal outrage, as the glacial face splintered into a plethora of emotions. But, a gentle squeeze of her hand seemed to pulsate kindness into her veins, which had been lacking such for a long time.

“I am sure the king needs to see you.” He explained, simply, unafraid, desperately wishing. And she knew he knew. Though he had never been in those alcoves and niches with the other conspirators, he knew. And she didn’t even know his name. Lyra nimbly drew her hand away, preparing.

“Return to your quarters, now.” She instructed, and he obeyed without hesitation. Standing before those doors alone, Lyra did not feel the same force pulling her to stop as she had at her own door. She had left her trepidation behind her, and she fearlessly pushed her way into the vast room of the king’s quarters.

The royal guard were absent, as Boris had seen to, and she maintained the vigour she had entered with as she stalked into the middle of the room. A grand throne, resplendent with great cushions and enameled precious gems, sat atop the regal plinth from where the king was expected to greet petitioners and subjects. Grand suits of armour wore by the general-kings before stood silent witness to the power of the kingdom the king ruled.

Though not to the king himself. Instead of the throne, a large bed sat - it’s pale and pallid colouration a stark contrast to the rest of the room - with a ghostly and frail figure sprawled under its sheets.

“Father, I have come.” Lyra said, her voice a whisper but still audible. The old man did not stir. “Father?” She asked, with hope this time. Perhaps time had done already what she intended. A stirring and rustle of cloth came crashing down on that wish.

“Lyra? My child…” He gasped from parched lips, extending an arthritic claw of a hand to try and grasp for his offspring. Lyra took the offering and pressed the wafer thin skin of his fingers against the youthfulness of her cheek. The king let out a contented grumble. “I was dreaming again.” He explained, and Lyra nodded softly.

“What of, father?”

“The sky.” He marvelled, the signs of energy and resoluteness that kept him alive breaching into his expression momentarily, before fading. Lyra already knew what this meant and, with a disgusted manner, she peered up to the round ceiling. Three great scenes, painted with the finest attention to detail so that none of their horror could be missed, dominated her view. “I… I saved them.” The king wheezed, each breath like the opening of a tomb for the first time.

He had saved no-one, by the end, Lyra knew. The elves, tall and lithe creatures with sharp features, had been enigmatic but peaceful folk. Living out their days in villages built into the branches and boughs of the Dark Forest. Yet, when progress had demanded fresh wood her father had ordered the trees felled, when the elves retaliated he had simply seen them burn. Heralded as rebel dissidents, the burning of their home tree dominated the first segment of the ceiling above. Screaming faces from those trapped inside haunted Lyra, and lived as a source of revelry for the soldiers depicted.

“The p-people need me, Lyra. As soon they w-will need you.” His hand clasped her wrist, the wrinkled and frail man clutching onto her as his last hope.

“The people need me now, father.” She stated, a monotone fact which stopped her father as he tried to slowly comprehend her meaning. But, Lyra was distracted from his confusion, she had already looked over to the next scene. She vaguely remembered this one, the killing of the guard. Snakes zigged and zagged over bright red floors as great indomitable men in steel armour stamped down atop them. The imagery was bright and demanded respect, though Boris had told her what had really happened. His friends, and his comrades, hunted inside the palace during another bout of imperial paranoia. Apparently the bodies had been strung up beside the throne for a week before her father had let them down.

“Wh-what do they need you for, child?” Her father finally asked, relenting in trying to decipher her meaning.

“Hm?” She refused to turn, dragging her gaze on to the final and most deplorable chapter of her father’s history. The city, her home, and the homes of the people, sprawled out into a setting sun. A picturesque representation of the hope their kingdom was meant to represent. Along a road winding through the city crosses stood high and, nailed into each one with a terrible expression of agony, a person hung. Each one desperately torn and twisted as soldiers tortured them with weapons and tools, the kind Lyra could not bear to imagine mangling flesh.

She knew of this day all too well, the Day of Snakes. Protest had erupted, spontaneously it is said, against the rule of her father. Rumour had it even sections of the army were ready to mutiny, she had heard Boris giving that report, and join the protestors who marched up and down the streets. They had wanted him deposed, and he had taken an afront. He saw himself as their guardian and their guide, the only one capable of saving them from perceived threats, and so he had taken against the people such malice and force that they might never see him as anything but their king again.

“Lyra?” The voice was more strained now, without thinking her hands had slipped from his to the pillow beside him. “What are you doing?” Delicate and gentle hands, loving hands, slipped the heavy cushion up and over his face. No longer capable of words, his weak hands clawed feebly at her cheeks, like a puppy trying to push away a storm. As she pressed down his body convulsed and tears stained the top of the weapon, dripping from her cheeks. Eventually the struggling slowed, slowed, and then ceased. The quiet of the act faded into the silence of murder.

Lyra stayed there for some time, she could not tell how long, weeping still as she kept the pillow pressed down firmly over the face of her father. She couldn’t bear to lift it and see him. A hand on her shoulder was the thing that summoned her back to the present.

“Your majesty?” The question was draped in sorrow. Boris had appeared, now awaiting her first command. She was suddenly aware of herself again, and her heart froze on the words of the valet. The boy. He knew of her patricide, he might undo all they had accomplished here.

“My valet.” She said. “I need you to imprison my valet.”

What is "paradise"? Some may imagine a beautiful garden of rolling hills, golden meadows and gentle breeze. Others see a home of family, content in the safety of their warm shelter. Still more may think of our great empire, halls of achingly opulent wealth that would incite envy from even the highest of gods.
This is what I had fought for, once. I was a younger man. I thought I knew what paradise was. I thought I was the savior the crowds with the olive branches were cheering me on to be. I thought I was destroying the enemies of humanity, the deviants, those who dare threaten the reclamation and salvation.
And in the end, we won. The enemy was destroyed. The last, fleeting regiments surrendered and embraced back into our fold. Our empire reached far beyond the horizons and over every crevice, every shadow. And I? The crowning champion, the face of the unstoppable march towards our greatest future.

But what then?

They told me to give up my arms and rest. That all evil had finally been purged, and there was nothing more for me to conquer. That we have finally reached our promised destination. Paradise.
But where others saw happiness and beauty, I saw darkness.
A silent, insidious holocaust. Not a death of common material sorts, no, such a meagre threat had been swept aside long ago. It's the death of change. A death of definition. A death of our souls.
Why? It is easy to be blinded by happiness. Let me show you.
Humanity has been defined by their want to change. From our earliest days, we desired shelter. So we built huts and houses. We desired water, so we built wells and dams. And then we built fences to keep out beasts, watermills to use our water, and through our constant strive for greater things we have achieved greatness. Over time, we evolved to define ourselves in this pursuit; never catching perfection, but finding meaning in this pursuit. This is what we are built upon - to struggle against the unknown, and thrive when we conquer it.
But what happens if we do catch this perfection? What happens if we achieve the pinnacle, and find that there is no more mountain to climb, no more 'greatness' to conquer?
Nothing. We become nothing. Set pieces of diorama, always changing but never evolving. A dust that blows to and fro, mindlessly following the rules of nature in an equally mindless perfection. In achieving perfection, we have been overrun by our hidden enemy; stagnation.
So now I set to reclaim what defines us. I will lead an army of those who see the truth and set fire upon this paradise, and in doing so wake the world from its giddy, static lethargy. Sow terror and chaos, and let the age old adage, "survival of the fittest", reign again. Humanity will be reset to our most basic, most valorous days so that we may build shelters and wells, and rediscover our definitions once more. Better a hopeful world of chaos and ruin than a hopeless world of blind happiness.
I do this out of love and mercy. I do this to see despair again, and in that despair, hope. I do this to save the world from itself. Whether nor not the world understands this, it is of no consequence. A savior does not save because others sees them as such.

If I must go to hell, let it be so. But in my damnation, the world will find salvation.

- Journal of Trevis Mae, Hero of the Ametrine Empire

The thriving city of Ostagon was ideally situated at a junction of major roads. The roads leading to the city were broad enough for two wagons to pass each other, and leave room for people to walk at the sides of the road. They crossed within the city, and between the gates they were neatly paved with granite slabs, so evenly laid the travellers felt as if they were riding on water.

From the East Gate to the West Gate, from the North Gate to the South Gate, the main streets were filled with shops. Anyone travelling through the city had ample choice for buying the finest of goods. Traders sold wares from all over the world. Tailors, goldsmiths, glassblower, artists, pastry bakers, they all sold their finest crafts and foods to the traders and travellers passing through.
At the junction itself was the oldest inn of the city, it was the first building that had been built at the crossroad, followed by shops and houses until Ostagon reached its full glory.

Smaller inns were scattered around the four districts, amongst the houses of the citizens, and the bakers, butchers and smaller shops that supplied them. When there was no school, children were allowed to play on the streets, as long as they kept off the main street.
The citizens all wore fine clothes. Judging by what the poorest wore proved there was no poverty in the city.

With the basic necessities more than met, the people of Ostagon focused on the performing arts: theatre and music. They read and debated science and philosophy. That, in turn, attracted nobles wanting to see a performance and scholars who wanted to talk with the bright minds of the city.

But the wealth of the city attracted swindlers and thieves too. A City Guard was brought to life to deal with those seeking advantage of honest customers and hardworking citizens.

The strong sir Morgon was the best of the best. No hand was sleight enough for his trained eyes and he had brought many pickpockets, purse-cutters, and thieves to the dungeon under the city hall. When riots broke out, he was there to arrest the culprits. When shopkeepers were threatened with a sword, he stood up to defend them.

With his mighty sword he brought justice when evil showed its face.

One day a group of barbarians came, hidden as refugees they came to the city only to reveal the weapons under their cloaks. Keeping their swords high in the air they were ready to pillage Ostagon, but sir Morgon and the other guards stood their ground and the earth got soaked in the blood of the enemies. It sent a clear message to anyone who had a similar idea: they would not allow the city to be raided and anyone who would try would perish.

Sir Morgon was celebrated as a hero and their peaceful, prosperous lives went on.

But the times changed. War broke out and trading came to a halt. Fewer people travelled the roads now the country was in turmoil and food supplies dwindled.

The good people of Ostagon had relied so much on trading goods and buying what they needed, that most of them didn’t even know how to grow their own food or make their own clothes. And the price of food went up every day.

Children who once played in the streets now scavenged the city to look for food. But good sir Morgon was still there, keeping the city safe.

A child stealing a loaf of bread was quickly plucked from the street and thrown in the dungeon, a mother stealing a necklace to sell for food so she could feed her family was put on the scaffold as an example. And the rioting citizens who wanted to defend such lowly criminals were struck down with sir Morgon’s mighty sword.

It puzzled him when someone called him a heartless beast after he kicked away a woman clinging to his legs, pleading to let some stealing boy go. The apples weren’t his and if he’d allow this child to steal now, it would continue to steal. Others might see it as approval of stealing and before everyone knew it people would murder each other.

There would be no lawlessness in his city.

Justice is blind, but can it foresee the unseen? How do you stop creatures that hide within mortals’ flesh and lurk around every corner? Phantoms that possess others to commit unspeakable acts against the innocent. Our beloved kingdom was burdened with rumors as pervasive as the winds whispering outside my bedroom window. But as I write and witness the beautiful starlit sky and smell my sister’s pungent perfume still lingering on my fingertips, I’m reminded that I’m not alone in the unrest; my father is losing his senses. Sharp yet frail like a feather arrowhead, I fear his aim of chasing these phantoms down has risen tensions between our neighbors and brought us unnecessary conflict. We’ve been blessed to live in the most peaceful era in history, but if you listened to their trembling lips you’d believe the earth was collapsing beneath your feet. “May the gods have mercy on your soul if you’re unfortunate enough to be their target,” they say. But as midnight arrives I remain skeptical of such ridiculous...

---

My sister’s scream chilled my bones, but the silence scared me half to death. But I’d rather be a dead man running than live without her. I stumbled through dark hallways of our home, wondering why my father had told the nightly patrol to leave and not trouble our guests. I was compelled to rush outside towards our garden, where my sister liked to wander at night. My sword was drawn the moment I remembered it was strapped to my waist, but I hadn’t expected to face such a monster. A young man with a devil’s grin, his bloody claws twisting the dagger right out of her left hand. Both laying on a bed of white lilies, watered by tears falling from her pale cheeks. Like a dragon’s fury building in my stomach, I felt like spitting fire as I roared. It was the son of the guest that came to end a trade dispute between our kingdoms. His cost would end up being more than an arm and his leg, as the price to be paid begged for war. His expression filled with horror as his head twisted backward, immediately releasing his grubby fingers from her white dress and staining it red. Dropping onto his knees and clutching his face, sobbing and babbling like a maniac.

“The phantoms told me to! The phantoms made me do this!”

My sister stopped me from ending his words with a single strike, keeping two men’s heads on their shoulders. Her embrace calmed us both, as she informed me that I’d arrived in time. She wanted him brought to justice through proper means, not wanting to cause misunderstandings and turmoil for her sake. But knowing the man would be merely locked in the cell until morning wouldn’t help me sleep. As I felt invisible hands gripping my heart at the mere thought of crushed flowers.

---

My father and I waited alone in the dimly lit throne room for the guards to bring in the possessed, at least that’s what he claimed to be. Like the rest of our prisoners, these phantoms served as the underlying cause for their crimes. But these summoners of lies only want to escape the truth and time as it ticked by. The darkness couldn’t cover up my father’s ghostly pale complexion, or stop him coughing into his golden robes. Despite my mind overflowing with thought, I remained silent as I struggled to find the words that would make my father smile and laugh like he once had. Our last conversation related to me claiming his throne after his inevitable passing. How could I confront someone who shook death’s hand, comfortable with having their last dream?

Interrupted by the clamoring of armor that burst through the front doors, four soldiers carried him in, appropriately trussed like a pig ready to be roasted alive. I remember feeling relief that his hands were tied behind his back and his legs shackled together, but I’d soon learn that wasn’t enough to restrain one’s acts of violence. As the soldiers kept the prisoner's head bent and staring at the red carpet as a reminder that those deemed guilty would bleed. My father cleared his throat before speaking with an authoritative tone.

“For the evil acts you’ve committed, you’re—” But his words were cut off by screams of indignant passion.

“The phantoms dug their claws inside my brain! They contorted my body with every violent thrust as they penetrated your daughter! The phantoms raped her!”

The incantations slaughtered my father’s innocent spirit like a baby beaten bloody. The destructive fuel caused his pupils to spread like wildfire. Clutching his chest with an agonized cry, my father had collapsed forward. Nothing we did could bring him back...

The summoner had killed my father and had stolen his dream. With the heaviest of hearts that make strong men buckle to their knees, I intend to accept this anchor and refuse to be dragged into the depths of their despair. By my honor, I will eliminate the speech of liars and cover the mouths of kingdoms that let it fester like an open wound. By my hands, I shall bandage the world and end all of its’ suffering.

---

My beloved sister was strange. You’d never expect someone so visually pleasing to be so sharp, albeit rough around the edges, like a thorny rose beginning to wilt. She was self-sacrificing to a fault. Donating her long flowing raven-locks, soft as silk, snipped off until she resembled somebody more masculine. When we were younger, I would often tease her about being blessed with hair that grew like a weed. So she'd challenge me to arm wrestling match where she’d always fail with a smile on her face. I never understood why until she admitted it was due to how flustered I’d stay afterward.

But the burial today had the brightness faded from her face. The mood was as gray as the clouds cast over our heads, killing daylight and seeming to promise darker days ahead. The eventual rain accompanied our cold silence as I held my sister’s hand, refusing to leave to her side, until she couldn’t bare the sight of a gravestone and locked herself in her room. I could open the door, but her mouth was sealed and I haven’t been blessed with her voice since. I knew she was hesitant on my call to silencing the possessed and fighting “against what we don’t understand”. But another piece of my soul was stolen from me, and I had every intention of getting it back.

---

I’d gotten off my mare and tread past some of my fallen soldiers, giving them a silent prayer as I stepped on the slain fertilizing the soil. We made tremendous progress pushing back enemy lines. While their king stuffed his face and sent fodder to die like sheep, I was the Alpha wolf leading our pack to victory. Then I noticed a young man standing alone in the field and hovering over an enemy with arrows piercing their legs, still living and pleading to be spared and treated. Both sides were aware that we had a greater amount of supplies from successful raids claiming theirs to preserve ours. I saw the shocked stare in his eyes as his trembling arms lowered his spear. I felt like I was floating in the air, as he failed to notice my presence until I had gripped his shoulder and grounded him back into reality. His reluctant glance up seemed to expect a scolding, but I gave him a smile and said, “A leader shouldn’t expect his followers to do for him, what he can’t do for them.”

The young man stepped back to watch as I unsheathed my bloody blade and readied my strike as the injured man had rolled onto his stomach. Suddenly springing up onto his two feet, the enemy’s fist nearly struck my face with his metal glove. I slashed straight through his head and had him crumbling over. The blood sprayed through the air and splashed across my face. Immediately I tried to wipe my eyes, but likely only caused more blood to get into them. The young man took my arm and helped me onto my horse, which he rode back to camp where I was able to flush out my eyes and wash my skin. It didn’t hurt, but my red-eyed reflection in the mirror was a reminder of what I sacrificed that day. And the incredible power I gained that changed everything; Phantom Vision.

---

With my disciples by my side, I climbed above the rubble of those who thought lowly of us and reached heights rivaling the gods. But even after being humbled by the lavish praise once we returned home, my ambitions felt far from accomplished. My sister seemed to resent me for purging the unworthy. But as I’ve been losing my worthless sight, my third eye has begun opening and I fear the phantoms were always there. No matter how hard I ran, my peripheral vision couldn’t escape the darkness following my footsteps. And I knew I couldn’t sleep when the phantoms were trying to stab me in the back! Rumors spreading like a plague and infecting those I considered allies; it sickened me enough to make me vomit.

“He’s unfit to claim the throne.”

“He’s muttering scary things again.”

“He’s going mad.”

To the summoners and their forked tongues that preach chaos and practice evil; I am not wrong! I could see in black and white and it wouldn’t affect my ability to understand someone’s true colors. My illness has bought me purity! They’ve all been possessed! But I needed to know more and go deeper! My fingernails dug through my eyes to peel away the artificial layer to see the invisible. I couldn’t stop laughing afterward; my eyes now perceive all! The phantoms have thousands of eyes that watch your every move. They steal your breath and exhale poison. Their thin thread-like fingers prick mortals skin like needles and manipulate them like puppets on strings. The possessed beg on their hands and knees for forgiveness, but in their clasped hands they conceal a blade meant to eliminate your existence. But you must never listen, nor stop progressing! Let them sway above and be hung by the gallows! Let them hide beneath their dirt beds! Let them be cleansed on pyres burning in the middle of the town square! If they intend to run their mouths, let them run the rivers red with their screams until they drown! They’ve all got to die!

---

I’ve felt sick and sluggish, but this will be the last day I can write before I’m completely blind. So I must admit that something has been bothering me. My morning routine went by as usual, passing judgement on those that challenged me. The line of the guilty was always long, but their wait was short. I sat blindfolded upon my throne with my executioner axe in hand, relying on my believers guidance to walk forward until I stood over the possessed. They remained gagged so the phantoms couldn’t steal my breath. I rested my palm on top of their shaking bald head caked in wet mud to know where to swing. I ended their fear when I lifted my hands and chopped off their head. And I repeated the process over and over, until I was ready for them to clean up the mess.

But how I could I feel satisfied when my sister had ran away from home last night and nobody has found her? I know the phantoms have gotten to her and to me. My senses have been playing tricks on me to make my stomach feel rotten. When I struck down my first enemy, I sneezed loudly and snorted. I couldn’t help but inhale the familiar scent of perfu

There is no procession of matching black umbrellas at Malcolm Brady’s funeral.

No single tears roll down porcelaine white cheeks, and no crisply folded handkerchiefs rise from anywhere to dab them away. The eulogy is not deep and meaningful, and it is not exactly what each person in the room needs to hear at that exact moment in time. It is, to put it rather bluntly, not at all how Jenny imagined it would be.

Instead, the undertaker makes them all line up like school children outside the pokey little crematorium before they’re allowed in, and once everyone is seated, it is made abundantly clear that they are on a tight schedule, and that there is no time whatsoever for any ‘funny business’.

The eulogy is a reading of that one poem from four weddings and a funeral, pulled up on a phone. They stumble through a lilting, off-key and off-tempo rendition of ‘abide with me’, and then it’s over.

After, they all leave in single file, and everyone is very sorry for the loss. It might’ve been nice, had their faces not been dappled gold with sunlight, if the scent of flowers hadn’t been thick and sickly in the air. It’s false. These peoples' world hasn’t stopped. Hasn't crashed, been left, stammering like a scratched record. What do they know?

For a moment, rage flares, hot and white as the bright summer sun, but then she watches an old man get into a battered old ford mondeo, and it’s fifteen years ago. Her dad is driving her back to her mum’s house in a similar car, humming along to Johnny Cash on the radio. Jenny always used to wonder if, when he was alone, he sang along out loud.

She’d never know, now. Not that it really matters.

After the church, they go to the pub. There’s a function room booked and an open bar, but the line between the mourners and the regulars blurred long before today. A man with a ratty T-shirt and blue jeans is eating a slice of quiche, talks to a woman in a neat black pantsuit as she sips delicately at a pint. Jenny quietly slips into the background, away from the noise and the booze, just like she used to when she was a kid. This isn't her space, it's his.

No one here will proudly ruffle her hair as she sits, perched on the sticky lacquered bar, straw poking out of the cold can of sprite in her chubby, childlike hand. No one will loudly declare that they have the next round, because ‘Our Jen got into bloody uni!’. Her mum won't.

She remembers what it was like at the hospital. Her mum, sat, a perfect scowl is etched across her face. Red lipstick that seeped into the cracks around her mouth, makeup smeared on in the dead of night. She wasn’t old, but she looked it.

Jenny admires the stubbornness now. The quiet strength and apparent invulnerability.

It wasn’t always like that though. When she fell and skinned her knee, the first time she fell out with her best friend (and the second, and the third), when she broke up with her boyfriend. She’d wanted compassion, understanding, but her mother had wanted her to be strong. She remembers being told, a long time ago, after a misfortune long forgotten, that crying would make people think she was weak. Just another hysterical woman, too emotional for the serious business of success. Don’t let anyone know what’s inside. They won’t like it, won’t like you.

At the time, Jenny hadn't liked her very much.

Her father held her when she cried. Told her it was okay to be sad, that he’d rather she told him and didn’t keep it bottled up. He never bottled anything up. Her mother said he was a manchild, Jenny thought of it as passion. What would it be like if it were her mother in that coffin, in that hospital bed, in that car? Something sickly and cold prickles beneath the surface of her skin. She shouldn’t think like that. It’s wrong.
She goes to get a drink, something else to focus on.

After the refreshments, Jenny goes home alone. Her little flat is dark, so she turns the yellow lights on, and they flicker to life with an electric buzzing sound. She turns on the cooker, gets out a frozen pizza whilst it heats up. Pretends to be reading the instructions instead of thinking about how she probably won’t be able to pay her rent anymore, not without her dad’s help. She’ll need to pick up more hours at the store. Isn’t sure how she’ll juggle that alongside uni, but supposes she’ll have to figure it out.

Water and enzymes and salt spill over her cheeks unannounced, and when she rubs at them, her flesh turns pink and raw. No one holds her. No one tells her everything’s fine. No one tells her to just let him know if she’s struggling, for food, for rent, for anything. She’s on her own. She’s on her own and she’s mad.

Why did he have to be in that coffin? Why did he have to be in that hospital bed? Why did he have to be in that god forsaken car?

Why did it have to be all his own fault?

She thinks back to Malcolm Brady’s funeral. His sister reading the eulogy off her phone. His daughter, crying as she shook the hands of mourners as they left the building. Told her they were sorry for her loss.

That should’ve been Jenny. Could’ve been, had there been more than her, her mother, and her brother at his funeral. She wonders if her dad had sung along to Johnny Cash that night. The scent of alcohol on his breath, pride at Jenny getting into uni in his heart.

She’ll never know.

Fuck. Him.

Draped in red, lacy fabric hugging a frame that howled femininity. A glossy coating on pouty lips. A slight tug on the waves she had effortlessly worked into her hair. An adjustment of the strap of her designer bag. The subtle shift of her weight, stiletto heels digging into the tender flesh of pedicured feet as she twisted her wedding ring until it slid off of her finger. Heavily shadowed eyes, a sly wink into the mirror. A grin, wicked and etched with excitement.

It was time.

She strode-sauntered, rather, onto the dancefloor. The crowd did not part for her, but she slunk through with grace. Lights flared and pulsed around her in time to the heavy music, a myriad of colors illuminating bodies. The acrid scent of booze dulling her senses in a way she found exhilarating. Her heart danced, thudding to the thunderous beat. She approached the middle, gathering herself as the song shifted. Packed with bass, a song fit for a show. She danced.

Spinning, heels clicking against the laminated tiles that were spotted with liquor and sweat. Like no one was watching, though she felt his gaze on her. It didn’t take long, it never did. A pause, turning towards the pair of glossy eyes that had been burning holes into her body. Handsome, strong features that she delighted in. She would have him tonight.

A wink when the light struck her frame, lips spreading, temptatious. Pivoting, she swayed to the beat of a new song.

It took mere moments. Eyes closed, she smirked as a pair of hands snaked around her waist. Cologne wafted off of him, though it did nothing to cover up the reek of aged spirits. A seemingly endless moment, where it was only them.

Then he spoke. “Come up to my room,” A mask of confidence, given to him by the liquor he had consumed. Facing him, her gaze was drawn to the tension in his shoulders. Honey brown eyes spoke, telling her what he couldn’t. She gifted him an unsuspecting smile, unmistakably coy.

“Thought you’d never ask.” He guided her, past the noise and confusion and to his room. It was nothing special, she supposed he had already splurged on the location. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air. His suitcase, untouched, as if he had just checked in that evening and gone straight to the club.

It hardly mattered, because they had found each other. She settled her purse delicately on the bedside table, excitement trickling down her spine. A quick shimmy released her from skin-tight clothing.

Their night began.



Sure hands removed the ‘please make my room’ placard, inserting the keycard in its place. A click, and the maid swung open the door. The smell hit her first. Strong, a metallic tang she didn’t recognize filling the space. A crinkle of her nose and she turned the corner. Her mouth went slack at the sight.

Draped in sheets stained a rusty red, loosely covering a seemingly naked, masculine frame. A thick coating of blood on parted lips. Mussed hair, he had been rudely awakened from a night of enjoyment. Honey brown eyes faded and glossy. A scream etched on his face that failed to escape his lips.

She screamed. Turning tail and abandoning the man before even noticing the photographs littering the floor. Women, tied to headboards with throats slashed. His personal collection, that he carried to bolster confidence, and to keep him sane during moments of withdrawal.

She ran so fast that the door to the room remained open, and passersby wondered about the stench leaking from the room. No one suspected a thing, until the head detective of the Chicago PD came to each and every room to question them on if they’d heard or seen anything the night before.

Word spread quickly, hitting the news despite the police department’s best efforts.



“Another murder in Chicago, babe? I’m shocked.” Dahlia yawned as she settled her hands on her husband’s shoulders. She wore long sleeves, disguising the marks around her wrists. Her head cocked as the reporter on the news told them that the man had been stabbed fatally in the heart. A small smirk tugged on her lips as the question ‘Is This The Work of The Infamous Chicago Man Eater?’ slowly drifted across the bottom of the screen.

“Chicago Man Eater...so that’s what they’re calling her.” Her husband muttered, seemingly unimpressed. Dahlia sighed, retracting her hands after he reached up and stroked one with great affection. She resigned to making the kids a hearty breakfast.

It seemed her husband would never appreciate her profession.