-reserved for prologue-

February 17th, 4907 YDC (Yllendyr Dynastic Calendar)
Ylleria, Capital of the Imperial Yllendyr Sovereignty



Temdra awoke from her slumber at the sound of banging on the door. "What on earth is it," she mumbled to herself. She opened one eye to the clock on the wall. Four AM. Of course. She had quite enough of these stuffy nobles and their sense of entitlement. They couldn't be bothered to find any of the maids on duty, so naturally they would rap on her door. She begrudgingly rose, throwing on her uniform as fast as possible before answering the door. What she expected was some drunken nobleman, but what she saw instead was one of her fellow maids, Idedri.

"Temdra, I'm sorry to bother you so early, but they called for all of our attendance." Temdra's eyebrows shot up in surprise even before the next words came out of her mouth. "The Emperor is dying." The elderly king had been sick for a long time, so this shouldn’t have surprised her, but still, it was a shock.

---

Temdra stood alongside Idedri and the other maids at the edge of the room. It was the royal bedchamber, a place Temdra had only before dreamed of seeing, as personal maid to the Fifth (and last) Prince, Nidrak, a young boy of sixteen years old. The old stone castle walls were adorned with the personal sigil of the 75th Emperor, a basilisk on a yellow shield. There in the center of the room, the wizened old king lay in the ornate silver-framed bed, speaking softly with his wife the Empress. The two twin brothers, the Second Princes, Olarth and Ecruir, sat on opposite sides of the bed next to him, and for good reason. The two had been rivals ever since they were born, since some maid had mixed the two up sixty years ago and it wasn’t sure which one had been born first. They were convinced they both couldn’t be second, which meant one of them had to be third. The two’s bitterness was born in those early years of their childhood, but it only grew more intense over the years as they competed for their father’s favouritism. Only their father’s imminent demise calmed the two enough to not fight while in the same room. They couldn’t resist occasionally directing a stray glare at the other, though. The Fourth Prince, Filadi, sat at the end of the bed, crying.

Missing was the Crown Prince, Vomlur. He was a handsome, strong, confident man, the man no one doubted would rule powerfully in his father’s absence. He mourned his father’s sickness when it began, but a gleam had begun to shine in his eyes for the last few days. It was clear he relished the thought of his reign beginning after so long standing in the background at official events.

The absence of the Crown Prince had begun to disturb the Empress. Empress Madessi called Temdra over, and she hurried swiftly to her side.

“Do fetch my son for me, I have no idea what he is doing but it surely can’t be more important than this.”

“Yes, my Empress. At once.”

Temdra quickly scurried out of the room, as a mouse might when commanded by a lion. She had never before even been spoken to by the Empress, and to have been issued a task like this was a great honour. She retraced her steps back down the royal hall, towards the Princes’ rooms.

Arriving at Vomlur’s door, she reached out, and then trembling, hesitated to knock. That brief seconds-long hesitation was just long enough for another sound to ring out.

A cry of terrible pain. A cry of death.

Temdra jumped in surprise, and slammed the door open. “My prince, what happene…”

Before her, lying in a pool of blood, was the Crown Prince himself.

It took some time for Temdra to collect herself, and then she sprinted. Sprinted to the royal bedroom, because she had to tell the Emperor before –

The Empress was crying. The Emperor lay lifeless, eyes closed.

And at this moment, Temdra became the first person to realize that the Imperium itself was about to die with him.

Empress Madessi turned to her. “Where is he? Where is my son?”

“Assassins… someone killed him.”

At that exact moment, you could have heard the tiniest pin drop. The Empress’s face fell, and the tears flew down her cheeks. And the two men in whom the future of the Imperium rested looked up at each other. A look of challenge, and a look of hatred.

Olarth spoke first. “It’s necessary that someone step forward to lead this nation in this difficult time. Clearly we need someone with maturity to handle that task, so my brother obviously doesn’t fit the role.”

Ecruir rose from the bed and stepped around it. “Maturity, you say. What kind of maturity do you show, sleeping with human harlots desperate for a chance with dark elf royalty, exactly?”

Olarth visibly bristled. “My personal choices do not impact my ability to lead this nation. I have consulted with many of Father’s advisors about the business of state. Whereas you have done what, exactly? Played with your toy soldiers and swords in the business of war which has been obsolete for sixty years?”

“Perhaps it impacts the nation, indeed.” A fire blossomed in Ecruir’s eyes as he approached his brother. “How many filthy halfbreeds have you brought into the world, polluting our nation’s blood with that of pale-skinned savages? The last thing we need as a monarch in this country is a disgusting human-lover.” Ecruir spat on Olarth’s shoe.

Olarth looked utterly in shock. “Fine then, if it’s a battle you want to play at, it’s a battle you’ll get.” He pulled his sword from his waistband. He gestured for his guard to move up alongside him.

“Gladly.” Ecruir did the same. They appeared about to leap at each other, when their brother, the Fourth Prince, shoved his way in between them.

“Stop! This is madness! You’re literally fighting over our father’s dead body! Do neither of you have any shame?”

Ecruir growled. “Step out of my way, right now, or face the consequences.” Filadi crossed his arms and shook his head.

“So be it.” Ecruir skewered his younger brother, to the shock of everyone in the room. He pushed his body to the side, and waved his rapier disdainfully. “Less competition.”

“You’ll pay for that!” Olarth leaped at his brother, and the first shots rang out. Temdra, fearing for her life, hid under the nearest table. “Idedra, get under here!” she shouted at her fellow maid, standing stock-still and frozen, right before crossfire ripped through her chest and she fell to her knees.

Guards were shooting at one another, the two princes were dueling, and all the while the now Empress Mother wailed at the carnage that had taken two of her sons and her husband alike.

Temdra, during a brief respite in the fighting, leapt out from under the table and bolted out the door. Her first thought was to warn the Fifth Prince. She didn’t want to get him caught up in all this. But when she opened the door, she was surprised to see the boy already packing.

“What are you doing?” Temdra asked, dumbfounded.

“What does it look like?” Nidrak shook his head at his maidservant. “You never were particularly good at this sort of deductive reasoning, were you?” He smiled. “Do you think I’m just going to wait around for one of my brothers to kill me because I might be a threat? I need to get out of here as fast as possible.”

He grabbed his bags and just before departing the doorframe, added: “Ecruir probably killed the Crown Prince to have a shot at the throne, and I certainly expect he won’t have second thoughts about killing me.”

“But where will you go?” Temdra replied.

“Anywhere. It has to be better than here.” The sound of gunshots reverberated down the hall, and pricking his ears, Nidrak nodded. “Thank you for everything.” The boy ran the opposite direction, towards the entrance to the Vermillion Citadel and the city outside. Temdra ran to her room to gather her things and do the same. On the way, she ran past Olarth, wounded and being dragged by the Empress Mother, with her bodyguard providing cover fire from the troops after them.

The fate of a world had been set in chaos by a single knife. Not a soul outside of the Vermillion Citadel knew it yet, but the world was about to change… forever.

February 17th, 4907 YDC (Yllendyr Dynastic Calendar)
Outskirts of Treaty Port of Nilrandell, Otomazu Shogunate

It was fairly cold, cloudless night in the camp, just outside of the city walls of Nilrandell, the full moon shining brightly in the otherwise empty sky. The city had been built as part of the surrender terms of the Otomazu Shogunate, as a provincial capital from which the Yllendyr could do business and oversee the country, and was home to many different species, much like the inhabitants of the camp itself.

This was the 27th Auxiliary Legion of the Imperial Army of the Yllendyr, a dignified name for a group of recently cobbled together recruits from the various provinces. The army was mostly human, dwarf and ork, with a few others mixed in and of course the Dark Elf officers.

One such of these officers, likely one of the lowest ranked in the entire camp, sat idly on her bunk, polishing her revolver and swinging her leg back and forth. She was waiting for dinner. It was her last month in the Army, having served nearly all of her five-year term, and she could feel her sense of impatience surrounding all things growing. Her name was Lunastri Gamma; as an orphan discovered in the Hrothgrad Dominion she was given a letter last name according to the number of that dominion, in this case the third.

A bell rang in the distance, a bell every soldier knew by instinct: it was time for food. She heard the sound of boots plopping into the sand all around her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she followed along.

It wasn’t long before she arrived in the queue at the mess hall. The centaur in front of her was complaining loudly about the quality of the food being unfit for him, so she quickly tuned that out. Hoping for a good conversation, she glanced behind herself only to be met with the glare of a Yamato man. Okay, not a particularly wise idea. She sighed, resigned herself to dinner alone, and grabbed her food as it came.

Sitting down at a random table, she slowly and reluctantly consumed the corned beef in front of her. The seats around her rapidly filled up, and strangely, there was a lot more silence than usual, other than the usual murmuring of the radio. She tapped the shoulder of the human next to her. “Hey, do you know why everyone’s so quiet today?”

The human looked at her dumbfounded, like she was some kind of weird bug. An ordinary Yllendyr would slap him across his face for his insubordination, but she just let it go. “So? What is it?”

“You haven’t heard?” He gestured at the dwarf radio operator across from him. The dwarf pulled it out of his satchel and placed it on the table in front of him, turning it on. “It’s some right unpleasant business, that's for sure.” The dwarf shook his head.

“-for our listeners just tuning in, the Imperium is formally in a state of civil war, a war that observers are terming the ‘War of the Twin Emperors.’ The 75th Emperor Naerzo is dead of natural causes at the age of 162, and the Crown Prince has allegedly been assassinated by hostile foreign spies.”

Lunastri gasped in shock.

“The twin Second Princes, both claiming legitimacy to the Sovereignty’s throne, have both been crowned as the 76th Emperor. Ecruir has been crowned in the Vermillion Palace, and Olarth in the major southern city of Altairis. The War of the Twin Emperors has sharply divided the nation, as various territories of the Crownlands have declared for either side, and several dominions have as well. The followers of Ecruir claim he is the legitimate heir, having been officially sanctioned and receiving coronation in the Vermillion Palace, and the followers of Olarth allege that Ecruir is responsible for the death of Filadi, the Fourth Prince, and that his rule is illegitimate. Initial skirmishes between the two opposing pretenders have already broken out in the Crownlands.”

“As follows, these Dominion governments have declared for Emperor Ecruir: Evrimalar, Anhr, Cragenland, Vaspen and Otomazu. For Emperor Olarth: Vershellen, Hrothgrad, and Avalia. The remainder of dominions have chosen to remain neutral thus far. As well, the Order of Imperial Sentinels has declared neutrality in this conflict. When a representative was contacted for comment, he replied, ‘The Order’s role is to serve the one true Emperor or Empress. If there are two Emperors, there is no true Emperor. We will not intervene until one is found.”

“News of this succession war has given way to massive protests and riots in cities across the Imperium. There are rumours of especially severe unrest in Vaspen and Otomazu, and chaotic and conflicting reports of military clashes in Avalia. The Imperial Auxiliary Legions are being deployed to quell unrest from counterimperial, barbarian forces. The Securitariat is advising all citizens to remain in their homes to avoid this dangerous..."

"Well, there goes my bet on getting out of the army without ever having to fight a war." Lunastri grimaced, and stabbed the beef in front of her in a futile expression of rage.

---

When she had finished her meal, Lunastri wandered outside to look at the moon, as she often did. Her fingers wandered to the crescent shape on her neck, touching it idly.

"Eluna, you know I'm not a praying woman, but... if you exist, please help me. Please save my world. Do something."

She looked up for several minutes, but the moon did not much more than glow in response, much as she expected. She sighed. She went to clean her rifle, since she was almost certainly going to need it.

LIERIA - February 17th, 4907 YDC

---

SINYAR

“As follows, these Dominion governments have declared for Emperor Ecruir: Evrimalar, Anhr, Cragenland, Vaspen and Otomazu. For Emperor Olarth: Vershellen, Hrothgrad, and Avalia. The remainder of dominions have chosen to remain neutral thus far. As well, the Order of Imperial Sentinels has declared neutrality in this conflict. When a representative was contacted for comment, he replied, ‘The Order’s role is to serve the one true Emperor or Empress. If there are two Emperors, there is no true Emperor. We will not intervene until one is found.”

“News of this succession war has given way to massive protests and riots in cities across the Imperium. There are rumours of especially severe unrest --”

Click.

“I’m sorry, I just had to turn that damn thing off, it’s already hell out there enough as it is, we don’t need to listen to this.”

“Erm … cap … some of the officers were kinda listening to …”

Sinyar Est-Hen half turned to face the sergeant hovering beside her before exhaling deeply, massaging the temple of her forehead with one hand. “Spirits take em, I ain’t listening to one bit more of that. Won’t do em any good either, it’ll only hurt morale listening to the crownlands falling apart.”

“Won’t do them any good you ignoring it either.” This sergeant was far more plucky than most of her officers, she’d definitely made the right choice in promoting him. “We’ll be getting calls from head soon, want me to be on the line for that?”

That was the first bit of good news she’d heard all day and the other reason she’d picked Tel Il for promotion, he was bloody good at doing all the shit she hated. Half rising from her chair and immediately thinking better of it she slumped down into it, her shoulders bleeding tension back out into the air. “Thanks, that’d be amazing.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him pull off an impeccable salute and march off over towards the operators desk. For being such a cocky bastard, he was still fun to be around and she would be glad for the company in the coming days. If that announcement was anything to go by then these next few days would be anything but enjoyable. Still if she was going to stop it getting worse, she needed to prepare.

“Oi, Zeph, get the word out, I want every district officer we’ve got called in. Runners, Infils, Sifa, the lot. Get word out too to all HWCP that they’re staying at the station for the immediate future. We need them to be ready for anything. We ain’t letting whatever madness has overtaken the crownlands take root here. You understand?”

“Yes Ma'm!” The officer nodded before backing quickly out of the room, the whole place suddenly feeling a whole lot emptier with the bulky Vaspen’s absence. Still there was the general hubbub and buzz to fill his place, the noise rising and dipping as people finished assignments or reports.

The next two hours or so passed by rather uneventfully, or as uneventful as prepping for any sort of instability or riots could be. Checks were run on weapon and ammo counts and messages were relayed back and forth between the district office and Tharen police HQ.

That was until a new call arrived, one which wiped any remainder of Tel’s desperate facade of amicability and joviality. In fact to Sinyar’s views, he looked positively disturbed, his usually sparkling green eyes looking faded and dull.

“Yes, right away. … Fuck … Uhhh Cap … A body’s been found in the harbour by Patrol boat 13…”

Bodies were being found all the time out in that harbour, idiots who went fishing, unlucky bastards who got drunk and fell overboard, a family wanting a hasty burial. So the call by itself wasn’t that peculiar, what had caught her attention was the fact it was being relayed to a captain, that and his tone. She gave him a small nod, a signal to continue on.

“I … It’s a Ji. Partially eaten too.”

For a moment even Sinyar didn’t speak, that news really was almost too surreal to be believed. Not only was a family member of one of the most powerful of Lierin business owners now dead, they’d been eaten as well? “Spirits preserve me, where was the body found?”

“Almains pier, a few blocks down from Li street.

“Excellent, I’ll take a tram down.” She could tell without even needing to look that Tel was about to raise an objection. He always did whenever she was proposing a stupid plan. “No backup, just me. We can’t afford to send anyone else down and the Ji’s will have my head if I don’t go. Besides I’m sure you can manage without me for a few hours.”

---

It was strange really seeing the city after having heard the announcement. The whole world seemed to have changed and yet here people were, just going about their daily lives. Then again there were some who probably wouldn’t change their lives unless there was a gun to their head, there was a comfort to a daily routine. Besides for most of them, all this conflict, all this instability, well that was somewhere else, nothing had changed yet so why worry?

Of course out of the tram window she could spot the occasional person running by, their arms stocked with more goods than they should be reasonably buying. Bunch of idiots, she’d have her people put a stop to that as soon as she could.

But apart from these few people, nothing looked different. The trams were still running and alongside them busses whizzed on by, rammed full of people as they always were. Later in the day she was sure they’d return back into the city, laden with dockworkers looking for somewhere to drink their pains away.

Again she wondered just how many of them had heard the news, or how many even cared. Many of the people in this area were unlikely to be affected should any demonstrations kick in, those always went on in other parts, but for the already strained police departments it was gonna be hard. In just the few hours since the broadcast she could already feel morale drooping, they needed her back. All she wanted to do was go in, show concern then get straight out again.

She could smell the docks before the tram even began to slow for the next stop, its circular route curving away to run parallel. To the outer docking area. After all, those who could afford to pay for the tram could afford to use other transportation methods if forced to see the steel and brick monstrosities that lined the waterfront. Instead they were much happier staring at the multi-story technicolour ornate megastructures infront of her. Then again no amount of fancily painted buildings could mask that smell. It was a frankly horrifying mess of grease, oil and soot, but to so many it was the ‘good ole home smell’ Just another something to get used to.

It had been a while since she’d been down to this part of her district, so it took her a few seconds to find what she was looking for. A small shrine resting against one wall, little cards full of wishes and hopes strung around its edges. “Hey … I dunno if any of you spirits are listening, or even if I’m just talking to the natural flow of Qin, can you please keep the situation here under control. Protect our country please.”

A few moments later she was back on her route, hurrying ever closer to the body.

There were a few officers already on the scene when she arrived, mostly Sifa officers who’d been aboard the vessel that had picked up the body and one or two runners who’d come by to view the scene.

And immediately regretted it, judging by the smell of vomit.

Not that Sinyar could judge them much, for even just at the smell of the body she felt like following suit. Half rotted and decaying flesh assailed her nostrils, mixed with a pungent odour of dying fish.

The sight was even worse, a body - if it could be called that, lay sprawled out on the concrete pavement. A leg was missing, as well as large chunks of flesh which had been torn from the body, exposing muscle and bone beneath. Gore and water was still dripping from the body as in in some twisted mockery of a miniature river, only occasionally being forced to divert its path around the odd bit of intestine and brain.

“Oh man …”

For once even Sinyar had nothing to say. She’d been present at many a murder scene, stabbings, shootings, they were something regular … but this … it looked like the body had been beaten torn apart then left to rot in the river and judging by some of the marks … eaten too. There was no love lost between her and the Ji clan, but even she hoped that it had been after death.

“Do … do we ugh have a name for the deceased?”

“Yes captain. Soon Li-Ji, a member of the third Ji branch.”

She nodded her thanks, before casting another glance towards the body. The rotting intestines overflowing out onto the pavement causing her to turn away once more. Focusing on the hapless Sifa officer before her, eyes staying firmly locked in any direction that wasn’t the body. “What details do we have? Any idea for a motive?”

The officer gulped, trying to wipe down their goresmattered hands before facing the local captain. “Ain’t got a fucking clue, what motive drives someone to … do … that? Though we did find something well off about the whole thing. Apart from everything else about it!”

“Wanna tell me or do I have to see it?”

“No captain, it’s fairly simple actually. It’s well, a mark, burned into his skin on his shoulder of a crown, floating above a disk.”

March 10th 1840:
Volkhard Von Kilier was a humble man, volunteering to join the National Army when he was 18. Coming from a commoner background no one expected him to make the rank of General, not even himself. But surprisingly he discovered an affinity for leading and inspiring men, now 10 years later he found himself standing on the border with the Yllendyr Imperium near the Delwe River. Word had been passed to the general staff that the Yllandyr had been massing on the other side of the border. Probably due to King Aschwin’s declining health, and the three princes attempting to vie for control in the palace.

This of course led to Volkhard being sent to guard this wide open plain, this was the perfect avenue for a Yllendyr invasion. Unlike the mountains on the northern portion of the national border this southern corridor was a wide open plain with small rolling hills stretching down to the sea. Occasional forests dot the landscape primarily used as fertile farmland by the locals. Not to mention that if unopposed gave one a direct route to the capital of Venris which is 2 weeks away on foot.

Looking up from his thoughts Volkhard looked out once more across the plain and started to consider his plan.

March 24th 1840:
“The Empire enters grieving for the Late Emperor Aschwin, who passed away in his sleep at the age of 87 years. A group of officials led by the prime minister is being organized to plan the funeral, and determine the successor to the throne. The palace is going to be very turbulent these next few weeks.” ~Excerpt from Venris Tribune.

March 27th 1840:
Volkhard exits his tent after listening to a scout report with a impatient and concerned looking face. Upon reaching the nearest gawking soldier he rips the telescope from the Soldier’s hands and presses it up to his eye. Through the telescope he sees a seemingly unending wave of Yllendyr soldiers with their purple caps, and grey uniforms marching into the Empire. His worst fears confirmed he orders the men to the defences, and sends a report to headquarters. Which read as follows: “The Imperium Troops approach, Endless in number, We defend to the end, See you in Valhalla.” ~General der Infanterie, Volkhard VonKilier

August 12th 1840:
“After months of stiff resistance Imperium troops have entered Venris, the capital of our old enemy the Vaspen Empire today. This is a historic day!” ~Yllendyr Newspaper

Venris:
As the Imperium troops marched into the now former capital of the Vaspen Empire, Venris. The civilians of the city looked out of their windows and doors into the street to see the invading Yllendyr forces. The many footsteps reverberating down the streets were unsettling. As the troops approached a wave of gasps and screams in terror enveloped the crowd of onlookers. The majority of the army was composed of Lierin Spider-ants that were led by a small percentage of Yllendyr soldiers. These Spider-Ants were sent away by their home nation due to their rapid breeding and insatiable hunger. In recent years their destination was always shrouded in mystery, but now it would seem that the Yllendyr have been using them as cannon fodder to bulk up their forces to dominate the continent!
The Yllendyr Commander Andec entered the city to see and hear the exclamations of terror from the inhabitants, he let a smile creep onto his face. ‘These Vaspenians, for too many years they have been safe and sound here at home. The glory of Yllendyr finally has a chance to shine now that we have defeated you!’ He then gave an order to his commanders to proceed to the palace and inspect the food stores of the city. The food stores had all been requisitioned by the defending troops and transported to warehouses near the center of the city. Upon reaching the stores they found that almost all of it had been destroyed. Barely enough to feed his Imperium army detachment of 100,000 for a week remained. Cursing under his breath Andec proceeded to the palace where the royalty, important documents and gold reserves have been evacuated. Almost as though they were expected to be able to take the city down quickly and had been evacuated months beforehand. Andec then calls his men together and assigns them the task of defending the city until reinforcements and supplies arrive from the border region. Returning to the emperor’s bedroom he sits down in the chair and opens up a bottle of wine from the cellar, a 1810 vintage wine, takes a few sips and goes to write up his report to the Imperial emperor.
That evening outside the city Vaspen troops are massing. Under the sight that is burning buildings, and the sounds of screaming from within the city they surround Venris on three sides, the fourth being the lake shore. All of the remaining reserves have been thrown into this battle which will decide the fate of the country. Over 200,000 young vaspen warriors are taking part in this operation with another 1,500,000 defending at the front lines 50 Miles away from Venris. The troops set up camp and prepare to defend.

August 13th 1840:
The Yllendyr commanders quickly notice that they have been surrounded, with no method of escape or resupply. The commander immediately orders all Yllendyr troops to search the city for food and to set up some defences at the perimeter of the city, hoping that reinforcements breakthrough soon. However the Vaspen Commanders know that this is their only chance to turn the tides and they are committed to defend for all it’s worth.

August 20th 1840:
“A week has passed since the encirclement, food and ammunition are running low. The surrounding forces have counterattacked everyday with unrelenting ferocity to retake this city. Their constant assaults leave the soldiers tired, and hungry. We have had to stop issuing rations to some of the Spider-Ant regiments due to the lack of food. Those regiments have been ordered to find what they can in the city, but I fear that while they come back full, the numbers of civilians in the city seems to be decreasing. My fellow officers and soldiers have started to take out their frustrations on the populace as well, many look down in shame and self disgust when I ask about where they go at night. So i followed a few last night and i saw two of my men brutally rape and then murder two women. I was disgusted with my men and this morning I punished them both with lashings to set an example, however I doubt it had much impact on the others.” ~Andec’s personal log

September 1st 1840:
“Upon entering Venris after almost 3 weeks of assaulting it we finally broke the enemy, and discovered the atrocities they have committed within our city. There are corpses scattered on the ground everywhere both civilian and Yllendyr. The civilian corpses are brutally disfigured and naked. Skeletons litter the alleyways bones picked clean of meat. In the parks mass graves have been half filled. The remaining Yllendyr soldiers that have surrendered, and the civilians that are alive tell horrible tales of the Spider ants roaming the streets in search of people to eat. The unfortunate not being found till the next day by the soldiers, and then carted off to the graves to prevent disease. The women tell us of their female friends and family being taken by the soldiers only to turn up dead the next day. It is truly a horrifying and gruesome sight to behold.”~Vaspen commander official report to headquarters on the remains of Venris


Venris, February 3rd 4907 (Imperial Calendar):
Viceroy Riceh Adruzil, was sitting in his rather luxurious office, looking out over the city. His tall and strong physique is evident in his clothing choice, a nice fitting suit. His face is quite passive as he reads the daily reports from the dominion until a screeching sound came from the radio in the corner which up until now had been playing a beautiful symphony.

“zzzzzZZZZZZ….. This is an Emergency Broadcast straight from Ylleria… The Emperor has died… I repeat the Emperor has died… The Crown prince has been assassinated, and The 2nd & 3rd princes, Olarth, and Ecruir, have both announced their intent to inherit the throne. The 4th prince has also been killed reportedly by Ecruir, and the 5th prince is currently missing. With no clear inheritance path for either Olarth or Ecruir, Yllendyr has devolved into Civil war…. This concludes our Emergency announcement thank you for your patronage. We will be bringing you further developments straight from the capital. ZZZZzzzz...”

Riceh, stares at the radio for a few moments in utter silence. His mind is tumultuous. He drops the documents in his hands as he realizes the implications of this development. He immediately calls for a meeting of the top Ministers, and the military advisor.

Cindro Sonvria, was sitting in her office in the capital as she heard the broadcast of the situation in Yllendryr. As she was reeling from the information a messenger appeared at her door frantically knocking. Upon receiving the message she reported to the viceroy’s office to find Gorrod, and Alibu, just arriving as well. The three of them enter the Office to find Riceh sitting behind his desk with a blank look on his face.

Riceh looks up as the three other most important people in the Vaspen Dominion walk in, he motions for them all to sit. Cindro is a tall (for a woman) and lanky dark elf with dark black hair falling down past her shoulders. Her glasses add a look of intelligence, as well as her business attire... Quite appropriate for the Industry Minister. Gorrod is a modestly muscular elf, with a typical purple on grey Yllendyr military uniform on. His few medals shine from their perch on his left breast, and his boots have a similar gleam. Alibu the minister of the treasury is a short elf, with a passion for numbers. He looks a little disheveled as he normally does, but always attentive to what is going on. Looks at each of them individually, and says “ I assume you have all heard what has happened in the capital by now, so what is most important is for us to hold the dominion together while this upsetting news spreads. I’m sure the resistance movement is going to make quite a few moves during this time.”

Alibu looks at the others and then at Riceh, “That would be the most prudent way to proceed, however there is the civil war we need to think about…”

“The Civil war back home will be of great importance to our control over this dominion. If we don’t manage to maintain control over the Vaspen they may take any revolution farther than their own borders. Therefore I will make an official telegram to Ecruir informing him of our intentions to maintain control over the Vaspen populace, and hopefully solicit more garrison troops from him. Riceh then looks at Gorrod. “I assume we will need more troops if any organized resistance movement begins to gain traction. Regardless of Ecruir’s decision we need to step up our presence in the north. Those despicable rebels are sure to make a move soon, and I need to know when.”

“Of course Sir, any additional troops would be welcome. However if we move to the north it will decrease our ability to deal with any protests in the cities.” replies Gorrod.

“The police should be able to handle most of that if need be. But the Rebels and their kin are what I'm really worried about.”

“It will be done then sir. I’ll pass on the appropriate orders now.” Gorrod Departs.

“Now Cindro, i’ll need you to step up the production of certain items, and do what you can to help prevent strikes in the factories. This is the list of items i need you to start producing.” Riceh says as he hands her a list of items:

Steam Locomotives, Rail cars (all types except passenger), Communication equipment, Artillery pieces (limited), Bolt action rifles (Limited), Ammunition for both previous items.

Cindro looks at the list for a moment, before looking up at Riceh and saying. “I can certainly start production on all of these, but we will need to import more raw materials for the ammunition.”

“Don’t worry about the materials, just let me know the amount you need and i’ll look to find a source for it, and as for specific numbers i’ll send it to your office later today.’

“Now that you have been apprised of the situation you are both dismissed, i’ll be here in my office if you require me.” Riceh says as he watches them both leave.

After the door closes he slumps into his plush chair as he stares at the ornaments and patterns on the ceiling as he ponders on what is next to come….


Northern Mountain Range February 3rd 1907:
In a dark cave-like room the walls hewn from stone with very little in the way of decoration, an old man sits on the side of the bed. His fur is pure white with many spots missing from what looks like old injuries, his body is muscular, but weak looking due to his age. Clothed in an old military uniform, his face hidden by the shadow from his uniform cap. He stands with the help of a cane, and exits the bedroom. Slowly making his way down a similarly furnished hallway he approaches a large room with a long rectangular table with some forty or fifty people seated at it. In this room it has been decorated a little bit more than the previous, the table has a red cloth with gold stitching running the length, the chairs are beautifully carved with red cushioned seats on the table there are wine glasses that are partially full. The people seated at the table stand at the sight of the old man and immediately salute him. The old man hobbles to the head of the table and takes a seat, glances around the table, and takes a swig of wine from the glass in front of him. One of the women remains standing while the others sit, she picks ups some paper and reads the report to them:

“One of our people within the Viceroy’s administration has informed us of the collapse of Yllendyr royal family, the Emperor, the Crown prince, and the 4th prince have been killed. While the 2nd princes are splitting the country by creating a civil war. Ecruir, has the support of the northern half of the crownlands. While Olarth, has support from the southern half. The current whereabouts of the 5th prince, Nidrak, are currently unknown, but he is believed to be in hiding. That concludes my report.”

Setting the glass down the old general thinks for a moment and then speaks with a soft but powerful voice, “Inform our people to prepare, but not to act quite yet, we need to see what the loyalists are planning. Mobilize our legions, and ramp up our production.
I get the feeling we are going to need to make this a decisive war of liberation.”

After another hour of discussion the others in the room start to trickle out, some to their posts in the cities, others to towns, all of them ready for action… but not today.

After the “local leaders” leave the old warrior looks up and addresses the few remaining in the room. “How is our infiltration going?”

One of the men obscured in shadows of the room replies “We have managed to infiltrate two of the auxiliary legions in the territory… not as many as we hoped, but we have confidence that we can disperse them efficiently.”

“Yes… not as many as we hoped, but that will be enough to give us an edge, especially once they behold our trump card.”


Later that day:
“Herr General” as he has come to be known to the rebels walks onto the factory floor, it is a large expanse situated on level 2 of the mountain fortress. The room is 20 feet tall, 30 feet in some places, a true cavern in the rock. Many machines and workers dot the floor, producing everything from Artillery guns to the smallest round of ammunition. He approaches the foreman, a dwarf actually, he’s very short in stature even compared to the old general. His beard is long and braided, with many crumbs, and rolls of paper tucked into it. The General shouts at the dwarf who is inspecting the work of one of the other dwarves. “Ludgrath!”

Ludgrath looks up from what he is doing, and quickly shoves the rifle back into the other dwarves’ hand. “General! Good to see you! What brings you up here to the shop?”

“Oh come now Lud, you know I'm up here to see That. now let’s go have a look.”

The General hobbles over to a large curtained off section of the shop with Ludgrath in tow, as he steps inside Ludgrath guides him over to a small desk, where he pulls out one of the rolls of paper from his beard and spreads it out on the desk. As the general looks across the plans for his beloved weapon one more time, Ludgrath runs around the various large sized objects covered in tarps and pulls the tarps off one by one.

The general looks up from the plans, and beholds what they have manifested. The objects once covered in tarps now are revealed to be an armoured Locomotive and carriages, four in total. Ludgarth then started to describe each part in detail for the general.

“The locomotive is a 0-10-0 G-10 class steam locomotive, the standard goods train in the Dominion. Rebel forces had captured it a year ago in a raid on a local rail yard. After my assistants and I disassembled it and transported the parts back to the fortress we reassembled and modified it to what you see here, I call it the RL-1.”

“The other cars have been “Reposessed” from the dominion in a similar fashion, any time we looted a train for supplies a couple railway cars would go missing discreetly. Two of cars were passenger cars, that we armoured to allow troops to be transported inside through any small caliber fire with no harm to the occupants. These will allow us to have a mobile strike force to threaten multiple places on the battlefield at once. The other two cars as you can see were once standard flat cars, but have been modified to mount two 15cm artillery guns in turret mounts on each car. Each with a copious amount of ammunition. We estimate that these four guns can provide up to four hours of effective barrage before having to resupply. And how could we forget to add gatling guns to every possible surface!” Lud says with a grin on his face while gesturing to the gatling guns, two on each side, and one on each end of the cars.

By the end of Lud’s description the General is grinning from ear to ear. “Very good Lud! You have done me proud! These will provide us an excellent surprise for those traitorous Loyalists!”

February, 1907
Capitol of Avalia, Alolvi

The door flew open, a flustered, angry Valkyrian man stood, glaring at the Field Marshal before him. “Adron! You mad man! Years of your life! Your countrymen’s lives! You will throw it all away?!” He screamed at Adron, who stood motionless, facing away.

“I did what I had to do, Captain. That is all. It’s my duty to my nation, my countrymen, and my own life that I tear down this monarchy, at the end of my bayonet.” Adron responded softly, still facing away from the Captain. The Captain scoffed.

“Ha! Even now you spout lies to my very face, your closest friend! ‘Your countrymen’?! Don’t act as though you are something you are not. You’re no ‘hero’ of the people Adron, no matter what southern weasel Kurtti says. You didn’t massacre the nobility in the name of freedom! You did it for Mika!”. At this, the Field Marshal began to shake. Suddenly, he turned, finally facing the man had called his bluff. The only one who could ever call his poker face.

He was an old man, greying black hair, cut to a professional length, though his heavy stubble and darkened, bagged eyes betrayed he had not slept since the coup. His face was well worn overall, showing the many years he had spent campaigning overseas for the Imperium well back before all of this. Before he beheaded his own king. Despite his age and exhausted appearance, his piercing blue eyes showed a hint of danger, his stance and body showed that he was no retired armchair general. No, he was Field Marshal Adron, a man who had fought his way to the top from the very bottom. A man who had dueled plenty to keep his well earned rank and honor. The man who climbed the walls of the savage’s fortress against their wild sorcery when he was only a 19 year old sergeant. Field Marshal Adron was, perhaps, one of the only few men in the world that could truly, honestly claim to have completely and utterly earned their position.

“Of course it was about Mika! It was about Mika! It was about Valkyrians! It was about the people of Avalia! They would have destroyed Avalia as we know it. We would have been slaves in all but name. The people are starving, the nation suffered under Holfgar and would have continued suffering more. That is why I sent Holfgar and the nobility to the guillotine.” Adron roared at The Captain. The Captain took a step back, stunned. Adron’s tone lowered, his eyes narrowing. “It matters not who wins the war of the Twin Emperors. The age of Yllendyr dominance is over. Their petty war… they’re fighting for scraps of an angry, dying empire…” Adron then gave a bitter smile. “In a small way, I almost wish I could thank those fools. I had planned to take on all of Yllendyr, but now it seems I will only have to rally the homeland while they’re busy demonstrating why the Age of Kings is dead.” The Captain’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing.

“Then why him? Why Kurtti? ‘Every Valkyrian a King, every man a savior’ he keeps spouting. Pah, you know what his trigger men do? What they have done? Anyone who opposes the NLAP is silenced! At best with a beating, at worse… at worse…! Why? Why do you support that man?!” The Captain yelled, frustration seeping through every word. “Why not the republicans, who are actually trying to give every man a chance? A say in the way things are done! Why?!” Adron stared for a moment, before shaking his head.

“You want to know why? All right I’ll tell you. Not like it matters anymore, seeing how there’s no need to keep anything a secret. Because they wouldn’t do it.” Adron said firmly. The Captain stared dumbfounded for a few moments, before realization struck him.

“You’re… you’re saying…”

“Indeed. They never wanted to get rid of their King, merely replace him. Kurtti on the other hand…”

---

February, 1907
The northern city of Adrean.

Lucas pulled his wide brimmed hat down as he passed a group of royalist troops. The streets of central Adrean bustled with activity reinforcements and supplies to the not so distant barricades that surrounded the central city. The forces had made great progress with the help of the local King’s Guard, but the partisans and nationalist police force was putting up a bitter last stand in lower industrial quadrant near the river. From what he could gather, they were evacuating the citizens who wanted to swear allegiance to this upstart republic, and Lady Bennick had every intention of returning Adron the favor and dropping these upstart’s heads in baskets. Sighing, Lucas ducked into an alleyway, following it to a back door. Pausing for a moment, he entered.

The room was musty and dimly lit by the light seeping in from the boarded up windows. A man facing away from Lucas sat at the abandoned bar near the far end of the room while two other men quietly smoked at a table.
“You’re late, Crown.” The voice came from the man at the bar, still facing away from Lucas.

“Sorry, Hammer, the fighting picked up right as I crossed back over the line. Nobody told me the attack schedule had changed.” Lucas replied casually, though his tone betrayed his annoyance.

Hammer snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “You know as well as I do how zealous the King’s Guard can be when dealing with traitors. Speaking of, your assignment. Do we have that bastard yet? Lady Bennick is growing impatient.”

Lucas starred hard at his feet, his hands clenched tightly into fists. “No, the Ghost of the Sky alluded our trap again. We lost Shovel and Hoe during the raid. The Gho-”

“Don’t speak that bastard’s fancy title again here. Oscar Howler is a murderer and a traitor, no more no less.” Hammer interrupted as he finally turned to face Lucas. Hammer’s hard, menacing gaze rested on Lucas, causing him to shift uncomfortably before he could stop himself. “We have our names to protect ourselves. Hammer, Crown, Shovel, Hoe, Axe, we call ourselves these things to confuse our enemies and tell our friends all they need to know about us. Oscar murders three officers, ten loyal officials, and neary takes our lady’s head off without even being seen half the fucking time, and thus, gets a fancy, romantic name from the locals like he’s some vengeful fucking angel of death!” Hammer now got up out of his seat, addressing the rest of the men and women in the room. “No. He is a Valkyrian, pure and fucking simple who can pull of good shots. This does not make him a ghost, a god, or anything else! It only makes him a traitor, and like the rest of these traitors, it’s our job to make sure his head is in a basket before this war ends.” Hammer’s gaze returned to Lucas. “Take Wrench and Pickaxe and start shadowing the bastard again.”

Lucas nodded, “Yes sir. I will see to it.” Suddenly, Hammer crossed the room in two great strides and was suddenly face to face with Lucas.

Leaning in, Hammer said quietly. “Don’t fuck this up, boy, or all of our heads will be in baskets.”

---

February, 1907
Somewhere in the Avalian countryside
“It’s an odd burden… really. Or perhaps, a strange feeling? Shame nobody has seemingly ever dealt with this before, for I’d certainly need their council now more than ever… To be reborn, to have memories of another life that are yet yours returned to you. To feel a terrifying and yet, familiar power flow through your own body. It certainly is an indescribable phenomenon.” A man, draped in flowing blue, white and deep red robes walked down the ancient hallways, only accompanied by a young girl. His head was masked, meticulously wrapped in bands of grey-white silk under a seemingly modest crown. From his head to his feet, not a single sign of flesh showed.

“Well your Majesty, I’ve heard rumors that ancient Emperors of the Yllendyr, ones who are true heirs to the throne, are granted a similar power. “ The young girl spoke. She was a Valkyrian, and an odd one at that. Her face bore a horrible scar that blinds and discolours her right eye. Her right wing appears clipped in random places along the edge and her movements seemed to be very deliberate and slightly pained.

“Really now? Huh, perhaps once the twins have finished spilling their own blood, I may ask them if it is true. I am in dire need of some sympathetic company right now.” The masked man said bemused. The girl pouted and stopped walking, causing the masked man to halt as well, facing her. “What?”

“That was a mean thing to say, your Majesty.” she huffed, turing away with a scoff. The masked man tilted his head for a moment, before shrugging and continuing onward.

“Strange that you’d be so jealous of long dead elves, Viti.” The man said with a laugh. Viti turned, flustered and angry, before jogging to catch up with him. She berated and berated the poor man while he merely smiled under his wrapping. They finally arrived at the end of the long halls, two large, ornate wooden doors opened before them seemingly automatically, revealing a large chamber perfectly carved from stone. Before them was a long stone table, sitting 20 men and women. Valkyrians and humans alike sat at this table, wearing similar robes that the masked man wore, but had no crowns on their heads. Near the end of the table, a massive, stone throne stood. Intricate carvings speaking a long forgotten language snaked their way around the throne, all meeting in a center point at the very top.

Greeting the pair was a middle age human, his hair a sandy blonde, his face obscured by a well kept beard. “My king, we are ready at once. Across the Valley of Saints, devout followers are rising up and claiming land in your name. By the end of this month, we shall control the entire area. Imperium Legions are to distracted by that vengeful Field Marshal’s treachery to tell the difference and those fools in the Lands of the Darkened Hills are certainly helping in that regard. However, while your holy light shows brightly to the people of the Valley of Saints, it seems it can only be spread but so far from your throne.”

As the blonde man spoke, the masked man walked silently past the table and sat upon the throne. His throne. He was called by many titles by many men. The Veiled King, The Revelation, The Cultist, and The Mad Peasant King. It never ceased to impress him, the creativity that both friend and foe put into such titles. However, in his mind, he was only worthy of one. The King of the Sky.

“Very well, once we have organized our levys and the Strayer’s Mad Lancers arrive, we can begin to make out move.” The King of the Sky spoke. Unlike before, his voice now carried a near magical depth to it, radiating outward almost unnaturally.

“And who shall we face first with our divine crusade, my king?” The blonde man asked.

“Adron his a tragic figure. I remember, in the life before my awakening, watching with a lead heart as his wife’s head hit the ground. King Harold Holfgar the VIII would have been the first man of this country to receive my divine judgement. However Adron’s actions cannot be ignored. His godless servant Kurtti controls our holy city, my original throne. They beheaded many of my subjects without divine judgement, but for far more selfish, personal reasons. No, that is no way to rule one's people. The NLAP is a living example of how good intentions can pave the way to damnation. They are emotions let loose on our land to tear it to pieces, and leave none standing. For this, we must concentrate on them first.”

“As you wish, your Majesty.”

---

For many years the borderlands between the Miranid Satrapy of Ümre and the Unbroken Host ebbed to-and-fro the city of Kand since the Luminescent’s dynasty passed from the coil of V’landriel. For long the Miranids relied on local human Tzücoman command to stem the tide of the Unbroken Host’s expansion into deeper Transtulania, while Miran’s army advanced against the Monurchen dynasts in Outer Keychuria.

As the battle against the Unbroken Host was a personal vendetta for the Gurkani, Miran deliberately saved them for last, when he was at the peak of his nascent power… The Miranid men and beasts were hardened from a lifetime of warfare. With skill and courage they had fought at Miran’s side through these long years in the face of much adversity, and against some of the fiercest warriors native to Soiryndia. From the Gnolls to the various races of Men, to the Üarim and even the simian Monurchen -- each was now accounted a Miranid, a subject of Miran, and adept warlords all.

It was time to bring the last defiant regions of Transtulania into Miran’s fold, and thereby end this bloody reunification for good and all. The Son-in-law and avenger of the Luminescent bloodline insisted on leading the charge against the Apostate Prophet - this pretender ‘Godseer’ - in person... Even after a decade, his foot is still rendered lame from his fight against the Godseer’s champion; the long dead Husayim the Grey. A man of particular guile and aptitude, the Unbroken Host had surely not seen his likeness again. And with their greatest heroes succumbed, their forces stretched thin, and their armies exhausted, the Godseer’s Unbroken Host is now more vulnerable than ever.
In a grand spectacle of slaughter, the Miranids will now scatter his forces and reveal to them the weakness of their false God. The time to strike was now!

The Miranids had carved their way through Unbroken territory to advance directly to the seat of the Seer’s power. Their black and red double headed eagle standards -- a mockery of Yllendyr’s banner in Miran’s own bid for Empire -- protruded to the very gates of the capital of Letyeh. They had broken the Unbreakable, and cut a swathe through the dire ranks of the south. The screaming mobs of the despoiled that heralded the approach of the false god’s hosts had been felled; the braying savage hordes the Seer had led out of their untamed pastures were routed; even the terrible sworn legions of the Sijrdomen, the zealous warriors clothed in black and gold, had been beaten aside.
In truth, the advance had been most hard-fought at the frontier in the lands of Kand, where uncounted servants of the God-Seer still rampaged, and had become more and more easy as they pushed further into the domain of the Host.
The lands around them had been almost eerily desolate. Even under the ancient walls of the city of Letyeh, which had become infamous as the Throne of the Unbroken, only a small force had come forth to meet them, clamouring and bellowing fanatically, and what many had expected to be the apex of the war had ended in a short, if bloody struggle. Ultimately the Miranid Oliphaunts and their scores of cannons carried the day.
However not even the mightiest cannon in the Miranid arsenal was equipped against the city’s most redoubtable defense. It was not one that could be routed on the battlefield. Perhaps foreseeing the defeat of its guards, the master of Letyeh had cast a great enchantment over his capital. Flames coursed over the surface of its walls like skin lay over flesh, barring the way to all the gates with a blistering halo and towering over the citadel in a crackling dome. Though the stone below them appeared unharmed, no one could pass through that fiery barrier without being reduced to cinders. Not even the Miranid gryphons could soar through overhead.

This God-Seer was a mighty sorcerer indeed… But he is a deceiver, a false-god and apostate prophet. He stands no chance against the power of a true god, which the warriors of the old Luminescence will soon demonstrate.
When the Miranids came upon the burning barrier safeguarding Letyeh against the Miranid claw, they understood a specialist would be required to dispel the Seer’s blistering hex. As such Miran promptly called upon the new Arch Magus Antaxaxes to be brought over to the frontier.
However, curse that Deceiver Prophet! His little tricks and games had stalled the Miranid war effort by at least a few days, while they idly had to wait for Antaxaxes’ arrival. Even in the Unbroken Host’s obvious defeat, the seer denies Miran his rightful victory!

And so a few days did pass, till at last the Fararual Arch Magus dawned in the company of many Luminescent Magi. With his golden skin, arcane scepter and flaming hair, the Fararual wizard is surely a rare and imposing sight, not least when he in great spectacle smote his rod into the dome’s fiery surface. And with much chanting, prayer, twirling and a generous use of ritual incense, the inferno shielding Letyeh began to lose potency…

The gates of Letyeh were bared and deserted. And seeing this, a choir of deafening and trembling Üarim war trumpets resound as hellish braying from atop the Oliphaunts. The leading Tzücoman Warchief in his red dotted black cloak of Miranid heraldry, issues prompt command:
‘’Western clans! Clear the Letyehan walls!’’
The Üarim General follows with his own command.
‘’Satrap retainers! Clear the Letyehan streets!’’
The Fararual Arch Magus ends the series of commands by barking an order of his own.
‘’All Luminescentines! Clear the Letyehan skies!’’

Under flaming hail, dust of hooves, smoke from gunnery, the screaming and snorting of men and beasts, barrages of arrows and the clinking of steel from warbands of men, the Miranids stormed the Unbroken Host’s capital.

The city had once been the richest and most magnificent in Umar-Jahan, and though not as ancient as the monolithic abodes of the first Fararuals, the spectacle within its walls was venerable as well as opulent. Its sharp-angled buildings of red desert stone rose proudly in simple, yet imposing shapes. After the custom of southerners, its arches were few and rounded, and reliefs decorated the doorways of the greatest structures. Though many of them were defaced, no doubt to remove old symbols of faith, some temples and pillars, palaces and barracks bore fresh carvings of suns inlaid with the Host’s triangular sign, surprisingly well-crafted and elaborate for having been left by an army of furious zealots.

But, these houses, towers and any stations of office all lay deserted, as though they had been ransacked by savages before any subject of Miran ever could lay a finger on Letyehan property. And furthermore, not a single soul was to be sighted. Did the Unbroken Host pillage their own city? Once more the Miranids were left confounded. Though they were repeatedly supreme in the field, at every turn the conniving Seer and his Host manages to be ahead of them in guile.
‘’The city has been evacuated. The fiery dome was but mere diversion put in place by great sorcerery.’’ The Magus must regretfully state to the lines of fighting men.

‘’Axbak-Camen damn those goat fondlers to inferno! Where is our rightful booty?’’ The first of the Miranid warbands lament indignantly, seeing their prizes being denied to them.
‘’We had to wait three days FOR THIS?’’
‘’Pick through the rubble you lot! They might’ve missed a trinket or three!’’ The Tzücoman general screams, who had just whipped his Griffon over the gate to commandeer his men.

While bands of Tzücomen and Gnolls were tearing apart remnants to the buildings lining the interior streets, Miran’s personal Üarim cohorts advanced to the plaza and palace where the Hosts’ governing body was presumed to be seated.
Their eyes were naturally directed towards a great citadel at the centre of the city.
This citadel, once the dwelling of the illustrious Satraps of the south, loomed with the air of an impregnable stronghold. Though its windows were richly decorated to resemble so many watchful eyes, they were tall and narrow rather than broad. Its walls were smooth and polished, but thick and sturdy, and its roof peculiarly slanted to resist the strikes of catapults from more archaic times. The olden rulers of the city had evidently thought well to be twice safe within their walls, and it was clear that whoever held the palace could have withstood a siege. Yet its mighty iron doors were ajar, and silence hung within its drowsy halls.

Some of the Miranid hosts’ foremost and senior officials gathered in the boulevard before the citadel. Making sure no gnoll or another of the many savages in the army would desecrate the search for clues therein, the Üarim Satrap sent some of his own cohorts to scour the building in orderly fashion. Those men, carrying arquebuses and torches to light the way, trod through the iron doors, and through many dark winding stone hallways until they came upon the nethermost hall, the lair of the Godseer. Unsurprisingly; the entire way throughout the citadel it was devoid of life.

Indeed, even in that innermost sanctuum, only the dead awaited them. Strewn across a gilded table, whose surface glimmered in the light of four braziers, was a veneer of ash, fine and macabre. For a moment, the party stood hesitantly upon the threshold, peering into the shadows between the flickering flames; for each of the men thought he had glimpsed, for the briefest moment, a pale, fleeting vision in that uneven darkness - a distant and distorted simulacrum of a familiar face. Kindred, lovers, brothers in arms twisted and faded in the illusory penumbra like tortured spirits, and though the ephemeral nature of these sights betrayed their unreality, born of the solemn tension and eerie sorcery that alone dwelt in the deserted palace, they were troubling none the less.

And as the vanguard hovered uncertainly by the entrance to the deep chamber, awed by the larval visages they thought they saw, a new, still ghastlier emanation began to gather in the unhallowed sanctuary. The braziers’ light twisted strangely over the ash-covered table, and an impalpable wind seemed to disturb the cremated remains, though the air was ever as heavy and silent. Motes of strangely drifting dust and sparks refracted from thin air wove themselves into a dimly glowing cloud, which steadily took shape. It was in some ways akin to the fabled Efreets the Transtulanians had sometimes heard of in tales, just as ethereal and otherworldly, but its form was a hideous mockery of such noble beings of myth. Pale and stunted, it had many gnarly arms, most of which hung deadly along its sides, and seven heads of uncertain smoky features eyelessly gazed from its hunched shoulders.

“He consigned us to doom and torment,” the spectre whispered in a congeries of faint, broken voices, “Beware, lest he condemn all you know to the same.” And with those few ominous words, the tortured echoes of the last rulers of Umar-Jahan finally passed from the world, and the evil presences in the chamber were dispelled.

The Üarim vanguard leave the citadel to report their findings. Even for all their discipline, it was nevertheless evident they had been unnerved by their findings. But they carried themselves manfully all the same.
Hearing the report, the Satrap looks to the Arch Magus.
‘’We have searched the building, and it should come not as surprise that naught was recovered.’’

‘’Those spirits -- Doubtless say I, it is the Sinner Seer’s attempt to recreate the efreet. A reminder not to tinker lightly with ghosts of the dead, as they carry an unspoken will that overshadows the conjurer.’’
Antaxaxes exclaims with a sonorous lament.
‘’The Gurkani had best been brought awares of the foe’s elusion - though pleased he won’t be! For now the breath of the Gods hangs unbroken. From their high thrones, their star orbs shall seem only a burning and a fever. Until the hunt for the Apostate Seer, who has so brazenly profaned the cosmic order -- first against the Luminescent dynasty, now against the dead -- is resolved to final completion.’’

Though it was an empty and largely ceremonial victory, the Miranids hoist their banners in the fashion of conquerors, over the walls and citadel of Letyeh. The battle is won, but the war continues on.

---

Time: 17th of March, 634 AC (4907 YDC) - 02:11 in the night.
Location: Amshadr, the Red City - the Red Gates.

---

Oil braziers flared on the battlements of the Red Gates. Arquebusiers of the city watch flowed lethargically from tower to tower, the vibrant city life finally crawling away from the night markets and back into the cracks and crevices below loosely referred to as streets. The city was rarely quiet, but for a few hours when the night was darkest, its citizens could enjoy a warming, soothing taste of absolute peace.

Tonight, however, the guards were not granted any such tranquility. Down by the gate, Ali Sahed, a barrel of a man clad in the pompous, cumbersome uniform of the city watch, supporting his snoring body on his trusty arquebus, was suddenly awoken in a start by the approach of cloven feet. The rhythm told him it had to be a camel, soft pads slapping against the floor of Sentinel Bridge over the Nahr before the gate. The rider soon appeared as a shadow among dimming braziers - robed and turbaned, hunched and bobbing with exhaustion. Ali blinked and followed standard procedure, picking up his arquebus and holding it ready, though not pointing it the stranger. He spoke, “Who goes there?!” and watched the stranger raise a quivering hand.

“Peace of Aziz upon you - don’t shoot! I bring news from the north - news for His Leadership, sheikh Said!” By now, the guards atop the wall had noticed, too, and standard procedure was followed there, too, guns peeking over the battlements at the approaching stranger. Ali frowned.

“That’s very good, sir. Hand over the message and we will have it delivered to the stewards by tomorrow.”

The courier slowed his camel’s approach and brought it into the light. The brazier illuminated a red-dusted face with an unkempt black froth of a beard. His hands were blistered from the reins and his eyes were crusted with sand. Even though he had ridden, he panted as though he had ran the distance himself. He shook his head. “Please understand, brother - this message is -only- for the sheikh. I beg of you to give me entry into the city.”

Ali sharpened his frown. “Brother, I understand that you may wish to see the sheikh - I do, too, sometimes, in hopes that he will raise me and my comrades’ salaries by another ten sahels. But--”

“This isn’t something trivial like a plea for monetary support! Please, let me pass!” urged the stranger and Ali scoffed, bringing up the nose of his arquebus. Clicks sounded from the battlements above, as well.

“I don’t think you understand the situation, ‘brother’. It’s the middle of the night, and the sheikh does not want to hear you yapping about your lost goats. Now find yourself an inn or something and wait until the morning.”

The stranger grit his teeth and looked up at the top of the wall. “Allow me then at least to speak to your commander.”

Ali lowered his gun, rolled his eyes and let out a sharp tch. “... You’re asking me to wake up the captain?” After a brief moment of consideration and another visual scan of the stranger’s shape, Ali pulled out a white handkerchief, turned upwards to the battlements and gave it a wave. A symphony of clicks accompanied the disappearance of arquebuses behind the edge of the wall and the guardsman turned to the stranger. “Wait here.” He then stepped over to the gate, fiddled out a key and opened a small door in the larger door, stepping through it.

Nearly an hour passed, and the stranger grew restless. He had dismounted his camel, which was now nibbling on the potted plants lining the Sentinel Bridge walls. He would look up at the battlements intermittently, being met by shadowed faces staring back down. Had the city always been on edge like this?

At last, the door in the door sounded a creak and out came Ali followed by a lazily uniformed, pot-bellied officer with a brow so low it was a wonder that he saw anything at all. The commander offered the stranger a scoff for a greeting and muttered, “Well?”

The stranger swallowed and bowed. “Peace of Aziz upon you, master. Forgive me for asking you to come out this late--”

“You are damned right it’s late!” thundered the officer in response. “I will have you whipped if this is a prank of sorts, by Aziz, this I swear!”

“Duly noted, duly noted,” the stranger replied and bowed lower. “Please, I beg of you, great master - I must see the sheikh! It’s a matter of life and--”

“The sheikh is asleep.”

“I am aware, master - your subordinate told me as much.”

“Then why haven’t you left? What in the world can be so urgent that you, a faceless nobody, who comes to -my- city in the middle of the bloody night, have to see the sheikh? Are we facing an invasion?”

The stranger grit his teeth. “Master, please, if--”

The officer turned back to the door. “Sergeant Sahed, see this man to the nearest inn. Don’t bother to pay for his room.”

“We might!” shouted the stranger finally. The officer stopped and sighed.

“We might what, exactly?”

The stranger swallowed. “... We might be facing an invasion.”

The officer remained facing the door. Ali turned slowly to the stranger, who spoke, “My name is Khazim Homai… I’ve ridden from the fortress in Shoog with urgent news for the sheikh. You must let me see him - otherwise, we may all be doomed by the time the year is over.”

The officer slowly turned back around and exchanged looks with Ali. On the battlements, the crowd had returned. Khazim sighed at his failure, but at least now he had their attention. The officer nervously righted the tall, leaning, cylindrical officer’s hat atop his head and dragged two fingers down his chin. “I must beg your forgiveness, brother Homai. I jumped to conclusions and assumed your intentions were otherwise.” He bowed curtly. “I am Akbar ibn Shaykhir, commander of the Amshadr city watch. Please, come with me.” He entered through the door in the gate and Khazim followed, towing his camel behind him.

---

Time: 17th of March, 634 AC (4907 YDC) - 03:52 in the night.
Location: Amshadr, the Red City - The Royal Palace, reception hall.

---

The young sheikh Said abd al-Aziz ibn Fawzi gave his groggy eyes each a thorough rub. He would never get used to this job, he felt - his father had left him with too much to clean up, and now rumours of invasion were on the horizon. He had barely had time to get dressed before his servants and advisors had plopped him into his quia and had a dirty courier plant his unwashed feet on the floor of his fathers. The sheikh felt the acid of ennuie build up in his veins, but if this man had defied his watch and advisors to bring news to him, he either had no love for life or came in genuine interest of preserving the sheikhdom. The courier looked confused upon seeing him, but quickly cast himself to the ground before the sheikh and spoke, “B-blessings of Aziz be upon you, great sheikh of the four tribes of men. F-forgive me, I must not have heard of your father’s passing. I know it’s not in my place to say, but… Your father was a great man and you have my condolences.”

The sheikh frowned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’ll do. Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated. Now, will you explain to me why you have pulled us out of our bed - us, your sheikh and master?”

Khazim swallowed. “Of, of course, sultan of sand and stone. I bring word from the garrison in Shoog - I have ridden for a month to inform his gloriness about the activities of the Zikomel… And a new force.”

The sheikh sucked in a breath. “Get to the point, messenger. Tell us about this new force.”

“They call themselves the… The Unbroken Host, great sheikh.”

The advisors exchanged glances and the sheikh narrowed his eyes. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

Khazim blinked. “Master, I’m not sure I--”

The sheikh waved. “We have known about the Host for months. They are of no concern to us. The Zikomel and the other barbarians in the north have always skirmished and raided amongst one another - ever since the beginning of time. With the exception of the Jamal all those centuries ago, not once have they moved south on the warpath, and never will they again.”

Khazim shook his head in disbelief. “... B-but great sheikh, this time it’s--”

“Oh, it’s different now, is it? Have they made a move on the garrison in Shoog?”

“W-well, no, but--”

“Have they raided the homes of our subjects yet?”

“Not yet, but--”

“Are their armies gathering on our borders?”

Khazim’s head fell forward in defeat. “N-no, great sheikh.” Sheikh Said rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh.

“To think that you came all this way to tell us that the barbarians are at each other’s throats again… You may leave.” As guards came to collect Khazim, a flash passed through his eyes and the courier exclaimed:

“A new faith has arisen among the tribes of Samermek!”

The sheikh held up a hand and the guards stopped. “... A faith? What sort of faith?”

Khazim nodded. “The scouts in Shoog report whispers of allegiance to a foreign God-Seer, one of immense power and wisdom. We think they are related to the Unbroken Host.”

Said frowned and leaned over to one of his advisors, who whispered into his ear. The sheikh sighed again. “Oh, yes, the God-Seer of the Unbroken Host. We have heard of him, but assumed that he was no more than a pest in a distant land. However, if the garrison commander at Shoog believes the spreading of his faith to be destabilising to the region, then we will send missionaries northwards to correct their schisms.”

The guards seized Khazim’s arms and the courier spoke, “Great sheikh, I don’t think--”

“No, -we- don’t think you should be here anymore. You have utterly wasted our time with useless warnings of threats that are nothing compared to our nation’s current situation. We are trying to rule a country of millions with a billion different mindsets, and your naïve, paranoid observations of gnolls and pig people across the border are nothing less than irrelevant. Captain, find him a cell where he can spend the night.”

The rightmost guard nodded and Khazim was dragged out of the room, all the while shouting, “Great sheikh! Please!”

Once his yelling faded into nothingness, the young Said squeezed the bridge of his nose and groaned. One of his advisors knelt down next to him. “With all due respect, great sheikh, the royal coffers cannot afford to supply a mission to the tribes of the north. They are too spread out and our men will require higher wages to hire in the sowing season.”

Said nodded. “Thank you for your wisdom, emir Mamun. We will wait until the dry season to move northwards. For now, we will return to rest. Tomorrow, we will once more plan the delegation to Al Rawiya.”

Emir Mamum al-Saltan nodded: “As you wish, great sheikh.”

February 17th, 4907 YDC; 477 AFK (After the First King)
Azuria, Capital of the Kingdom of Endaria

“Bear your blade and carve a path for your own destiny, lest you be swept up in the ambitions of others.” - Azrulain Korkatholus, First King of Endaria.

A defining phrase for Endaria through the passage of nearly five centuries. Historians say the hubris of the first king generated a cycle of pain and suffering, the Age of Kings and Strife. They believe that those very words generated centuries of meaningless conflict and war. They believe it to be hypocrisy. He calls for everyone to rise up and carve their own destiny, yet it was he who swept everyone else up in his own ambitions. Though no one can truly say what he meant by it, The new king threw his hat into the ring with his own take of it.

“A true friend never relies on another's dream. Instead, it is the duty of friends to help one another to obtain their dreams. Together, they may achieve their goals and not be swept up in each others’ ambitions.” - Zealossus Laniset, Seventh King of Endaria.

Zealossus rolls back in his chair, groaning as he stands. He inspects the words he just wrote on his desk and comments, “What if your dream gets in the way of your friends’ dream?” He shakes his head and crumples the paper in his hands. Throwing it into a nearby bin, he turns to get dressed for the day.

The light of the morning sun pours through the windows into the vast stone halls of Castle Aura. A bustling city can be seen beyond the outer wall. In fact, the castle is surrounded by a city. It may be better referred to as a citadel. Striding further inward, Zealossus marches into the throne room ready mete out the usual administrative duties as king. Today however, he will be greeted with news of death and opportunity.

The doors to the throne room open. A man wearing the royal black armor of the Cassell family enters and kneels before his king.

“My king, I bring news!”

“What is it, old friend? Stand! And you know you can call me by name, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it sets a poor example among the royal staff, Zeal.”

“Trust me, Aideric. The day I care about formalities and nonsense will be the day I’ve submitted to the full rule of the Imperium.”

“As you say, Zeal,” He stands. “We can speak of random oddities later. I bear a missive from our Yllendyr Emissarial Office. It says that civil war has broken out on the Yllendyr mainland.”

Zealossus looks at his friend with a questioning eye. “Is that so?”

“It is. The Emperor passed away, the Crown Prince and the fourth prince are dead. We have been asked by both Prince Ecruir and Prince Olarth to join them in their war to reclaim the crown. They both claim that they are the true Emperor…”

Zealossus looks to the floor, his eyes frowned, thinking. “What exactly would choosing a side entail?”

“The Sentinels have declared neutrality, so manpower is strained. They are requesting some of our auxilia to be allocated to them.”

Zeal’s face continues to frown, until something clicks. He stands from his throne and approaches his old time friend. A fire stirs within his eyes, and a grin to match. “This is a crux in history, Aideric! We can choose one of them to fight for, deploy some of our auxilia, and then we have a small window to strike!” Walking past his friend, he continues, “The Sentinels may claim neutrality in that conflict, but it is likely that they will remain here and fight us should we rise up, alongside any remaining auxilia. But we are no strangers to war. We are Endarians!”

He pauses a moment and turns to see the expression on his friends’ face, one of excitement and delight. “Heh, summon the faction leaders, Aideric, it is time we discuss the future of Endaria.”

“As you wish sir!” He salutes, putting his arm horizontal to his chest with a fist and rushes to perform his royal task.

Alone in the throne room, Zealossus returns to sit in his stone cold throne. He wipes his face with his hand. “An opportunity for freedom, but what will the cost be I wonder?” Looking toward the door to the throne room, his eyes land on the banner hanging above it. The banner of Endaria bearing the Sword of Destiny and the Flames of Glory. “May our swords guide us to the destiny we seek…”

---

February 27th, 477 AFK
Azuria, Capital of the Kingdom of Endaria

It took over a week, but the faction leaders were assembled with all due haste.

Lord Asgrave de Ashintol, ruler of Asharia, is the first to arrive. His face is scarred from the stray shrapnel of a grenade. A gift he received during Zealossus’s conquest. Asgrave bears both ill will and a great deal of respect for his new ruler. To Asgrave, Zealossus is a living reminder that he has much to learn before he is worthy of ruling Endaria. His first opponent won't be Zealossus however, it will be his own people. The Ashintol family is responsible for the famine that occurred following Yllendyr occupation. The use of scorched earth proved to be effective during the war against the Imperium, but it damaged the majority of arable farmland in Asharia for several decades.

The next leader to arrive is Warrior King Grimmock of Clan Dawi, a level-headed dwarf whose mind is constantly thinking of ways to reclaim the Elways, an ancient underground highway overrun by elemental horrors. During Zealossus’ conquest, he chose to stake his kingdom on a duel rather than wasting the lives of good soldiers for both sides. He was defeated, but spared by Zealossus. In exchange for his loyalty and aid in defeating the Dark Elves, Zealossus promised to aid the people of Clan Dawi in the reconquest of the Elways. A promise that Grimmock intends to make him keep.

After him, everyone else piled into the throne room.

Lydia Valcrutio, High Mage of Quental (Ken-Tal), is very arrogant, but very intelligent and powerful in the ways of magic. Her arrogance is especially apparent when she feels that she is surrounded by idiots. It is that very arrogance, intellect, and wit that prevents her from losing face when people bring up the “Betrayal of Quental.” The Quentalians have faced a great deal of discrimination following the Yllendyr conquest. Serving as the stepping stone to Naerzos’ victory isn’t exactly the best look on their resume. Lydia is working tirelessly to make up for the mistakes of their recent ancestors.

Olerphas, Guild Master of Varak Haronar. The Dwarves of this hold no clan name. Instead, each person is a clan unto themselves. They work hard to do well at whatever craft they choose, and bring honor upon themselves through their financial achievements. The person with the biggest coffer is the most honorable in Varak Haronar. Olerphas is the most honorable among all his people, consistently winning the Trial of Assets. Put simply, it’s a competition to see who owns the most money and financial assets. The winner becomes the Guild Master of Varak Haronar, taking on great responsibilities and reaping great benefits from the station. Olerphas has maintained rule over Varak Haronar for over 3 decades, and has no plans of stopping. Money is number one to him.

Wulfrik Warriorbane, General of the Lodnorian Army. With the rise and fall of Lodnoria, the way of the warrior and sword falls on deaf ears as the sound of explosions ring in the air and bullets rend through weak flesh. Instead of finding new ways to continue the tradition of warriorship, Wulfrik studied ways to undermine warriors and decided to make the weakness of his people into the weakness of their enemies. His embrace of modern doctrine led him to enjoy the subjugation of the Yllendyr Imperium, allowing him access to many books portending the subject of modern warfare.

Drakonicus, Chief Dragon Sentinel of Clan Draka. Much like his ancestors before him, Drakonicus has taken on the dynastic role of defending the ancient Ice Dragon, frozen in solid ice atop Mount Draka. The dragon is healing her wounds that she supposedly sustained when fighting an Arch Dragon Demon. Drakonicus cares little for the squabbling of anyone beyond his own mountain hold. However, the transition from simply existing to paying the Imperium a monthly tribute proved to be difficult. With his people near constantly on the brink of starvation, the removal of the Dark Elves would be a great boon to the Dwarves of Clan Draka.

Alaan du Seras, King of Seraventa. Although the Seraventans never claim to be Endarian, their proximity and history are undeniably Endarian in nature. Alaan absolutely hates Zealossus. So much so that simply entering Castle Aura makes his blood boil. The second recorded Seras to be defeated by an Endarian faction is now him. No other Endarian ever successfully invaded the island save Azrulain, the First King of Endaria. He's highly volatile due to this great humiliation, but isn't so unreasonable that he won’t answer the call of the "rightful" king. There are rumors of a coup in the works, but Alaan has marked it up as "an populace unhappy with the current situation."

Tileran Shadowsong, Prime Defender of Elaria, is the representative of the Elven people. He takes his role quite seriously, rarely making decisions on his own. He has the ability to do so, but only under certain circumstances that he deems necessary. He is an Yllendyr who immigrated to Endaria running away from the crimes he committed in his youth. Elaria boasts the widest variety of Elves, but a Dark Elf is always a rare sight. Ninety years ago, the people of Elaria were facing serious racial tension. The Elven Council consisted of one member from each race except the Yllendyr. The populations of each race were completely lopsided, leading to discussions of balancing power based on populace. The debates back and forth eventually formulated the Prime Defender position, a leader above the rest who holds no bias toward any of the races. Then another debate raged as to which council member would be selected. By this point, Tileran had become a member of the Elarian army and achieved the rank of captain. He was scouted by military command and put forth as a candidate. They debated for many more weeks, until they finally agreed on the young Tileran. His early story may invite lessons to be learned of failure, but he thrived in his new station. When the Imperium invaded, his efforts to fight them showed that his true colors are of Green and Red.

Gwyndolin de Azuria, princess and current head of the Azurian State, the smallest human faction. With her father bedridden and suffering from dementia, Gwyndolin had a difficult transition into power. The day her father dies is when she officially becomes queen of this large city state. Until then, she is constantly encouraged by her advisors, specifically elderly male advisors, that she should find a man to marry and allow him to govern. Angered by their incessant traditional views, she took the reins and drove Azuria to a state of prosperity despite being under the thumb of the Yllendyr Imperium. Eventually, she met Zealossus and fell hopelessly in love with him. His grand dreams for the future of the world kept her at a distance. She has yet to tell him her feelings, fearing he may tell her that he has no time for her. The passion he exudes in pursuit of these ambitions made her love him even more. And so she has always sided with Zealossus on any decision, even if it goes against what she believes in. It is likely that this spark of love is what allowed Zealossus to become the Seventh King.

With the faction leaders gathered it was time to discuss their future, and their destiny...