Where once great kingdoms stood there was left only ruin. Consumed by their greed and lust for power they had one and all been destroyed in the war. Gone were the nobility and the great houses. Gone were the castes. Whoever had survived of the great families were scattered to the winds and the ends of the earth. All men had been made equal- not a single name was greater than any other.

​

And it was in the shadow of the wastes that an idea took root within my mind. What if it were MY family, MY name that were cherished and revered? If I could say I had even an ounce of noble blood flowing through my veins, I could lay claim to the castle and become its steward. And if no one came to challenge me it would eventually become mine. There were few who could challange me, and possibly even fewer that cared.

And so, my kingdom began with a single lie. Or rather, a truth of my own creation. From that moment forward, I was of noble blood. I forsook my family and the name given to me by my father. I forsook my inheritance. And most of all, I forsook my heritage- the life of a peasant.

​

But a single castle does not a kingdom make. I had work ahead of me if I were to become a king. I needed land and servants. I needed an army of my own. Fortunately, my second lie would take care of that...

It has all been burned. Legends on the battlefield now piles of dust soon to be blown away. Their legacy amounting to nothing but hopes of a single line in a book written on some third-hand account. Anything unfortunate enough to be left whole will rot and decay, be buried without graves. Nature will be sure to feast on the spoils.

And yet somehow amongst this ruin I remain. Amongst the blood that covers the dining hall walls, the flesh that fills the porcelain bowls at the table, in the rot and ruin, I am all that is left.

As I pass through the halls I am reminded of the scenes I have witnessed. Server boys cut down holding silver trays of olives. Father's losing sons, brothers killing brothers in blind anger. And in the end, all of it for a treasure that now only the living could possess. Only I.

The moment King Ledonous fell, the throne planted its hooks in my brain, called out to me from the beyond. Like a gnat in my ear it buzzed Sit, you are deserving. You are King if you just wish.

I looked around the chaos of the battle to see if anyone else had heard, but no faces turned. Only I could hear its want. Maybe it knew, knew I'd be the lone survivor of the bloody battle. Or maybe I had only survived only in pursuit of its power. Either way it called to me, even now.

You are champion! Come, find me and take your seat. Rule. The thrones voice floated through the castle halls like the smells of spring, wafting me ever closer.

Too long without power and the world collapses. It is you, it must be you! It begged.

Upon reaching the Great Hall the throne suddenly hushed into a collage of gossiping whispers in my head; I could hear none of what they said. The Kings headless corpse still remained on the seat, blood pouring down his blue robes and turning them black.

Voices flooded my head all at once, crowding to fit, begging to be heard. Each pushing the other aside to yell to me. I shut my eyes tight.

It could all be mine if I just took a seat I thought. And then the voices agreed, screaming in a castrophony of anguished voices.

You are deserving, no?

It could all be yours if you just took a seat

Take a seat

DO NOT LET THEM DIE FOR NOTHING

Upon opening my eyes I was face to face with the still seated corpse of Ledonous, his whitened hands now gesturing to take his place. From a great glass window above a beam of colored light shone down upon him as his hands bent. Bent in cracks like the twisting of a rabbits neck as he invited me to the throne, then the corpse fell limp from the seat.

Become. King. King Azadeus The throne belted its final plea.

I reached out with an eager hand and a greedy mind, gripping the arms of the throne. But the ecstacy died, replaced by images of the kings before me flooding my mind. One beheaded, another burned, a queen flayed; each flash revealing another stain on the throne in an infinite stack of stains that only piled larger. The throne was suddenly covered in its past.

I reached out beyond the throne and gripped a lantern from the wall behind.

What is this. Take your place foolish man! The throne yelled.

"You are ugly." I replied, slamming the lantern down in a burst of sparks.

And as the fire burned behind me, the castle belted smoke up to the sky, I was glad it was me that the throne had chosen.

“Once upon a time, there was a young warrior. He was born into wealth and nobility, and he was meant to be one of the king's counsel, but all the young warrior wanted to do was fight. So he pleaded his father and mother to let him go to war. And even though they loved their son, they allowed him freedom.

And battle after battle, war after war, he proved himself to be the greatest warrior the kingdom had ever seen. After many years of service, he rose from a young knight to be a great general who commanded the entire Kingdom's army. But eventually, he wanted to retire. He had grown tired of the fighting, and more importantly, he found a woman, his true love, who he made his wife.

But the king wanted him to prove himself one last time. The king said, "Destroy our enemy, the Northern Empire, and you shall have earned your rest." The warrior agreed. He took only fifty of his best, his most loyal comrades, and disappeared into the land. And as six years pass by, the warrior returned home, his fifty comrades with him. He had taken the emperor's head, and murdered hundreds, and displaced thousands of innocent souls as what was once the Empire was plunged into chaos in his wake. Yet he thought he could live with all of it if only he could return to his family, and his love.

He could not. As the warrior returned home, he was taken prisoner by the king to be executed. His comrades were slaughtered, and only seven escaped. His family, who he begged to let him go to war, was murdered, and his wife, who he left behind alone to go to war, was executed. The next morning, he was taken to be beheaded, in front of the people of the kingdom. None were as silent as those who witnessed the warrior that day, and the only sounds heard were the executioner sharpening his axe, and the traitor king with his royal guards, still fearing the warrior even as he was in chains. "What king would I be," said he, "if I let a usurper by my side?" The king then told the people that the warrior wanted the Northern Empire for his own, and set his sights on the Kingdom, and therefore must be slain. He spun tales of how the warrior killed his own soldiers, and how his family plotted against the king.

The sunlight of dawn gazed upon his visage for all to see. He wore the years of battle as countless scars upon his body. The memory of his loved ones took shape as tears, as he knew what killed them was his passion for warfare. His eyes, once burned brightly with the strength of his youth, now belonged to a broken man who lost everything.

The king looked at his executioner. The executioner looked at the warrior. He braced his axe, and with one swung, broke the warrior’s chains. The king rose up, first in anger, then fear, as the warrior took the executioner’s sword. He cowered behind his royal guards, and they drew their weapons, but to the king’s horror, they cut his arm, impaled his knees, and forced him to the ground. The warrior, standing above the king as he wept and begged, drove the sword into his throat, and stained the castle’s steps with his blood as he laid choking and bleeding. As the king whimpered his last breath, all the people of the kingdom looked upon the warrior. All those he fought and bled for. “He lied to you all,” said the warrior, “about everything.” “We know,” one of the guards spoke. “All of us know.” “The throne is for you,” said a child mong the crowd. The king was dead, and the kingdom was left without a ruler. All of it could be his.

Those were the last words ever written about that day. The warrior never took the mantle of a king, and once again disappeared into the lands, and nothing else was written about him. Some say he took his own life as the loss of his loved ones were too hard to bear. Others say his late wife had left behind a child, and lived far away from civilization. The royal guards, who were later known to be the seven escaped soldiers the king failed to kill, forged an age of peace that lasted to this day. And the events of that fateful morning were forever since known as the Quiet Revolution.”

—Chronicles of the Eternal Empire, Prologue

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