Post by YueFei on Nov 29, 2022 16:30:56 GMT
Everything was on fire. Even the smoke carried flames and the ash falling from the sky was hot enough to boil skin. In this hell escape, the last army of Elaria fought, armor covered in boiling ash, red capes burned to cinders and amber blades white with heat. All around the child were the screams of the dying and he shied away from it, fire burning in every direction he looked. It wasn't natural fire, it didn't burn the way fire should burn. It melted stone, boiled metal, and gave off no heat. If anything the air was deathly cold.
The child shifted away from the fire, back through the door his parents had just tried to shoo him out of. The steps of the Great Palace were on fire. He wiped tears from his eyes, brought on either by the chaos and fear or the cold heat, he couldn't say which, maybe it was both. It didn't take a genius, or even an adult, to realize their army was losing. Hurried footsteps carried him back across the flawless onyx floor of the throne room to the High Seat of Elaria, the great raised throne of white gold on which his father sat, brooding, gripping the hilt of his Scale. His mother worried at his father's side, alternatively picking at her white dress and fumbling fingers over a string of amber Arcanum beads. They had tried to get him out, but all the passages were blocked with cold fire, or dying men.
The ground convulsed, not like an earthquake, but like the thrashing of a dying man choking on his own blood. The floor cracked, waves like the waves of an ocean rippled under its surface to break against the base of the throne. Something was screaming, still screaming, had been screaming for days while Elaria tore itself apart. No longer able to stand the other sounds of the day the child, a little over twelve years old, turned his attention to his father, who was speaking to an elderly man in full plate.
"There are two armies opposing us from different directions."
His father tightened fingers on the fine blue handle of The Emperor's Scale. "The revolutionists...and dare I ask?"
There was a moment of silence between the two men before the advisor spoke. "The Butcher comes."
His father closed his eyes. The child had heard of the Butcher of Kings and the armies of the He`Draxi swarming from the huge twisted black mountains that had risen up in a place that had once been lush jungles. He'd heard it was snowing there.
"Any word from Cartharanax?"
The old man pressed his lips thin. "Nothing you want to hear."
The Emperor sighed. "Then we stand alone."
The old man looked at the child, then back to his parents. "I'm sorry," he said.
The child's father stood and unhooked his scabbard from his belt. He took the amber blade of The Emperor's Scale and slid it home, strode down the steps, and placed it in the child's hands. Wide eyes met sad ones. "This is yours now. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more."
The doors flew open, slamming against the perfect white walls. A woman with skin as dark as a starless midnight sky strode through, bone sword in one hand, blood dripping from its length. Four others of her kind, with dark skin of varying tones, strode in with her. The child's father drew his other sword, a fine arming sword of plain steel. The child's mother whispered something and the candles in the hall winked out. Everything grew desperately cold, so cold his skin hurt and his breath threatened to freeze as it left his body. A bolt of terrible purple black lightning erupted from his mother's fingers and...scattered and faded into thin air when it came near the woman walking towards his father. The floor beneath the women cracked apart, its ancient magic collapsing beneath their stride.
The child found himself watching the women, eyes on their strange white leather armor and the way they moved, somehow graceful and almost masculine at the same time. His father squared off with her and moved. He'd never seen someone move as fast as the lead woman, she was standing one moment and the next she'd closed the twenty or so feet between herself and his father. Their blades met, and hers cut his in half. Again he didn't catch more than a blur as she moved and when the movement was over, his father' s headless body hit the floor. The Emperor had been one of the finest sword masters in all of Elaria. He'd lasted two breaths.
A black arrow buried itself in his mother's chest and she pitched backwards from the throne. He was alone. He felt...numb. He couldn't be afraid anymore because he'd been terrified for days. He couldn't be sad because the shock of their deaths hadn't fully settled in now. He watched the woman approach. She was within reach. Her eyes met his and she shifted the grip on her sword, preparing to drive it through his chest. A moment, a breath, dragged out into two...and three...and four.
"High Chieftess?" One of the women asked. "Kill him and let's be out of here before this city is consumed."
The woman lowered the blade and, unbelievably, sheathed it. "Not this one," she said quietly, her voice breaking and quiet. She took a breath and crouched down to his level. He watched her, frozen and unsure. She took the sword from his hands. "Is this yours?" she spoke with the soft voice of a mother.
He nodded, finding the strength for that at least.
"I'm going to put it somewhere far away. You can never be seen with it or they'll kill you."
"You aren't going to kill me?" He managed.
He could see the same question on the women's faces around them. She stood and offered him her hand. "Not twice." She took him from that place, from his home, from the screams and the cold fire. She took him far away until he saw snow. Somewhere behind them the city was drawn from the world, pulled apart and forgotten. A few days later, the first Cycle devastated the world and The Emperor's Scale, and the Last Elarian, disappeared first into memory, then into legend, and then altogether.
The child shifted away from the fire, back through the door his parents had just tried to shoo him out of. The steps of the Great Palace were on fire. He wiped tears from his eyes, brought on either by the chaos and fear or the cold heat, he couldn't say which, maybe it was both. It didn't take a genius, or even an adult, to realize their army was losing. Hurried footsteps carried him back across the flawless onyx floor of the throne room to the High Seat of Elaria, the great raised throne of white gold on which his father sat, brooding, gripping the hilt of his Scale. His mother worried at his father's side, alternatively picking at her white dress and fumbling fingers over a string of amber Arcanum beads. They had tried to get him out, but all the passages were blocked with cold fire, or dying men.
The ground convulsed, not like an earthquake, but like the thrashing of a dying man choking on his own blood. The floor cracked, waves like the waves of an ocean rippled under its surface to break against the base of the throne. Something was screaming, still screaming, had been screaming for days while Elaria tore itself apart. No longer able to stand the other sounds of the day the child, a little over twelve years old, turned his attention to his father, who was speaking to an elderly man in full plate.
"There are two armies opposing us from different directions."
His father tightened fingers on the fine blue handle of The Emperor's Scale. "The revolutionists...and dare I ask?"
There was a moment of silence between the two men before the advisor spoke. "The Butcher comes."
His father closed his eyes. The child had heard of the Butcher of Kings and the armies of the He`Draxi swarming from the huge twisted black mountains that had risen up in a place that had once been lush jungles. He'd heard it was snowing there.
"Any word from Cartharanax?"
The old man pressed his lips thin. "Nothing you want to hear."
The Emperor sighed. "Then we stand alone."
The old man looked at the child, then back to his parents. "I'm sorry," he said.
The child's father stood and unhooked his scabbard from his belt. He took the amber blade of The Emperor's Scale and slid it home, strode down the steps, and placed it in the child's hands. Wide eyes met sad ones. "This is yours now. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more."
The doors flew open, slamming against the perfect white walls. A woman with skin as dark as a starless midnight sky strode through, bone sword in one hand, blood dripping from its length. Four others of her kind, with dark skin of varying tones, strode in with her. The child's father drew his other sword, a fine arming sword of plain steel. The child's mother whispered something and the candles in the hall winked out. Everything grew desperately cold, so cold his skin hurt and his breath threatened to freeze as it left his body. A bolt of terrible purple black lightning erupted from his mother's fingers and...scattered and faded into thin air when it came near the woman walking towards his father. The floor beneath the women cracked apart, its ancient magic collapsing beneath their stride.
The child found himself watching the women, eyes on their strange white leather armor and the way they moved, somehow graceful and almost masculine at the same time. His father squared off with her and moved. He'd never seen someone move as fast as the lead woman, she was standing one moment and the next she'd closed the twenty or so feet between herself and his father. Their blades met, and hers cut his in half. Again he didn't catch more than a blur as she moved and when the movement was over, his father' s headless body hit the floor. The Emperor had been one of the finest sword masters in all of Elaria. He'd lasted two breaths.
A black arrow buried itself in his mother's chest and she pitched backwards from the throne. He was alone. He felt...numb. He couldn't be afraid anymore because he'd been terrified for days. He couldn't be sad because the shock of their deaths hadn't fully settled in now. He watched the woman approach. She was within reach. Her eyes met his and she shifted the grip on her sword, preparing to drive it through his chest. A moment, a breath, dragged out into two...and three...and four.
"High Chieftess?" One of the women asked. "Kill him and let's be out of here before this city is consumed."
The woman lowered the blade and, unbelievably, sheathed it. "Not this one," she said quietly, her voice breaking and quiet. She took a breath and crouched down to his level. He watched her, frozen and unsure. She took the sword from his hands. "Is this yours?" she spoke with the soft voice of a mother.
He nodded, finding the strength for that at least.
"I'm going to put it somewhere far away. You can never be seen with it or they'll kill you."
"You aren't going to kill me?" He managed.
He could see the same question on the women's faces around them. She stood and offered him her hand. "Not twice." She took him from that place, from his home, from the screams and the cold fire. She took him far away until he saw snow. Somewhere behind them the city was drawn from the world, pulled apart and forgotten. A few days later, the first Cycle devastated the world and The Emperor's Scale, and the Last Elarian, disappeared first into memory, then into legend, and then altogether.