Swords of Cinder

Prologue

 Soft, white mist slithered across the ground and concealed it in a shadowy brightness. Spinning malicious threads of complicity, it webbed over the corpses littering the streets. The only sound was the dull, melancholy ring of the clock striking the next hour and the taunting footsteps of death. Smoke spiraled into the air, tangling with the thin fog. The fire had long been smothered and only dying embers remained.

A predator watched from the tower. His cautious eyes surveyed the streets below for any remaining prey to latch his claws on. A vibrant emerald cloak hung from his shoulders, and a hood pooled over his head as a haven of anonymity. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he abandoned his perch and headed down the narrow, spiraling staircase. His velvet cloak dragged across the ground collecting the evidence of his actions, and the hollow ring of his footsteps on the cold stone orchestrated a desolate melody that broke the viscous silence. Sharp, silver eyes raked the ground searching for any signs of life as he headed into the dimly lit hallway of the castle.

Tiny shards of scarlet, orange, and blue sprinkled down from the shattered stained glass dome disappearing into the hungry jaws of the mist coiling across the marble floor. The man continued through the empty, dark hall, stepping over the bodies that painted the ground in a rich crimson. Their faces still captured a terrific agony that could only be met with the inevitable and blissful relief of death. Blank eyes stared aimlessly into the nothingness, and the silent screams that perpetually sculpted their faces completed the masterpiece. Bones crunched under his feet as he walked through the sea of corpses.

At the end of the hallway, he pressed his palms to the heavy oak double doors and slowly pushed them open. They reluctantly creaked forward allowing him to enter the magnificent ruins of the extravagant throne room. A luxurious sapphire rug with silver embroidering marked a path to the lonely chair that consolidated the power of the fallen empire. A solemn king slumped upon the throne as his glassy eyes stared up towards the open ceiling. A wiry, metal crown that housed a delicate assortment of rubies, onyx, and crystals was clasped in his limp hands, and the precious ornament was purified by the kingly blood that escaped from the gaping hole in his stomach. A cruel display of vines webbed out from the open wound, and they twisted and wreathed over the smooth marble floors and up the bare walls of the throne room. The overgrowth swallowed the room in a scene of antiquity, but the way the plants hissed and swirled beneath the feet of the cloaked man would cease any claims that time was the culprit. The blood that coated his boots stained the carpet as he treaded down the path of blue. Glass rained down from the shattered ceilings and pattered softly onto the carpet. The shards glittered in the embrace of the wool rug like tiny crystals, but as the mist spiraled into the room from the open doors, it began to conceal any remnants of the destruction.

His hand drifted from the sanctuary of his cloak and trailed across the coarse metal of the crown, before grasping the object and lifting it into the air. It simmered and burned in his palms, the metal branding him with the consequences of his crime. The crown hissed as it scorched through his flesh, but he could not will himself to release it to be devoured by the ravenous fog that writhed beneath him. Boiling, burgundy liquid bubbled from his hands and branched down his arms and cleansed him in his stolen power. The object flashed into a fiery hot red, and in a cry of surrender, he released it to the shadowy, white substance below. The shrill ring sliced through the tense silence as the man drew back his hands which held the charred scarlet imprints of the precious item that had escaped his grasp.

Withered vines pierced through the marble floor and engulfed the fallen crown. Embers stroked the vegetation, but they were choked out by the flood of plants. The item transformed into a sickening umber imitation of its former self as the wilted vines tangled around it. The flames became imprisoned and extinguished by the one who wished to wield them. The man leaned down to pick up the crown and once again, secured it within his grasp. It didn't burn his skin, but it carried the weight of the power it possessed. He swept back his hood to remove the precious veil of anonymity and to reveal himself with an empty confession. Dark bronze hair fell from his head to the nape of his neck in soft curls which contrasted with piercing silver eyes that held a malicious wit. His lips formed a grim line as he gripped the crown and raised it to his head. He lifted the object to meet his dark locks, and its weight pressed against his scalp as he released it from his grasp. The crown was a part of him now, molded in his history and future; it promised an artificial supremacy forged from the corpses that stood in the way.