The Dark Star - Prologue

Aslani, Sun Mage of the Emperor, year of 288

I am not sure why the greatest mysteries are wrought from those most unsuspecting. I might have understood more if I was older when these events happened, instead of a child with no purview of the world. The influence of spirits is one such conundrum that I still, even years later, do not understand.

The whispers on the wind you can barely fathom; the tingle of the sun dancing on your skin creating gooseflesh so sensitive and tender—could it be intuition? Why did they communicate with me so? To allow their influence would be to allow madness in; madness could be questioned, but their influence should never be denied.

They say those kept by the sun spirits are often plagued with visions, premonitions, and influence over those around them through gifts of light and warmth—gifts that could quickly turn into searing pain and blinding flashes of irreparable damage. I do not know when these gifts, bestowed upon me by the spirits, began; however, I knew that I had to listen.

I knew that I needed to listen to the premonitions when my mother caught aflame, where there was nay cinder in sight. She cursed me demon born—that I was damned to follow in the footsteps of those fevered with the visions. One evening in particular, she raised her hand to beat me for an error, as one makes as a child, and she lowered her hand as charred flesh; flames crept up her skin in a frenzy, overtaking the woman I once knew. The legs of fire lapped at her very being as she thrashed, desperately trying to put out the flames. My feet were stuck to the ground, unable to move anywhere from that very spot as a spectator to the phenomenon. It was as if my legs and ankles had been held down by phantom hands gripping them so firmly that I knew I would be bruised. I had to bear witness to this inferno, a sublime blaze; an ablution washing away my rising emotions. What was a child to do but ask and beg for their mother, to know that they would miss them but not understand where they were going? Why did she burn away from me? Did she hate me so much that she would leave her son with the heated memory of her revulsion and contempt? I screamed these to her in my own language as a child despite knowing that she could not hear me beyond the pain she was experiencing. Why? Why? Why?

I listened and listened to the voices: whispers of the future in an orchestra of crackling snaps; fusillades of letters, words, impressions; threads of smoke so thin and wonderful, so divine and holy. I could also distantly hear her screams of pain as she burned, calling for reprieve, begging for mercy from whatever beings could hear her cries. Was this too, part of the spirits' ministry? I was overwhelmed with sensations, fear, and trepidation for what I saw and heard within the ongoing death of the one who gave me life. I was astonished, afraid of what was happening to her—how had this occurred? I could neither look away nor call for aid. I knew this was the fate gifted unto me.

Later I would come to resent her—her beatings akin to thunder; a heavy crack against my skull; spitting and cursing my name to visiting strangers as I hid beneath the cupboards listening—how I was an accursed child and she feared me and my stray, but accurate, premonitions. The way my mind would wander to things that I should not know, to secrets that were never to be said—it was unnatural, egregious, and disgusting. Thus, she would blemish my skin with contusions and my heart with her words—just to punish me for things I had yet to comprehend, and things yet done. In isolation, I was kept from others for fear of the despair to be had from the proximity of my touch. It was a lonely existence that marred the pit of my soul.

I forget myself often and return to this moment of rebirth to understand the nexus of my being.

That was not the present.

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I am on the way to the House of Camellias to discuss with the High Lords of Itempas my visions of their land. Those gifted by the great mysteries often are two sides of the same coin: eternally hated for their gifts—fearing the madness that creeps in their peripherals, dooming them to eventual mutterings and clouded judgments—and the glorification of their gifts to bring the lords wealth beyond measure, controlled plagues, and influence. Each side of the coin, and its value, was important, nonetheless. Through my visions, the lords of Nazanaar can fatten their pockets with the insight I provide them. I serve them in service of the Emperor of Nazanaar.