Eventide Scriptures I - The Shattering of an Era

PROLOGUE

Pharzalis, possessing a beauty seldom seen, has been likened to the artful arrangement of words, the intricate composition of colors, and the harmonious blending of tones. However, among the palace concubines, she was like a diamond among lumps of ice. What made her a ruby among ice was her intelligence.

She became the adopted daughter of a low-ranked noble house because of her intelligence. During her teenage years, her intellect earned her a place in the palace. As she came of age, she ascended to the position of rightful empress of the Terzion Empire, the oldest among the Inner Realm sovereign states, for the same reason.

One evening, she visited the star dome at the highest peak of the palace, where the Terzionite seers had been observing the universe since the empire's inception. Her black hair cascaded down to her waist like a stream of black onyx.

She pondered in the place where ancient seers had once speculated whether the stars seen today were the same as those of yesterday, and whether their number was odd or even. It was also where they discovered the Black Eye in the sky and foretold the impending catastrophe.

Through its crystal shell, capable of scrutinizing distant objects, her black eyes observed the entire capital. Its people. Their lives and journeys. This city was ancient, witnessing many events that occurred and were subsequently forgotten. History was born and buried.

Pharzalis had crawled her way to this position using her own strength. Her own hands and feet. Nevertheless, all of this was merely a stepping stone, not the ultimate goal. She had a duty - more of an aspiration. An aspiration much grander. More noble.

She nodded in her mind. It was time to stop using those contraceptive concoctions. Those grasses and herbs.

All preparations for the rebellion were perfect. To succeed, she had to sever the entire imperial bloodline at once. They only gathered during the emperor's passing, the inheritance of the throne, or the birth of the crown prince.

Among those three, the birth of the crown prince was within her control.

Pharzalis was ready to conceive as many times as necessary, but fortunately, her firstborn was a boy. When the crown prince turned eight days old, every bearer of the name Azgarath with a rightful claim to the throne flowed in their blood gathered to pledge their loyalty.

A span of white stairs connected the temple, which also an imperial mausoleum, to the palace where the emperor resided. As stars pierced the sky, members of the imperial family took turns pressing the sole of the heir to their foreheads as a sign of submission. Beneath the same sky, she ascended its one hundred and eight steps.

She was not alone. She came with forty champions. She knew them well, and could recount in which battlefield each of them had acquired their scars. A red scarf was tied around their upper arms, and on each scarf, a request was embroidered with golden thread. These were requests that Pharzalis had vowed to fulfill.

The surgical scars from her childbirth, stitched with silk, were still not healed. It chafed with each step. The surgery was not due to the difficulty of childbirth but rather to allow her to determine the time of the birth and, thereby, the time of the rebellion.

The Ascent, this would later be remembered as.

Before the sun reached its zenith the next day, the entire Pharzalis household had met the hangman's noose. Not only did her family up to the seventh degree of kinship perish, but even beggars who had tasted bread from their oven suffered the same fate.

The Emperor witnessed it firsthand. The silver mask he wore to conceal last night's wounds gleamed as he adjusted his seating.

Skaith had only one arm since the night before. He had become the captain of the Emperor's guard, the youngest ever to hold that position, since the night before. He ensured the death of each condemned, kneeling and feeling their neck pulses. The Emperor waited for his nod after nod before allowing the next group to feel the coarse hemp rope tighten around their necks.

The Emperor stood as the final condemned's shoeless jig turned lifeless and dangled. His grand cape billowed as he turned, a gesture marking a new chapter in the history of the Terzion Empire.

The rebellion transformed the Emperor, and with him, the entire empire. Old statutes were torn apart as swiftly as his signet ring pressed the warm wax of new decrees. Within a few years, Terzion returned to an era of abundance, where people perished more from gluttony than hunger.

However, the more brilliant a gleam, the darker its shadow. The Emperor violated an old anathema of advancing Artifica, an ancient discipline from the Chaos Era Two which had once nearly consumed the world. This act defied the fundamental laws of the Inner Realm.

Each side demanded an explanation, allies and enemies alike. Their bewildered faces reflected on the polished surface of the Emperor's silver mask. However, his response was as still as its arched surface.

Years passed until, one day, the Emperor rose from his throne to declare war against the other four Inner Realm states. Without warning, and even before Terzion's Artifica had reached operational status.

This time, the Emperor spoke. His hoarse voice from the neck wounds during the rebellion reverberated in the great hall of the palace.

Chaos Era Two happened because of Artifica. Now, the other four Inner Realm states still possessed it despite the anathema. He would destroy all traces of Artifica, thus preventing the recurrence of Chaos Era Two. To confront it, he must gain dominion over it himself.

Some scoffed, thinking his words were just the excuse of a would-be tyrant. Some laughed at his contradictory stance. The Emperor had indeed changed. He never removed his mask even though his wounds had long since healed. His voice had never recovered either.

Skaith, however, knew at least some part of the truth.

The night after the execution, the Emperor summoned him to the imperial chamber. Golden chandeliers cast a modest illumination.

The Emperor sat with his back to him, placing his mask on the small table next to a dagger with a green handle. The bandage beside his head was stained with brownish blood spots. Skaith's right hand untied the knot, and the Emperor removed the rest.

The long black hair, which was like a starless predawn sky and, when unfolded, was like the wings of a crow in the middle of the night, has now been cut short, revealing a pale, gaunt nape.

The Emperor picked up a mirror, fingers tracing the tear that stretched from above the ear to the left cheekbone. "I'm no longer beautiful. Well, I no longer need my face."

"Your Majesty, how may I be of service to you?"

"Teach me how to alter my voice using Prana. Even a rightful empress in this accursed empire is forbidden from learning it."

"By Your Majesty's command."

"Skaith, are you not curious why I do all this? Sacrificing my firstborn son and my adopted family?"

"I am present to provide service, not making inquiries."

"One of The Nine, Skaith. Because I am one of the Nine Seekers of Redress. My duty ranks first. Nothing else is numbered in my life. The rest are just... the rest."