Inheritor of Strength (Book one of Alfireán age)

The Decline of the Empire

Drakovian Rylarth Docdovinun the second, current Emperor of all Alfireá, paced back and forth restlessly behind his throne. Waves of energy emanated from him, and with each step, the marble floor trembled, and the ancient tapestries on the walls shivered. He had been pacing as thus for hours, waiting for the arrival of his important guests. Every few seconds, he glanced towards the massive golden doors inscribed with the royal insignia of a dragon, its wings spread wide in flight. It was an apt symbol, for Drakovian was a descendant of dragons. His great, great grandfather had married a dragon, and together they had formed the mighty empire he now ruled. In truth, he owed his longevity and colossal strength to his dragon blood, for though he bore the appearance of a forty year old man, he was well over two hundred.

"Sire, perhaps you should take a seat," his court advisor, a wizened old man with a long white beard by the name of Alec, suggested. "I am not certain the throne room can handle your ministrations much longer."

Drokovian looked at a hairline fracture creeping up the wall and threw himself in his throne with a grunt. He couldn't shake the feeling that something dark and evil was about to transpire. For over a week, this unrelenting foreboding had plagued him and robbed him of his sleep. In all of his years, he had never before felt its ilk.

For this very reason, three days ago, he had sent his son to a place where he knew he'd be safe. Then, upon securing the safety of his one and only heir, he'd immediately summoned the remaining six High Lords.

They, however, had not arrived yet, a fact which greatly vexed Drakovian. In normal circumstances, they would have presented themselves the very day he had summoned them. Of course, things were not as they should be. Vackzilian had managed to disable all the teleportation stones in the Empire, and in doing so, disrupted the magic messaging communications network as well.

Drakovian tapped out a furious rhythm on his right armrest, which resembled the head of a large dragon, while his fingers clenched the other side, carved as its tail. Built centuries ago, the throne had been crafted out of a solid piece of white and gold marble into the form of a reposing dragon. Lifelike and majestic, the dragon throne itself was enough to strike awe in the eye of its beholders, though Drakovian was far too agitated to appreciate the throne upon which he sat.

He growled once more as he thought of his current predicament. The Emperor had been forced into an uncomfortable choice: he'd had to either use his personal bodyguards as messengers or send his messages by horse. He'd chosen the latter—a decision he was beginning to regret—for less than six hours ago, an unknown wave of energy had swept across the entire Empire, distorting the absolute coordinates of his realm, thus making it impossible to far-scry. Every mage in the Imperial City was endeavoring to fix this atrocity, but as of yet, they had met with no success.

With this annoying reflection, his foot joined in the staccato.

Drakovian was now completely blind to what was happening in his own Empire: Vackzilian could be attacking the royal mines again; the High Lords could be dead, slaughtered on their way to meet him. The globe could be breaking out in war, and yet, he would be the last to know.

Unable to stay still any longer, the Emperor launched himself out of his seat and began to pace once more. "You old fool!" Drakovian cursed himself. "You have relied too much on magic."

He clenched his fist and the marble floor creaked and groaned. "I should have built semaphores across the Empire so I could send and receive messages the non-magical way."

Alec frowned at him in disapproval. "Hindsight is always better than foresight your majesty, and if Vackzilian's true goal is to blind us, he would have just destroyed the semaphores anyway."