Anthem's Fall

Chapter One

The Imperial Council of the Epsilon

     The sharp knife of apocalypse struck without warning, burying itself into the unsuspecting skies of a sun-swept afternoon.

     In the northernmost continent of Anthem, the remote city of Municera abruptly reported massive and inexplicable reports of rioting and hysteria. The limited transmissions that came out of the city were fragmented and unclear. Imperial Army regiments were at once dispatched to restore order to the city of Municera, yet all troops lost radio contact within minutes of their arrival. Powerful reverberations shook through the surrounding lands, reaching miles in every direction. It felt as though the gods themselves were hammering the very world with furious impacts. From a distance, billowing black pillars of smoke could be seen reaching high into the sky above the smoldering city. When the smoke and cloud of ash dispersed in the northern winds, the glimmering skyscrapers that had long been an icon of the elegant Municera had vanished from the skyline. Their steel and glass splendor was replaced with a blanket of alarming ruin. By midafternoon, the once prominent city was nothing more than wreckage against the horizon.

     Most disturbing were the spreading rumors that a number of Imperial First Class soldiers had flown into the chaos of Municera and had yet to return.

     The migration out of the region—an anticipated exodus for which the Imperial Council had quickly prepared—never arrived, and as a disquieting sun set on the remaining cities of the Epsilon empire, the truth became increasingly clear. There were no survivors.

     Municera had been home to seven million Primus.

     As the long shadows of dusk took hold of the devastation in Municera, countless households listened intently to the Imperial media reports. A primal dread filled their thoughts and plunged them into a global panic. Then similar reports began to rise out of the great Twin Cities to the south of Municera. Whatever caused the annihilation was spreading across the world of Anthem.

     Even in that early hour, it was clear the Epsilon empire—and thus the entire Primus race—was under a global attack. From the throne in the capital city of Sejeroreich, Emperor Faris Epsilon summoned a full attendance of the War Council in the early hours of the morning. Every soldier of the Imperial First Class was marshaled to the Sejeroreich barracks. They were ordered to suit up in their armor and prepare for immediate mobilization.

     Most of the battle-hardened and ornately decorated councillors and generals of the High War Council had been awaiting the summons. Others made haste to the palace from far-off lands, rubbing bleary eyes as they soared through the inky star-swept skies of Anthem. Once in Sejeroreich, the great leaders and officials apprehensively made their way into the War Hall, each aware that the forthcoming proceedings would be grim.

     The strength of the Epsilon empire had long been forged by solitary physical prowess—the power of the individual. Most clashes of wills or issues of contention were reconciled by the strength of the fist. Court through combat. It was commonplace for physical altercations to break out in the midst of a Council session. Sometimes the combatants would have the decency to take their struggle out of the palace, sometimes not. It was said that more people were killed in the War Hall than had constructed feasible battle strategies. Inevitably the final decision agreed upon by the High War Council was to throw tactics aside and meet any challenge head on with the might of Sejero blood. Throughout the history of the Epsilon empire, it had never proven to be a failing resolution. Sejero strength ruled over all, for nothing else could hope to match such infinite power.

     Yet everyone entering the hall knew the War Council meeting that predawn would be different. The danger remained a mystery, their aggressors unknown. The Epsilon had faced an attack on their own planet of Anthem. Imperial First Class soldiers—the gods of the Primus race—had flown into the inexplicable madness of Municera and never returned.

     The justification for the High War Council’s fears was great. Armageddon was a constant truth that weighed heavily upon Primus history. They had faced it before, the near destruction of Anthem and the obliteration of their existence. It had been two thousand years ago, the day the skies turned black and Anthem was nearly lost to the unthinkable technologies of the Zergos. Already it felt eerily similar to the beginnings of the Zergos invasion of old. The mystery, the totality, the abruptness—it rang all too similar to the first days of their race’s near extinction so long ago.

     But no one was bold enough to turn that apprehension into words just yet.

     The Imperial War Hall was a lavishly decorated and expansive pantheon in the center of the great palace of Sejeroreich, the home to the seat of the Epsilon. Vast marble pillars stretched high over the cold stone floor, with ornate paintings barely visible on the cathedral ceiling in the lofty distance. Enormous works of art were carved deep into the walls. Each individual scene portrayed a particular victory in the Epsilon empire’s early history. Celebrated legends of courage and glory came to life on the hard stone. Magnificent renditions of ancient men and women, the first Sejero warriors, cast their eternal gaze on the War Council. The stone faces were the visages of ancestors in whose mighty strength waylaid their people’s annihilation and reforged Anthem from the ashes. They were the faces of the first Sejero sons and daughters, the gods of their race, who rose amid the fires of extinction and cast off the cold and brutal Zergos with nothing but their fists.

     A circle of chairs was assembled in the center of the palatial hall, each seat adorned with intricate carvings on the legs and armrests. Inlaid into the backrests of each chair were the various sigils of the Royal families. The throne of the emperor was twice the size of the other chairs, and inlaid with the sigil of the empire itself, that of house Epsilon.

     As the generals and councillors made their way into the hall, their conversation was quiet and troubled. What did they know? Which Imperial First Class warriors had departed to defend Municera and not returned? But most importantly, who or what was the enemy?

      A number of rumors had begun to circulate, each as unlikely as the next. Many spoke of a biological attack. One described a virus that turned Primus berserk, causing them to kill one another with rabid insanity. Another told of a foreign power that had descended from a distant and unknown planet to destroy them. The only certainty about their enemy was there was no certainty at all.