8 – The Emperor
The capital drew its name from ancient Dhagrani texts. ‘Ener Aishi’, ‘City of the Divine.’ Emperor Novos had never been one for subtlety, but there was something to be said for how immaculate and radiant his chosen seat of power was.
Behind looming alabaster walls, marked with turrets and watchtowers, loomed a city of gleaming silver spires and reinforced crenelations. It was a city far from the war, at present, and as such the people went about their business without a care for it. Or, at least, none spoke of the war out loud for fear of who would overhear them.
For as much as the Holy Kingdom spurned Novos’ empire, painting his subjects either as craven fools, or little more than demons in human skin, the simple fact was that the average Novosian peasant led a simple, peaceful life. So long as those living within the walls of Ener Aishi did not speak ill of their emperor, their lot in life was no worse than that of the average Rhondian peasant, and neither side of that divide knew that.
Those who broke Novos’ sacred trust, however, were dealt with swiftly. Doubters, heretics, spies, traitors, all found themselves either on a gibbet or with their tar-dunked heads mouldering on spikes.
From on high the city, built with a precise geometric architecture that had each district perfectly measured and marked, appeared almost like a gilded cage of sorts. The world beyond was dangerous, after all, and every day it seemed like a particularly irritating spearhead was pushing progressively deeper into Novos’ territory, always that little bit closer to Ener Aishi. While spies and guerilla groups struck from the wilderness, disrupting Novos’ supply lines and hamstringing any attempts to halt them.
On that day, with more grim news from his messengers, Novos sat on his throne and stewed.
For a man despised utterly by the Rhondians, believed to be the physical incarnation of evil itself, who had directly and indirectly killed thousands of people... he did not, at a glance, look particularly foul.
Some would even go so far as to call him beautiful.
Slim, almost androgynous in build, and adorned in a finely tailored robe of white and garnet, his hair flowed like a raven river that stood in stark contrast to his pale flesh. And his eyes gleamed like a pair of emeralds in sunlight.
And yet for as beautiful as he was at a glance, there was something... off about the emperor on a fundamental level. A coldness, an inhumanity in his eyes that hinted at something monstrous.
He sat slouched in his throne, frowning as his armoured generals finished giving their reports. His thin lips were pulled into a long and thin frown. “... and that is the current extent of our knowledge, your Eminence. The defenders of Fort Actius fought to the last man, but ultimately the fortress has fallen. Our scouts reported seeing a gleam of silver light in the distance...” General Kerus said, speaking each word as if deathly afraid they would be his last.
“That damn Celestial Blade,” said General Telendi, stroking his fingers through his grey goatee. “Who would have thought one brat could cause so much trouble. ‘Chosen hero’ my right foot!”
Novos remained silent. Sunlight streamed in through the stainglass windows that framed the sides of his throne room, casting rainbow hues upon the polished marble floors. The mere mention of that boy, for a fraction of a second, made a cord flex on the side of his neck.
“Send the Eighth Cavalry to reinforce the Gilded Road, and route the Black Wings toward the passage beyond Fort Actius. I don’t doubt the Rhondians will be erecting new encampments there, and it is in our best interest to monitor them closely.” The emperor raised a jewel covered hand, motioning over to a serving girl.
The tanned waif quickly made her way over, offering up a goblet of plum-hued wine. Novos gripped it and motioned the girl away, sipping upon the strong alcohol.
“The damn Wight had to go and die on us,” Telendi said, his face flesh with his own anger. “That damned brooding freak. Looked away from him for a damn moment and then.”
Novos’ eyes slithered toward him, the intensity of the imperial glare draining the colour from Telendi’s face so swiftly that it was as if his throat had just been cut. Mentioning the loss of the Wight in Novos’ presence, these day, was ill advised.
“Leave me,” he said. “You have work to do, an empire to help defend.”
They stood smartly to attention, beating their armoured fists to the drake on the breast of their surcoats. Then the two generals turned and swiftly marched from their room, borderline fleeing from their master.
Novos sighed and rose slowly from his throne. He sipped his wine as he paced slowly down the steps, his soft footfalls echoing through the throne room. Six colossal figures in black armour stood to attention on either side of him. His honour guard could pass for statues, such was their stillness. They were all strong in their own way, all the magical entities in Novos’ employ were.
But none quite compared to the Wight.
His pacing brought him, eventually, from the throne room to an upper terrace. Sunlight warmed his pale features, and a soft breeze fanned at the hem of his robe. He made for the wall and braced his free hand against it as he looked down upon his domain.
By now the goblet was half empty and yet he did not feel so much as a buzz.
His face was troubled, pretty features marked by an ugly scowl. “The Wight, dead,” he muttered under his breath. Words he could scarcely believe were real.
A revenant like his, fuelled by such rich and potent hate, should have been nigh impossible to kill. His regenerative powers were vast, after all. Lanten Basque had not been weak, Novos knew, but could he seriously have exhausted Tarion’s power that much, even with the aid of a small army? The more Novos thought about it, the more uncertain he felt.
The Wight... shouldn’t have lost to such foes, surely.
“Hm.” He mulled the thought over, narrowing his eyes. He had more pressing matters to deal with, chiefly that idiotic boy and his damned Celestial Blade. He’d hoped to send the Wight to deal with him, now that the chosen champion of the Rhondians had made such a nuisance of himself. And now... now he had to make alternative arrangements.
Novos cursed, turned away from the city, and made his way back inside. He’d need to head to his study, create more magical servants to fight on his behalf. Anything to compensate for the man he had lost.
Yet, in the back of his mind, thoughts of the Wight gnawed at him.
Something was terribly off about that whole incident.