From Beyond the Sea
Ethelar Aramid, Emperor of Aramia, was at rest—if such a word could ever truly apply to him.
He lounged upon the stone balcony of the ducal residence, bare of clothing save for a towel draped loosely about his waist. Morning air clung to his skin, still warm from exertion. He had already trained—steel against steel, breath against discipline—and afterward indulged himself in the quiet pleasures afforded by power: idle conversation, fleeting company, the sort of indulgence that required no permission and left no obligation behind.
Now, he reclined in a wide chair of dark wood, one leg crossed over the other, a stack of reports resting against his thigh. He ate as he read—thick bread split and stuffed with spiced meat, followed by fresh milk pudding whose sweetness cut cleanly through the bitterness of ink and policy.
On the occasion of his once-in-five-years imperial tour, Ostrovarka stood as expected: cold, orderly, and reliable.
“Your Majesty.”
The voice was measured, firm, and utterly unimpressed by the sight before her.
Ethelar did not look up at once.
She is the lady of the land herself, The Duchess of Ostrovarka, Milenia von Ostrovarka.
The duchess was fifty years of age—five years his junior—she was bound to him by far more than oaths and banners. Long before crowns and imperial processions, she had been among his most steadfast followers, standing at his side in the uncertain years when his rule was still a promise rather than a fact. She was also his mother-in-law, a truth rarely spoken and never dwelled upon, for it placed her in a singular position within the empire: too loyal to be dismissed, too influential to be regarded as kin alone.
“Mother-in-law,” Ethelar replied casually, eyes still scanning the parchment. “You’re here.”
“Do not call me that,” Milenia said flatly. “It's weird and awful to hear.”
A short laugh escaped him.
She stood straight-backed, her posture unbowed by years or burden. Her hair—once iron-black—had faded into a cold silver laced with darker strands, pulled back into severe braids that exposed a sharp, disciplined face. High cheekbones, a straight nose, lips rarely curved in warmth. Her eyes were a pale copper, watchful and exacting, the eyes of a woman who had ruled borders rather than salons.
When Milenia von Ostrovarka looked at someone, it was never with curiosity.
It was with calculation.
“Hah,” Ethelar said, finally glancing up. “To think that the woman who once carried my banner now scolds me.”
Her beauty was not the kind that softened a room; it ordered it. Fine lines traced the corners of her eyes and mouth, not as signs of age, but as evidence of long vigilance—of nights spent awake while borders shifted and loyalties frayed. There was no excess in her bearing, no indulgence in ornament or warmth. Even in stillness, she carried the presence of a woman who had ruled her domain not by charm, but by endurance, discipline, and an unyielding understanding of consequence.
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the interior of the residence.
“I see you have been enjoying my servants,” she said coolly. “Is it possible, perhaps… that my daughter has failed in her duties?”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mile,” Ethelar replied, unbothered. “It isn’t that I don’t enjoy your daughter’s company. The matter is purely practical.”
He paused, then added lightly,
“Besides—”
A voice cut through the morning air.
“Announcement to His Imperial Majesty and Her Grace the Duchess!” a guard called out from beyond the chamber. “The merchant lord Amancio has arrived and humbly requests an audience.”
Ethelar lifted one finger.
The guard immediately withdrew to open the doors.
“Things like this,” the Emperor continued, turning back to Milenia as if uninterrupted, “have a way of arriving without warning. And they rarely wait for comfort.”
His eyes returned to the reports.
A man dressed in extravagant finery stepped onto the balcony.
In one hand, he held a heavy chain. At its other end walked two figures with sun-browned skin, their clothes ragged and worn thin, their necks bound by iron links. Rough cloth hoods concealed their faces. They moved with the cautious obedience of those long accustomed to restraint.
Beside the man walked another of similar complexion—clearly of the same origin as the chained pair—yet his attire marked him as entirely different. He was dressed neatly, respectably, even elegantly, his posture upright, his hands folded before him like a court attendant rather than property.
“I offer my deepest respects to His Imperial Majesty,” the man said.
Thick curls fell from his temples in practiced symmetry as he bowed to Ethelar Aramid. The many necklaces and ornaments adorning his neck slid and chimed softly with the motion, gold and stone announcing his presence even when his voice did not. Resting atop his head was a large, round hat of dark fur, extravagant and unmistakably foreign.
“What business brings the KingofSlaves before me?” Ethelar asked, his tone flat.
“I have acquired certain trinkets that may interest Your Majesty,” the man replied smoothly. “From a… modest venture of mine. I have heard that lately, Your Majesty has taken an interest in peculiar phenomena from the far western reaches.”
Throughout the exchange, Ethelar Aramid did not lift his gaze from the reports in his hands. He did not look at his guest. He did not acknowledge the captives. It was an act of deliberate disregard—arrogance elevated into ritual, the kind of supreme indifference only absolute authority could afford.
Yet beneath that stillness, the Emperor was mildly surprised.
He was impressed.
Amancio’s web of contacts and information ran deeper than most realized. Very few knew of Ethelar’s journey into the Azureas Sea, or of what he had encountered beyond its horizon.
“And your price, Amancio,” Ethelar said at last.
“The rights to purchase land in Frasberg, Your Majesty. I believe what I bring you is worthy enough.”
Ethelar sighed faintly. “This again? You know I cannot grant that.”
In response, Amancio reached out and pulled away the cloth covering one of the captives.
An old woman’s face was revealed.
Layers of coarse, handwoven cloth clung to her frail frame, dyed in earthen reds, soot-black, and murky greens—colors drawn not from pigments, but from soil, bark, and blood long dried. Heavy strands of beads hung from her neck, carved from bone, seed, and river stone, clattering softly with each step. Talismans were sewn directly into the fabric: animal fangs, cracked shells, darkened wooden charms, as though her clothing itself had become a shrine.
Her arms, thin and exposed, were covered in ancient tattoos—deep blue-black spirals and jagged symbols that defied the symmetry prized by Aramian artisans. To those watching, they looked crude. Yet the longer one stared, the more deliberate they felt, like sentences written in a language older than imperial law.
Her hair, once black, had faded into a dull silver and was bound low with braided fibers and worn beads. From her head rose a modest crown of feathers—long, weathered plumes from jungle birds unknown to the empire. Broken at the tips, stripped of brilliance, they nonetheless stood upright with quiet authority. There was no gold, no gemstone—yet no one mistook it for anything other than a crown.
Her eyes were the most unsettling of all.
Clouded white. Sightless. Unfocused.
She was unmistakably blind.
And yet—contrary to that blindness—her face twisted in sudden shock the moment she faced the Emperor. She cried out, shouting words in a language none present understood. Her voice was raw, urgent, trembling with something between awe and terror.
Only one person reacted with recognition.
The well-dressed man beside Amancio stiffened.
“Well now,” Amancio chuckled softly. “I’ve never seen her this animated before. Kanang,” he said, turning slightly, “would you be so kind as to translate her words?”
Strangely, the sun-browned man began to glance back and forth between Amancio and the old woman, as though he had just heard something profoundly surprising. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. He swallowed hard.
Amancio noticed at once.
“What is it, Kanang?”
Kanang hesitated. Then, at last, he forced his voice to rise—speaking not in his mother tongue, but in Vlanderic, one of the common languages of Aramia and Varnaria, and the one he commanded best beyond his native speech.
“Gij zijt het—de uitverkorene!”
“De beloofde kroon rust in u!”
“Koning der mensen, door het lot gezalfd!”
“Door u zal de muur die de wereld scheidt beginnen te bezwijken!”
“Door u zal de poort naar de vergeten helft der wereld worden geopend!”
(Translate)
“Thou art the one—the Chosen One!”
“The Promised Crown rests within thee!”
“King of men, anointed by fate itself!”
“Through thee shall the wall that sunders the world begin to crumble!”
“Through thee shall the gate to the forgotten half of the world be opened!”
Ethelar Aramid, fluent in Vlanderic, finally set aside the papers he had been reading. He rose from his seat and approached Amancio and the chained captives, his gaze passing over them slowly—measured, evaluative, as though weighing not merely their worth, but the consequences of sparing or discarding them.
“Fifteen years,” he said at last. “A premium mining concession.”
His voice did not rise.
“On the condition that the city prospers. Its people remain fed and housed. Their children are educated. Waste is contained and controlled without exception. Post-extraction reclamation will be carried out in full.”
At once, Amancio dropped to one knee.
Ethelar extended his hand. Amancio bowed low and pressed his lips to the imperial ring—an old gesture of submission, obedience, and acknowledgement of absolute authority.
The matter, for the Emperor, was settled.
After that, the Emperor dismissed Amancio at once and instructed Milenia to give the necessary orders. The three dark-skinned captives were released from their chains, bathed, clothed, and fed. Two hours later, they were brought back before the Emperor and the Duchess.
It was Milenia who began the questioning.
She addressed Kanang—the only one among them capable of speaking with the court—asking his name, his parentage, his place of origin, and how they had come to fall into the hands of a man like Amancio.
From Kanang’s account, a clearer picture emerged.
Kanang, the elderly woman, and the young boy—revealed to be her grandson—were natives of one island among the countless archipelagos of the Thalassocracy of Runawijaya. Their homeland had fallen in war against a rival tribe. They were sold as captives, passed from one hand to another, until eventually they came into Amancio’s possession while he was attempting to open a new trade route to the islands.
When the necessary questions were exhausted, the Emperor finally spoke.
“That old woman spoke of me at great length,” Ethelar said calmly. “And yet I am certain we have never once met.”
Kanang answered after a brief hesitation.
“Her name is Ina Sangiang Sulu. She is greatly revered. She is a Balian Agung—one of the eleven high shamans still living in all of Runawijaya. She is known for reading fate and receiving revelations from Ranying Hatalla Langit, the Great Creator.”
Skepticism lingered within Ethelar Aramid.
As Emperor, he had weathered countless attempts on his life, conspiracies woven in silk and blood, and no shortage of frauds dressed in prophecy and divine language. Faith, visions, unseen powers—these were tools often used to deceive those who ruled.
Assuming this to be no different, he decided to test it.
“Very well,” he said. “Tell me more about myself.”
Kanang translated.
The old woman fell silent for a time.
“O King,” she began at last; her words carried through Kanang’s voice. “You were born on a night of storm, when no moon dared show its face. Though raised in poverty, you were joyful as a child, helping your mother sell fruits.”
Ethelar’s posture changed.
Where he had been leaning back, head supported by one hand, he now straightened. A faint smile touched his lips.
Milenia, meanwhile, was visibly shaken. She had never known this about him—had never even imagined it. The Emperor had spoken of his mother to only one soul: Roy, his young attendant, and that only nights ago, dismissed by him as an unguarded slip of the tongue.
“O King…” the old woman continued. “You slew your father in the tenth summer, and you honored your mother in the thirty-fifth spring. You slew your father because he had—”
“Enough.”
Kanang stopped.
Not because he had heard the command spoken, but because he saw the Emperor’s face.
Ethelar Aramid was staring at him like a predator.
Milenia, who had served him all her life recognized that expression. It was the look he wore when deciding whether someone should live or die. For reasons known only to herself, she lowered her gaze and folded her arms tightly against her body.
The emperor’s earlier ease was gone.
No one had ever been told of that memory of his. Not a soul. Not the wind, not the grass, not even the insects of the field had borne witness to it.
“You have earned my trust,” Ethelar said at last.
Kanang immediately bowed low in reverence.
Once his temper had settled, Ethelar Aramid asked for an explanation of the vision that had seized Ina, the shaman woman. What had she seen in him—so powerful that it drove her to hysteria before a ruler whom kings themselves bowed and be mindful of their every word and gesture? He wanted the question gone from his mind.
To answer it, the old woman requested several offerings: food, firewood, straw, charcoal, a bronze bowl, and above all, four strands of the Emperor’s longest hair. Before beginning, she instructed that all curtains be drawn shut, no light allowed to enter, and no voice raised. The servants complied without delay.
The ritual began.
Eleven figures sat upon the floor, forming a circle around Ina—the guards, the servants, and even the Emperor himself among them. The brown-skinned child began to chant hymns while striking a small ritual drum which previously tide to his waist, its rhythm unsettling to those present. The air grew thin, the light seemed to fade, and the wind within the chamber ceased entirely, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
Smoke rose from the bronze bowl where straw and Ethelar’s hair burned together. It coiled around Ina’s eyes like a blindfold, then spread upward, stretching across the ceiling until it formed a dome of shadow.
Kanang, seated beside the shaman, prepared himself to translate—then froze as he saw her lips begin to tremble.
“He who dies and lives again shall shatter the order of things.
The pillars that hold up the sky will fall, and chaos will spread across many lands.
On the night of the red full moon, the veins of the honored ones shall return magic to mankind.
With the pulse of the cosmos, the King shall find the Sacred One.
In the embrace of the Sacred One, the two worlds shall walk a single path again,
and a destiny long stalled shall finally find its answer.”
Then, without warning, the fire went out.
The light felt normal once more. The air returned., but only to carry the smell that pulled everyone to reality once more; the food that was served had all rotted.
The child rose to his feet, and the others followed—some in fear. Yet, as Ethelar moved to stand, Ina’s hand suddenly caught his. Blind fingers traced his form, searching. Several guards tensed, ready to intervene, but the emperor stopped them with a gesture.
Her hand came to rest on his right chest, opposite the heart—upon the scar he had earned during his western voyage.
She spoke again.
“Leiden is lijden. (To lead is to suffer)
Black will always exist—but white shall walk beside it.
You have done great things, O son of $%*&#—”
Kanang's voice faltered while translating.
“She will be proud. And you must continue to walk this path…”
The man swallowed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I cannot hear all of it,” he said, shaken.
Ethelar raised a hand, signaling him to let it pass. He took the old woman’s hand gently.
“You shall be honored in my lands,” the Emperor said. “All your needs will be met. You will live in safety and comfort until the day you die.”
Ina answered softly.
“I will only die upon the soil of my ancestors.”
Kanang lowered his head. “It seems she does not intend to remain, Your Majesty.”
.
.
.
“Then I will not detain you,” Ethelar replied at last. “You shall be returned unharmed to your homeland aboard my finest ship.”