“Like what—.” An arrow suddenly passed just beside Carrine. She froze.
Then another flew right at Oren but just like the fire before it was reflected by a green shield. “It’s them!” Carrine said in a trembling whisper.
Taking his time, Oren drew his verdant sword. “Come out, cowards!” he shouted while Carrine cowered behind him yet again.
“Please no, please no,” he heard her whispers and silent sobbing. Such a stark contrast to her confident behavior just minutes ago.
From the trees came no other than Garen accompanied by two other men. “I told you that you’ll pay for this.” He shrugged. “What a pair of stupid children you have proved to be. Not moving right after I left made this hunt so easy. I guess my future bride has yearned for me tender touch.”
“You’re sick,” Oren said through his clenched teeth. “I don’t want to fight, so let me buy her.”
Garen replied with a fit of laughter. “Even if you had that much coin, this ain’t about money, boy.” He smiled and walked closer to them, his sword drawn. “We may not hurt you, but we can still take her.”
“I warned you,” whispered Oren and attacked. Their swords clashed, but Oren’s blade much stronger. The ringing of the steel pierced both of their ears. Again and again, Oren struck against Garen’s blade, cracks appearing all around.
Through his clenched teeth, the old pervert spat his words, “I ain’t dying boy. The two of you are!” It was enough to distract Oren and create an opening. With all his strength, Garen struck, his blade, parried by the green shield, shattered into million pieces. Yet so did the shield. Oren was now unprotected.
Garen whispered a word, his eyes glowed with white light and then, with force unlike any Oren’s ever felt before, he was pushed back. His grip faltered, and so his blade flew out of his hand, landing on the cobblestone road.
Only a tree that was behind him stopped his flight. It was lucky that Carrine was behind him no more.
Then the sword sparkled with verdant lightning, and from it came the same light as when it was only a gemstone. It blinded everyone, except Oren, who could see through it with ease.
He rushed to grab the blade. With as much strength as he could, he struck, and it sent Garen and his two goons flying back, but only a couple of feet.
Once the light was gone, Carrine rushed to him. “Inere,” she whispered in his ear. “Shout it. As loud as you can. Imagine fire, nothing else. Just fire. Once you do, and you must be absolutely sure, once fire is the only thing on your mind, imagine them. Garen and two others, consumed by that flame, destroyed, killed. It’s the only way.”
He tried to ask what she meant, but his opponents soon rose back up, ready to attack, all three at once. The gem in his sword’s hilt was depleted, it lost even its weakest glow. There was no other way.
In his mind he conjured an image of fire, not just any fire. It was his very first campfire, just after he started it. The warmth, the life-saving heat. Almost all night he watched the flames dance, proud of his creation.
Then his mind shifted. He tried his best to imagine Garen and his goons but failed. Instead he mustered a different image, one of evil. Alec, Nika, Rin, all the rebels, the ones who betrayed him, who lied to him.
“Inere!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The gem pulsed with light, and then fire burst out from all around him, engulfing Garen and the other men. It burned hotter than any ordinary flame, in it a spark of green. His ears were filled with the sound of the raging fire, but through it came screams of utter agony. A stranger sensation than any other ran through him. He felt like one of the Berian gods, wielding a power not meant for mortal men. This was the magic he and his people opposed so vehemently.
Dead, his opponents dropped the ground. The fire burned off their flesh, and all that remained were charred skeletons. Yet there was one thing Oren did not quite understand, something that would be on his mind for a long time.
Fires of the Everflame
With his life on the line, Aelir rode to Istra with utmost haste. He hoped that no one but he knew of the command. Surely, not even taken by madness would Alric give the order to others. Thinking about it, doubts arose, yet he remained hopeful. He was worried, what about Nariel, Arianna and the other archons. About Moreal.
Paying no mind to the guards beside the city gate, he rode in and headed straight for the central citadel from where he could transport to Sesteria with ease. Especially then he could not waste his strength.
People watched him as he rode through screaming, commanding them to move aside. Still, they shouted back words of praise, happy to see him. At least they didn’t know. Yet, he continued riding and pretended not to notice.
The further into the city he got, the busier it was. Before he arrived at the citadel, he had to dismount and continue on foot. All the way, as he pushed through the crowds of people, he felt eyes watching him. He hoped Vikar would not allow a fight to break out within the city.
He got all the way to the citadel to find the entrance closed. A building that sees hundreds of people every day is not closed for nothing. He looked to the tower above, its light still shining.
In the shadow of the great gate, he approached one of the guards and commanded for it to be open. The guard, a man of middle age, ignored him and looked forward to the crowds of people while clenching his teeth.
Aelir wouldn’t allow citizens to see a fight, little less between an ordinary guard and the prince of the Empire.
He approached the door, and even as he touched them, the guards did not look. With closed eyes, he focused his light. It began to shine in his eyes, and within a second, he appeared inside the citadel.
Never before, he has seen a citadel so empty. The translocation beacon was right before him, but so were a dozen inquisitors. All twelve stood there, pointing their spears at him, held in trembling hands. “You are under arrest,” shouted one of them.
“You know who I am,” said Aelir and touched the closest spear’s blade. With his finger, he pushed it down and said, “Do you really want to do this?” He smiled and looked into their eyes. “I am no criminal. What is happening is wrong, and I am going to stop it but—.”
Before he could finish, the soldier struck forth and drove the blade into Aelir’s abdomen. He screamed out in pain, the power of his voice pushing them all away. Feeling the blood dripping down, he walked forward. A snap of his finger was all he needed. The spears began to melt.
Just as his blood, the molten iron dropped onto the stone floor. “I do not hold this against you,” he said through his clenched teeth; the pain was so unfamiliar to him.
With his bloodied hand, he made a fist and activated the translocation mechanism. A magic devised by one of the ancient emperors, Aelir the Second, his namesake. It was the most exquisite invention of the Empire.
Light took him and lessened the burden on his own strength. Out of all magic, translocation was one of the most difficult and dangerous. When used haphazardly, it led to people stranded in deserts but also materialized in walls, their body squashed to little pieces.
It was because of the seven citadels, one in each regional capital, the magic was used at all. Without it, the Empire would never be able to function effectively.
Instead of returning to Sesteria, he commanded the flows of magic to send him to Tristicia, Nariel’s city.
In a flash of white light, he appeared in Tristicia’s citadel, surrounded by a crowd of people. With utmost haste, he ran, attempting to get as far from them as possible, just so they do not notice.
He was lucky, and very few did. Still, he was called upon by a guard. Once he turned and the young boy, clearly, a new recruit, looked into his golden eyes and saw the blood dripping down, he shouted for his superiors.
A group of knights came and led Aelir away while one of them healed his wound. For a prince, he was never fond of healing magic, it was chaotic and unpredictable. It brought him fond memories of his childhood when he scraped his knee and tri
ed to heal it in turn, almost breaking his bone.
Healed and exhausted, he did not delay; he went right to see Nariel. The modest palace of the most central city of the Empire was familiar for the Tristician palace was greatly inspired by Sesteria, even if built before the Empire first began.
Still, Aelir was not there to appreciate architecture. He walked as fast he could to get to the room of Nariel’s council. With a push on the door, he entered.
Nariel looked at him, letting go of the pen he held in his left hand the moment his eyes laid upon the blood-red stain on Aelir’s tunic. “What has happened?” he asked and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, please.”
“Father,” Aelir replied and sat down. “He wants me dead, but I presume you already know that.”
The archon nodded. “I do. He instructed us to kill you if we as much as hear a word of you being nearby. Nael was sent to kill, I take it you two didn’t meet.”
“Nael is dead. I killed him at the crossroads where Beria’s old road meets ours. What remained of him I buried there. Nobody will ever find it.” He chuckled. “Am I to anticipate your attack?”
With a shake of his head, Nariel replied, “Of course not. The emperor’s commands be damned. My loyalty is with you.”
“Thank you,” he said and let out a confident sigh. “I must return to Sesteria as soon as possible and confront father. This cannot continue.” He shifted in the small chair. “Besides, the longer I stay here, the more at risk you are.”
“Do not weigh down your mind with concerns of me,” Nariel retorted. “What will you do when you get back? If you manage through the crown guard and meet with your father. If he does fight back, what will happen?”
Aelir looked to the ground. “He will die. I will kill my father if I have no other option. I’d rather live and be remembered for committing regicide than to die by the hand of my own father.”
“By the ancient laws,” Nariel whispered, “you can take the throne. Nobody will be able to stop you once Alric is dead.” His voice grew louder. “You know not what happened after my arrival to Sesteria. I was forbidden to see you, to inquire about you. Alric himself tortured me with his light.”
He sighed. “Aelir, I know how this sounds. It is not the best time to bring it up, but--.”
“I know,” Aelir replied. “After father left, I eavesdropped on you. Heard your screams loud and clear.” With a smirk, he added, “the thought has passed my mind before.
“Morael had to have known what our father planned to do. While I do not know for certain, I have almost no doubts. Dear Mori was always the favorite son.” With a sigh, he stood up, the pain in his side still present.
He walked to the window and looked at the sprawling city. “Once I am there, standing before him, I will make that decision.”
While Aelir and Nariel stayed within the palace, a storm came to the city. The weather raged, and the heavy rain bashed the glass windows. It reminded Aelir of reading and the library. Thunderstorms and rain were not as frequent in the north, but he always enjoyed them. The last time he read a book of legends. It was meant for children thousands of years ago and became a point of study for many. Aelir had read it out of interest but enjoyed the simple short stories; it was a welcome break from thick tomes.
Together with Nariel, they stayed in the council chamber and shared a cup of hot tea. Running down Aelir’s throat, it made him feel so warm and calm.
Yet that feeling was short-lived as the door flew open. Before they stood three of the crown guard. The soldiers dressed in vermillion red, their eyes covered by a blindfold. “Archon Nariel, you have been labeled a traitor by His Imperial Majesty Alric the Fourth, Emperor of the Eternal Empire of Sesteria. Submit yourself willingly, and your lives will be spared.”
“Get out,” Aelir shouted and stood up. “Have you forsaken your vows?”
“Our loyalty is with the Emperor alone.”
“That is not true,” retorted Aelir, angry. “You vowed to serve the dynasty of Vi Dera, the blood of Areon. I am Aelir Vi Dera, the second prince of the Empire. How dare you stand against me?”
The guard growled. “The Emperor’s word is absolute.” From their sheats, they pulled crimson red swords. No one has seen those blades for hundreds of years, not even Aelir. “You shall die.”
They attacked, and Aelir with Nariel only barely avoiding them. Using light as a shield, Aelir was able to stand his ground, but Nariel kept dodging.
“I beg you, stop this!” Aelir shouted, parrying the attacks. The guards never replied and continued attacking. He could not blind them, nor could he throw them into darkness; they gave up their eyes after all.
For the first time in his life, Aelir wished to have a sword of his own. The sound of when it broke during his clash with Nael still rang in his ears.
Then came a flash of fire. “Stop this!” shouted Nariel, and fire attacked the three guards. “You stand against an archon and a prince of the Eternal Empire. Tristicia is my birthplace, it is my city, and you are trespassing. Leave.”
“You are an inconsequential man Nariel Ul Ren,” said the one guard that didn’t speak before. “Your power is minuscule against ours.” His voice was like a string of an instrument played by an amateur. “Do not speak to me this way.”
Nariel laughed. “I am the wielder of the Everflame, Tristicia’s legacy is mine. Not bound by the seal of the Book, this power is mine alone. You will burn in a fire of a thousand suns.” Pure raging fire burst around his eyes, hands, legs, everywhere all around his body.
Unlike ordinary flames, Nariel’s were hotter than any. Even as the strong vermillion armor melted into their skin but they would not yield. With all the strength they had left, they tried to attack even in such great pain. All three rushed against Nariel.
Aelir flicked his fingers and light pushed them away. “You forgot about me,” he said. “I was given the power of the pure light of Areon’s ancestral power. My light cannot be defeated.”
Aelir’s light, combined with Nariel’s fire and together, the magic burned alive all three of their opponents. They screamed before it was over, and even the irremovable vermillion blindfolds burned to ash.
Through the fire, he saw his father’s terrible plan. “He shall die,” Aelir uttered, seeing the reality before his eyes. The vermillion crown guards were not willing participants. Through the blindfolds, they were controlled, forced to serve, by dark violet magic.
“What now?” asked Nariel as they both sat on the floor, exhausted and tired.
“The vow of a crown guard is absolute. Not once in the eight millennia long history of our people has it been broken until today. Whatever father is doing is evil, something even I cannot comprehend.”
“I will go with you.” Nariel smiled, more smirked, and winked.
With a shake of his head, Aelir refused. “You must stay here. Make sure your people are safe. I do not wish to see you die.”
“Always so protective of me.”
“You wished me not to venture to a tavern mere months ago,” Aelir joked. “Look at me now, planning a coup.”
They laughed and stood up. “When will you go?”
“Now. He will send more of them the moment he realizes these three failed. I will not give him a chance.”
“Good luck Aelir.” Nariel offered his hand.
“And to you.” He grabbed it and pulled, the two men embraced each other, their friendship bound by fire. “If I fail, remember me,” Aelir whispered before disappearing in a flash of light.
New Order
Beria fell to Morael's assault, and he retreated to the chambers of the city's palace, where once the king had his seat. It was intact, used as a building for the local government. He was never one to enjoy politics, that was by far more of Aelir's talent. Yet the city could not be without rule. His men kept order, but there were many things he had to decide.
In the largest hall of the castle, one smaller than his personal chambers, now decorated with imperial sym
bols of a golden phoenix, he and the previous temporary government that was imprisoned by the rebels were to meet.
While awaiting their arrival, he walked around to see the paintings that decorated the walls. Most were old, painted a long time before the Empire even became Beria's neighbor. They were to be destroyed, he decided already. It was things like one particular painting that showed a fearless hero defeating an army of what was a caricature of imperial soldiers, their pants down, magic in their hands. Memories such as that were enough to give birth to ideas of a revolt.
After he saw all there was, he took a seat at the front of the table before him a stack of papers that he carefully prepared for the upcoming meeting. The old chair creaked, and he only sighed in response. Just like the rest of the city, it was old, unkempt, and broken.
The door opened, and in came the officials. "Welcome," he said and stood up, gesturing towards the other chairs. They thanked him and sat close by, taking only fours seats. On his right was the commander of the garrison, a slender man of medium age, beside him was a woman who barely fit the chair, the treasurer. On Morael's left was the city's temporary chancellor Karin, an old man living in the past of his glory days, and finally, the adjudicator, a young commoner woman born in Camirna.
Morael sighed. "Thank you for coming. I believe the reason for our meeting is clear."
"Of course!" said the chancellor. "We must deal with the rebellious scum. Behead them Your Imperial Majesty! They deserve no better."
"Lord Chancellor," spoke the adjudicator, "I must protest."
"Please, let us not get distracted," Morael interjected. "Lord Karin, I thank you for your wisdom, but that is not what I called you in here to discuss, not at first."
"Why are we here then?" the old chancellor demanded to know.
With a chuckle, Morael explained, "Your utter failure chancellor." The man froze. "Under your leadership, this city has fallen into an open rebellion!" Morael shouted. "Not since four millennia ago, we have had to deal with a revolt of this magnitude. How did this happen? Explain that to me. Same goes for you commander Anir. Your men were to keep the peace, not fall to a rebellion by the magicless population of the city."
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