Chapter 1:  A True Aquilune

I used to laugh within the confines of my mind upon hearing my fellow senators discuss the expenses required to maintain the Cyclopean Spire in Magnusium. The parsimonious wretches would whine while servants produced stacks of wax tablets covered in columns of figures offering conclusive proof that the Republic was wasting untold sums of public money providing housing and feed for two entire races in return for benefits of dubious value. Debates would invariably ensue regarding the effectiveness of our giant and cyclopean auxilia, split between those senators lacking military backgrounds and those who enjoyed personal experience with the Slayer’s work. The wax tablets proved invincible against veterans’ depictions of the devastating effect of a charge of giants armored in legionary lorica segmentata. Even appeals to our fellow senators’ honor proved useless despite reminders that Sulanth had an ancient obligation: we offered the giants and cyclopes a home safe from the Mad God’s Niveans in exchange for military service, a pact that has held for centuries.

Only one argument could wipe away their sneers for our ancestors’ folly. Attaining the floor, I said, “Very well, fellow senators, I will agree for the sake of harmony that we should break our treaty and evict our ancient allies under one condition: you must provide the delegation that travels to Magnusium and enters the Cyclopean Spire to inform the giants of your decision.” The Senate voted to continue funding the Cyclopean Spire by unanimous decision. –Senator Eudoxia of Conacia, “United in Glory: A Treatise Examining the Auxilia and their Motives in Joining their Fates to Sulanth’s”

Outskirts of Crythra, Empire of Psithyros

Summer, 197 ECY, 37 years later

The battle that would finally end the war was about to begin. Prince-Legate Honorious Aquilune regarded the three legions arrayed for battle on the field below the low hill. Rather than donning his usual joviality to defuse tensions before battle, Honorious stood unmoving, cold blue eyes trained on the gleaming lines of Sulanthan legionnaires. His thin lips curled in what the few surviving witnesses would agree, in retrospect, had been a sad smile. It was the only omen of the coming events.

The Psithyron kings in ostensible command of his army babbled, already disputing the distribution of spoils. Honorious ignored the loathsome men, whose presence was an unwelcome necessity, and looked past the officers to his right to Tribune Flavia Tempestanus, who was nearly as tall as the men between them. Her sparkling green eyes met his. Flavia smiled, sharing the glory of the moment with him. They had toiled to bring this campaign—his first as legate—to a successful conclusion. After seven brutal years in the field, victory was within reach.

Would this would be the last time he saw her smile?

He waited until a breeze sent his imperial purple cape fluttering behind him, ruffling his short blonde locks and the grays lurking like cutpurses among them. Only then did he slowly lift his sword, sensing thousands of eyes fixed on its ponderous rise. This was it. The final chance to turn aside before embarking upon this mad course. Months of doubts, easily dismissed before, coalesced in the moment of decision. Was he still walking honor’s path? The events to follow would make him either a tragic hero or the vilest of traitors. Recalling the discoveries that led him to this moment made his hand tighten on the spatha’s hilt.

I must stop Grandfather. Honor demands it. Let the game be ventured. Karalla, please show mercy to my soul.

He held his pose for another heartbeat before sweeping the gleaming spatha down in the swift motion of a headsman’s axe.

Trumpets pierced the still morning air with a rapid series of strident notes that echoed from positions near the front lines. What had been a serene meadow dotted with patches of bright yellow flowers now teemed like a roused ant hive as the legions advanced.

The modest forces of the Psithyron kingdoms allied to the Empire held the right flank, clustered in loose formations of varying size. The Psithyron warriors, in their panoply of gear, shouted threats and boasts and hefted weapons as they advanced upon the so-called Free Psithyroi opposing them. In contrast, the thirteen thousand Sulanthan legionnaires in neat ranks in the army’s core let the rising thunder of their approaching strides worm fear into their enemies’ hearts.

The Sulanthan auxilia on the left flank unfolded into the wide crescent of a Myantari dirgebloom’s petals. The auxilia, cyclopes and giants from the Magnusium Legion armored in oversized legionary lorica segmentata, roared challenges at the cringing Psithyroi opposing them. Centaur auxilia skirmishers raced before the army and routed the meager Psithyron light cavalry from the field with javelins hurled from incredible distances. A wedge of imperial cataphracts, the army’s most formidable formation, made a bright armored spearhead in the center; glittering lance heads held high, they were a weapon aimed at the heart of the enemy massed before them.

Brought to bay like a wounded stag at the end of a long hunt, the battered Psithyron host awaited them atop a low rise hemmed on two sides by a deep river and a marsh. Like the stag, Psithyroi remained dangerous. Their force consisted of spearmen grouped in phalanxes backed with slingers and a small heavy cavalry contingent. Spaces gaped between the phalanxes, dividing the contingents that each Psithyron lord brought. Even now, they outnumbered Honorious’ army by a third, but disunity and a lack of Soul Burners had brought them to the verge of destruction.

The cataphracts and centaurs advanced and showered the enemy’s front ranks with arrows and javelins. The centaurs dared one another to rush ever closer to the Psithyroi before hurling their darts. Slingers returning fire felled the most boastful centaurs, but their bullets clanged off the cataphracts’ heavy armor. Another burst of trumpets signaled the charge once the Psithyron front ranks faltered under the barrage of missile fire.

The cataphracts stowed their bows and seized lances. The Psithyroi tried to restore their bristling line of spears for the cataphracts to impale themselves, but continued fire from the centaurs kept the phalanxes in disarray. Encased in steel, the cataphracts moved slowly at first, but with growing momentum. Orange and red pennons streaming from their lances resembled dragons in flight. The dragon pennons cast chilling howls across the field when the wind filled them. The charge would smash the Psithyron army with the impact of a mailed fist bursting through a rotten melon.

It never landed.

The wedge of charging cataphracts disappeared two-thirds of the way across the field. One moment, they were galloping with lances down, a glorious display of Sulanthan might about to deliver a deathblow to the Psithyron host. In the next, they were gone. A cacophony of crashing metal and screaming horses and men came to them a heartbeat later. A dust cloud covering the area slowly faded, revealing a vast trench where a slowly toppling lance and a lone riderless horse were all that remained where the cataphracts disappeared. The loss of the cataphracts tore the Sulanthan-led force’s heart out. Even Honorious’ Psithyron nobles fell silent.

The cataphracts and their noble steeds deserved a better fate than an inglorious demise amid the trench’s sharpened stakes. It rent Honorious’ heart to see them slaughtered like livestock. Would that they could have met their ends in battle as they would have wanted. It had required a complex dance of misdirection and contradictory orders to ensure that nobody realized that the centaur scouts had failed to sweep this area for the past few days. Arranging for the centaurs to find an unattended supply wagon carrying wine also helped.

Honorious sensed his officers’ bovine eyes on him. Losing the cataphracts was devastating, but they had seen him transform defeats into decisive victories. Seven agonizing years battling long odds with an exhausted, undersupplied, undermanned army saddled with unreliable allies had proven his mettle. Despite all the challenges he had overcome, all he ever heard from Grandfather were questions. Why did it take six months to cross the Hydra? Why did he need another Soul Burner section? How did he offend King Amphisos into changing sides again? Even taking the impregnable fortress of Parthenos only earned him a, “Good work,” followed by a demand for justification of the funding for the new command tent. Honorious struggled to imagine the Nivicus herself doing any better in the same circumstances.

A lifetime immersed in the Imperial Game kept his expression serene. He forced a laugh and donned joviality like a mask. “It’s only taken the wretches seven years to figure out how to stop cataphracts. Perhaps they’ll teach us how to make fire next.” False laughter, loud in the crisp morning, greeted the weak jest, but it had the intended effect of stilling the officers’ fears. He needed them confident. “Speaking of which, are the Soul Burners ready, Jagged?”

The venerable Soul Burner master, their staff representative, inclined his head. Master Jagged had adopted the distasteful Psithyron custom of growing a beard, which had exploded into a bush of gnarled white hair. Jagged raved about the joys of embracing local cultures; the beard was the least offensive of the foreign proclivities he had confided an interest in. Jagged looked up from a heavy gold medallion he had been rubbing and his left eye flickered in the briefest of winks. Honorious’ fist trembled with the urge to punch the old fool’s eye shut. He waved an irritated hand to the signalers.

Trumpets and cornua blasted an ominous series of deep notes. Two ranks of soldiers in midnight blue advanced from behind the main force and halted just beyond the slingers’ range. They were only two centuries strong, barely two hundred individuals against thirty thousand, but the opposing army shivered at the sight of them. The Psithyroi were familiar with the Soul Burners’ work. Ranks of Umbrae held rectangular shields taller than some men interlocked in a solid wall that protected the formation on three sides. A thinner line of Soul Burners marched behind them.

A blinding storm of lightning ripped across the field from the Soul Burners to tear gaping holes through the Psithyron host with rippling detonations. Scores more died, screaming, when clouds of flame burst among the phalanxes. The Psithyron formations disintegrated into the chaos of a children’s playroom as the soldiers scrambled to spread out to avoid making appetizing targets. Screams of a different timbre reached Honorious a moment later when black sheets of javelins whipped into the exposed rear of the Soul Burners’ formation.

The missiles came from a formation of Sulanthan-allied Psithyroi hurling with desperation’s speed. The surviving Soul Burners retaliated with crackling lightning and streams of concentrated acid that disintegrated the traitorous allies’ ranks. Wiser Soul Burners conjured icy barriers or stone walls to protect themselves. The javelins kept tearing through the formation until the sorcery faltered, then stopped altogether. The Umbrae rushed to shift their cumbersome shields at the first sign of trouble, but by then, it was too late; the massed Soul Burners made easy targets.

The Psithyron betrayers belonged to King Luselid of Phalcaea, one of the few Psithyroi the Empire had deemed trustworthy. It was his plea, after all, that led Sulanth to intervene in this godsforsaken land. A rarity in these lands, Luselid had proven worthy of the honor of anchoring the army’s right wing to the center. Which gave him the opportunity he seized today.

The Soul Burners’ annihilation unleashed chaos across the battlefield. The Sulanthan unit nearest Luselid’s traitors, a cohort from the Eighth Legion/Titans, broke from the line to plunge into the traitorous Psithyroi. Their charge was uneven, but the legionary heavy infantry carved through the lighter-armed Psithyroi in methodical fashion. A wild melee ignited when the surviving Umbrae joined them with a flanking strike. More legionnaires broke formation to attack the other allied Psithyroi, though the rest remained loyal to all appearances. The failing discipline left the Sulanthan side of the battlefield in shambles. The Psithyroi that had scattered from the Soul Burner strike began regrouping to counterattack.

Honorious wanted to laugh at the gaping disbelief on his Sulanthan officers’ faces. They had expected this battle to be an amusing diversion before the real fun of plundering Crythra’s fabled riches. They thought they knew everything. The Imperial Academy and the War College taught that the path to glory was through obedience and diligence, which made it true. The great Emperor Aurelius Aquilune had preached that creed to the Empire for generations. Of course, Grandfather—more properly Great-Grandfather, but that was too much a mouthful—confided long ago to Honorious that repeating a lie with conviction enough times made it indistinguishable from truth.

Consider the reality, and one saw that few, if any, of the bright, eager youths clutching their ivory graduation tablets would ever achieve anything worthy of note. What they failed to see, what they were too small-minded to see, was that they were all mere pieces in Grandfather’s game, that their every deed only served to enhance his glory. They were all ensnared in the inexplicable worship of Grandfather that pervaded the Empire and blinded them to reality. Honorious watched with an inner smile as the officers’ smugness collapsed into blinking, brow-furrowed disbelief, followed by eyes widening with shock, and ending with ashen faces. They were finally beginning to realize that life taught a few lessons that were unavailable in Academy.

Imperial Guard Centurion Nascica detailed a Guard section to drag treacherous King Luselid from his tent, but even the grizzled centurion he knew it was a fool’s errand. Luselid had remained in camp after a convenient stomach ailment confined him to his tent that morning, but his bowels had just proven his least treacherous attribute.

Outraged yowls erupted from the allied Psithyron kings when the legionnaires began massacring their household contingents. The kings yanked on their curled beards and shouted demands for Honorious to restrain the army. Younger Sulanthan officers advanced on them with snarled accusations of treachery. Swords began hissing free of scabbards. The Imperial Guards and the Psithyron kings’ bodyguards gaped as the conflict threatened to escalate to bloodshed. A herd of senior officers bleating over one another in their panic surrounded Honorious in a besieging circle to demand action.

“Imperial Highness! The Third Legion remains in good order and requests orders!”

“My lord, the centaur auxilia have abandoned the field!”

“Sir, rallying elements of the Psithyron center are advancing on Eighth Legion. The four cohorts remaining under control request orders!”

“Imperial Highness, cohorts seven through nine of the Thirteenth Legion have fled!”

Honorious raised a hand to silence them. He then hopped onto a weathered stump to tower over the scene and bellowed, “Listen to yourselves! Have you forgotten that you are Sulanthan? Remember your discipline and ask yourselves this: when have I ever failed you? Put your trust in me one more time. We’ve overcome worse than this—the battle is not over. Here are my orders: hold steady! I have one more surprise to unveil.”

His words had the desired effect. Officers took steadying breaths, some frowning with self-directed irritation. Moving with restored confidence, his staff oversaw the signalers trumpeting commands for the legions to maintain position. Sensing Flavia’s eyes on him, Honorious turned to look at her. Alone among the officers, she neither panicked or drew steel on the Psithyroi. Instead, she watched him with pity. She thought he was trying to buy time for inspiration that was not coming.

He had wanted to confide in her. They had shared everything over the years. He probed her several times about Grandfather’s crimes, but she had always dismissed the possibility. He could not guarantee that she would join his cause. He realized now that he should have trusted her. Now that it was too late.

Honorious nodded to Jagged.

The air around the copse a hundred strides from the hill wavered like the shimmer of heat baking the Imperial Parade Grounds. Five hundred bearded Psithyron warriors appeared among the trees. Silver shields and bronze breastplates stylized into bulging muscles identified them as the legendary Agema, the household guard of the extinct Psithyron imperial line. The Agema had remained aloof since civil war consumed the Psithyron imperial family, guarding the empty Palace of Elpidanthos. Until today. Their appearance shocked the Psithyron nobles and Sulanthan officers alike into blessed silence.

Resplendent in a muscled black breastplate and cloth-of-gold cloak, King Luselid rode in a white gold-chased chariot alongside the Agema. A statuesque woman stood next to him, her flowing flame-hued hair level with the rich waves of dark curls tumbling from Luselid’s head. Her gilded mock armor shone in the sun, its twinkling inset jewels making her the image of a goddess descended from Mount Sublime. Even those who knew her only by reputation recognized Queen Thylia of Kephi.

Thylia had maneuvered Kephi through the clinging brambles of the civil strife unscathed. Somehow, Kephi remained the only major Psithyron state to abstain from the endless struggle for the vacant throne without offending another faction. An alliance between Thylia and Luselid, sanctioned by the Agema, represented a disaster for Sulanth’s ambitions. The negotiations required to bring this about had been tortuous, a difficulty compounded by the need for secrecy.

The Agema’s appearance provoked alarmed cries across the hill. The cleverest turned to Jagged, realizing that only he could have shrouded the Agema. Smirking, Jagged dipped his head as if acknowledging a compliment. The weakest wits realized that something was amiss when the Agema began advancing at the trot, forming a flawless doubled line on the move. Honorious’ Imperial Guard scrambled to face them, but their posts were positioned to defend against the free Psithyroi.

Honorious studied Flavia. Her brow was furrowed, proof of her struggle against the ample evidence of her senses. She lifted a hand toward him, but let it drop at her side. “Prince Honorious…?” she said, her lower lip quivering. “Please, Imperial Highness, tell us that this isn’t what it looks like.” He met her eyes and wished he could convey his thoughts without words. Patience, Flavia. Trust me as you always have. I’m not the monster you see.

Duellonan Bishop-General Sianusius of Aufellonum, commander of the Third Legion/Unbroken, interrupted with her usual tact. “What in the Torchbearer’s name have you done, you dozen-damned corpse stuffer?” She pointed a bared spatha at him.

“Only what I had to, Your Grace.” Honorious said, his voice heavy with regret. “I have embraced what might have been my last opportunity to rescue the Empire from its greatest threat. In time, everyone will see that I made a painful choice to serve the greater good. Millions will bless my name for finally bringing peace to Psithyros and, gods willing, the entire Empire.”

The bishop-general’s retort was lost in a wrenching crash of steel on steel from the hill’s base.

Honorious had enjoyed several wine-enlivened conversations with friends deep in the night in War College, considering hypothetical battles. One was a clash between the Imperial Guard and the Agema, the elite of two proud nations, pitted against each other with honor and a critical battle’s outcome at stake. Seeing the gleaming Agema crash into the ragged line of argent Imperial Guard shields like an onrushing wave, the tabletop wars of toy soldiers witnessed in truth, evoked the same exhilaration he felt the first time he witnessed a duel to the death.

A lesser force would have crumpled from that initial impact, especially when the Agema’s second rank leapt over the first to strike from above at foes that should have been reeling. However, the Imperial Guard veterans had fought wars on three continents, honing their craft against the world’s elite. Terra Nivean Reborn, Myantari Soulless, and Kazziran Immortals had all fallen to their spathae. Somehow, the Guards’ line held.

The Imperial Guard retaliated with thrusts of their long blades. The Agema reeled back, struggling to find a way past the wall of pure white shields while keeping questing spatha blades from burying themselves in flesh. Honorious watched, entranced, the greater battle forgotten at the sight of a clash for the ages. Lightning spear thrusts at vulnerable faces, knees, and arms brought the shields down long enough for finishing strikes to the neck or armpits. Spathae slashed and thrust at every Agema that left his guard down for a heartbeat. The momentum of the Agema’s charge forced the Imperial Guard’s wavering line back a stride, but to Honorious’ amazement, the Guards rallied to push back to its former position despite the Agema’s numerical advantage. A trickling flow of Guards arriving from remote positions promised an improbable victory. His heart swelled with pride and tears welled up in his eyes. The Imperial Guard was truly the greatest among the great, and now, they died for him.

Attention riveted upon the Guard’s glorious stand, Honorious was as surprised as the Guards when a hundred Psithyron spearmen, the honor guards of the kings on the hill, fell upon their rear. He had discounted the Psithyroi, assuming they would tremble like rabbits while their betters decided their fate.

Even the Imperial Guard could not withstand a sustained assault from two sides when the Agema formed one of the fronts. The line’s flanks began crumpling, forcing the Guards into a white square with spears pressing in from all sides. The Imperial Guard faced annihilation, but Honorious smiled, proud to see how even now, these Sulanthan heroes exacted a harsh price from their foes.

“Enjoying yourself, Imperial Highness?” The gravelly growl came from Centurion Nascica. Honorious knew the look in the veteran’s narrowed eyes; Nascica would thrust those knobby thumbs through Honorious’ eye sockets to kill him if Jagged wasn’t lurking nearby.

Honorious raised a brow and sighed. “Centurion, this is pointless, don’t you agree? Your men have already preserved the Imperial Guard’s honor. They always served me well—the last thing I want is their deaths. Signal for their surrender while some of your valiant soldiers yet live. I guarantee their safety.”

“What do you know of honor?” Nascica spat. “My troopers would rather die to rid their honor of the stain of having sworn to protect your worthless hide. Gods, what will the emperor think?”

Grandfather. Grandfather, Grandfather, Grand-bloody-father! Thousands of milliarii from Sulanth the City and everything still always came to his gods-accursed, dozen-damned grandfather. One day; all he asked was for one day to elapse without anyone talking about his corpse-tossing grandfather like he was the pantheon’s thirteenth god! Soldiers were the most cynical people in the world; one would assume that they would know better. However, even seven grueling years of pointless war in a hostile foreign land did nothing to deter the legionnaires from blathering about the bloody genius of Emperor Aurelius Aquilune. He would have done anything to preserve them from today’s events if he had thought there was any chance to break them from Grandfather’s spell.

Distracted by his thoughts, Honorious almost missed the flicker of motion as Nascica drew his Imperial Guard dagger and flipped it at him in a snapped motion. Time seemed to slow, allowing him to admire the play of sunlight on the polished silver eagle perched atop the pommel as it flew end over end, destined for his throat. His hand was rising to block, but it would be too late to do anything but clutch the mortal wound. He always fancied that his end would come at the hands of a worthier opponent than a mere centurion, even one of the Imperial Guard. At least he would die having committed himself to his cause; he’d rather perish while struggling for justice than to receive Karalla’s judgment with a lifetime of regrets. The dagger was a mere steplength away when a howling windblast sent cloaks flapping and deflected the dagger to a handbreadth past his neck.

Before Honorious could breathe a relieved sigh, Bishop-General Sianusius pointed an accusatory finger at him and cried, “I curse you, Honorious Aquilune! May the Torchbearer guide the blades of those you’ve wronged to deliv-!” Dealing with Centurion Nascica distracted Jagged long enough for Sianusius to get that much out, but Honorious had ordered him to prepare for this.

A crystalline spear blurred into her face with a sickening crack, knocking her helm awry. The icy shaft erupted from the back of the bishop-general’s skull, steaming with gore tangled in strands of her long gray hair. Honorious had always considered Sianusius as a friend. He had hoped that she would stand aside today. At least she died quickly. Sianusius dropped to her knees, eyes fixed on him. Her mouth worked to complete the curse, but produced only wet gasps. The spear’s weight tilted her head back and dropped her in a metallic clatter.

Sianusius’ death left the assembled officers and nobles in stunned silence. Centurion Nascica stared wide-eyed at her corpse. The nearest officers retreated, giving them space. Even the Psithyron kings regarded him and Jagged with murder in their eyes. Honorious scarcely noticed. That tickling sensation on his back—was that a phantom blade pricking the skin between his shoulder blades? He glanced to Jagged, but the Soul Burner’s creased visage was fixed on the others to watch for further mischief. Honorious sighed with relief. It was just his imagination. Jagged would have seen something if Duellona had fulfilled Sianusius’ attempted curse.

The battle at the foot of the hill had become a slaughter as the Agema cut down the last Imperial Guards with precise spear thrusts. The disaster paralleled the continuing Sulanthan debacle on the battlefield. The legions easily routed their former Psithyron allies, but the victory proved hollow when the rallying enemy phalanxes struck. Masses of Psithyron spearmen swarmed between individual cohorts, splintering the imperial formations. The legionnaires fought doggedly, but leaderless, even their superior training and equipment could not stem the Psithyron horde. The Magnusium Legion auxilia roared defiance and seemed on the verge of clearing a path to save the others until the Psithyron slingers concentrated their fire on them, ending the threat.

A group of hundred legionnaires, surrounded and outnumbered, threw down their weapons and pled for mercy. The Psithyroi took their swords before resuming the slaughter to the last legionnaire. Repetitions of the brutal lesson across the battlefield made it clear to the rest of the army that this was a fight to the death. Fresh Psithyron light cavalry appeared on the fringes of the battlefield to hunt down the legionnaires that fled. Psithyros’ victory was complete. Three legions, annihilated. It was a debacle on a scale that Sulanth had not seen for centuries.

The crushing defeat represented the culmination of months of meticulous planning, but Honorious took no pleasure in it. The legionnaires whose blood now soaked the field had fought for him. They had endured years of hardship together, giving Honorious something of a paternal sense of devotion to them. He liked to think that some would have followed him after learning of Grandfather’s treachery, especially the soldiers of the Thirteenth Legion/Golden Son, the legion Grandfather named for him. Unfortunately, trusting their officers was out of the question and he knew his fellow Sulanthans too well—those soldiers would never take orders from Psithyroi. The slaughter had been a repugnant necessity. He would pray for their shades to forgive him.

Honorious, his staff, and the Psithyron kings watched the massacre in silence. He sensed the Sulanthans’ hate burning into his back while terror oozed from the Psithyroi. The flickering of the kings’ eyes from one to another and back him betrayed the track of their thoughts. Why did he destroy the legions? Was anyone aside from Luselid involved? What did he have planned for them?

The measured tread of sandaled feet heralded the approach of the Agema with Luselid and Thylia. It was time. Honorious turned to address the others.

“Fear not for your fate. I have received assurances that you will remain unharmed by surrendering your weapons and going peaceably with your captors.” Silence answered him. “Everyone here is valuable and the Psithyroi are civilized.” He gave them a friendly laugh. “You’ll doubtlessly be ransomed back home in time for the Foundation Day Games.”

Angry muttering broke the silence. The haughty voice of General Feroxercitus, grizzled commander of the Eighth Legion/Titans, rose above the rest to give voice to their collective outrage. He said, “And what of you, Imperial Highness? Will you languish in a Psithyron prison with us, waiting for your great-grandfather to raise the money to liberate his heir?”

The disgruntled muttering intensified. Honorious scowled. Using the old stump’s vantage to see over the hostile upturned faces, he raised his hands to demand silence. To his surprise, they heeded his order, likely for the last time.

“I know that you’re cursing my name, wishing the torments of the Black Pit upon me. I would do the same if our roles were reversed. You think I’m the greatest traitor Sulanth has produced since the Empire’s foundation. Consider this though: what did I gain by betraying you? You’ve never known me to act on a whim; you must realize that I would require an immensely compelling reason to do what I did. I demanded a lot of you today, but I ask you now for one thing more: a chance to explain.

“Emperor Aurelius, my great-grandfather, has had a glorious reign. You know the story. Heirless, Emperor Duodecius III adopted him at age twenty-four, a capable young man already possessed of an impressive reputation. The crown passed bloodlessly from House Invicticanus to House Aquilune months later upon the passing of Duodecius III. Now, ninety-eight years later, Emperor Aurelius, founder of the Aquilune dynasty, still rules Sulanth. Over that time, he ended Kazzir’s ambitions in the west. He drove back the Terra Nivean hordes. He broke Myantar’s power in the south. In doubling the Empire’s size, he brought peace and prosperity to a vast region that knew only strife for millennia. The list of his achievements is nearly endless. My question to you is this: at what price?

“I love Grandfather. Even now, knowing what I know, I still can’t help but love him. That’s why it cuts to my very soul to speak these words, but problems are never solved with cowardice. Ninety-eight years. That’s a long time. Most people would be lucky to reach half that total, yet that’s just the time that Grandfather has spent on the Adamantine Throne. We’ve all heard the theories, but has anyone here actually wondered how he’s done it? Look upon him and you will see that Grandfather still possesses the body of a hale man of sixty. That’s old by most standards, but he’s lived twice that many years. I can’t be the only one to wonder if it’s unnatural!”

A chorus of outraged squawks erupted. General Feroxercitus’ voice pierced the clamor. “Who cares if it’s unnatural? He’s the best emperor we’ve ever had! I say, let Aurelius live forever!” Thumbing his barrel chest, Feroxercitus added, “I stand by my oath.”

Cheering answered Feroxercitus’ words, dismaying Honorious with its volume. He raised a calming hand and cried, “Truly? At any price, General? It took me years, but I know his secret now.” In the hush that followed, he uttered the words that would have seen him executed for treason back in Sulanth.

“The last battle of the Black Hand Crusade was at a backwater Myantari city called Nekheb. At the time, we expected a declaration of a truce at any moment. It surprised everyone then when Grandfather ordered us to seize the city, especially since Nekheb had little strategic value. You know what happened next. General Abjareb, commander of the Soulless that murdered my family, was in Nekheb, and we put him down. Only years later did I learn that the Headhunters found documents in Abjareb’s possessions containing revelations that I refused to believe until I saw them myself.

“The reports said that the Myantari suspected that the Empire allowed the Soulless to breach the palace on the Night of the Black Hand, and they wanted to know why. There were much easier pretenses Grandfather could have used if he wanted war. The Myantari investigated and learned that Grandfather had obtained a profane ritual that would allow him to prolong his life by stealing the lifespans of others. The ritual worked best with the blood of close relations.

“Grandfather orchestrated the Night of the Black Hand! He arranged the murders of his entire family to fulfill the ritual. You know what’s worse? General Abjareb’s documents said that the ritual’s effect will eventually fade. Think! If he’s willing to sacrifice his entire family to prolong his life and reign, what will this madman sacrifice next?”

Shocked silence followed his words. Honorious felt hope blossom. Had he convinced them? Would some turn with him? The first cries returned him to reality.

“You mad fool!”

“You betrayed us for Myantari lies!”

“You just sacrificed thirteen thousand men—was that for your own ritual, Honorious?”

Honorious tried to explain, but they had heard enough. It was what he expected, though they deserved the truth from his own lips. If anything, their reaction strengthened his resolve. The blind loyalty that Grandfather inspired in his followers made it impossible to affect change from within. Only from outside would he be able to save the Empire from Grandfather. The first step would be when these officers returned to Sulanth and repeated his words. Grandfather would never be able to suppress the truth once it was unleashed. The truth would doom him.

The shouting gave way to tense silence when King Luselid and Queen Thylia arrived with a cluster of lesser lords and bloodied Agema. Luselid and Thylia had yet to take Psithyros’ throne, but Honorious already sensed an imperial air about them that they had lacked only a week ago. Their glittering attire was part of it, but the fearsome presence of the Agema was the key. It was an unwelcome change; he needed them too busy scheming against each other to have time for anything constructive. He needed facilitators.

Honorious greeted them with a generous bow. “Greetings, Royal Majesties. As agreed, I have delivered you the Imperial Expeditionary Force. Sulanth will lack the strength to campaign here for at least a generation.”

More Agema flooded the hilltop and surrounded the Sulanthans and Psithyron kings. An officer, identified by a red plume in his helm, advanced on the prisoners and bellowed in accented Sulanthan, “You will surrender your weapons! You will put them on the ground before Queen Thylia! You will obey now!”

With murderous glares for Honorious, the prisoners removed their sword belts and tossed them in a growing pile at Thylia’s feet, one at a time. The barest of smiles curled Thylia’s full lips as she watched the procession; she was aware of this moment’s significance. The clatter of each sword landing in the pile from the nerveless fingers of a stunned officer reminded Honorious of coins clanking into the pot in a rich game of Legions at a Fortunes District gambling house. It was an apt reminder that he had staked everything on this throw of the dice. One misstep would see him dead.

Luselid advanced upon Honorious and growled, “Why didn’t you do something to restrain those accursed Soul Burners! Our losses number in the thousands!”

Meaning that Luselid’s household force had taken heavy losses. Honorious noted that Luselid’s lilting accent was strong today. Was he shedding his Sulanthan veneer now that he free of the Empire’s influence? Thylia watched with an imperious stare, but let him speak for them.

Honorious shrugged. “I suppose that I could have ordered the Soul Burners to remove their breastplates and kneel with their eyes closed, but I daresay that would have made them slightly suspicious.”

“Don’t be flippant with me, Honorious! You need us now.” Luselid grinned, dark eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s time, I think, that we take your oath.”

Luselid’s time would come. Unfortunately, the yapping dog was right—Honorious did need them. For now. Still, even a useful hound needed to know its place. He retorted, “You’re not emperor yet. A lot could happen before you’re crowned.”

“Regardless, we’ll have your oath now, Honorious.” Thylia glided past Luselid to stand before Honorious. Her ghost of a smile returned when she added, “Make it to the Slayer. In blood.”

Honorious snorted a laugh. “You can’t be serious.” He looked from Thylia’s intense stare to Luselid’s idiot grin. “We had a bargain! I’ve proven my loyalty!”

“All you’ve proven today is that no ties and no sense of honor can bind you. You demonstrated that you will betray anyone to get what you want, from family, to brothers in arms, to countrymen…even a lover,” she said with a glance to Flavia. “We won’t make Emperor Aurelius’ mistake of trusting you. Take the oath or we’ll lump you with the rest of the prisoners.”

Honorious glared. She dared treat him like some common oath-breaker? All he was guilty of was putting his loyalty to Sulanth’s people before all others. Did she think to humiliate him by forcing this in front of everyone? No, she still fears that this is some deep imperial scheme, he decided. So be it, he would play along.

Honorious drew his belt dagger and took a moment to admire it. The imperial purple-dyed leather around the hilt was molded for his hand. The pommel was a growling wolf in gold with ruby eyes, House Aquilune’s sigil. It was the dagger of a Sulanthan prince and was once his father’s; Grandfather had passed it to him on his dozenthday.

He used the blade to slice a thin line across his palm, slowly parting the flesh while meeting the others’ eyes. Most of the Psithyron nobles tried to maintain an aloof mask, but their thoughts flapped on their faces like tavern placards. For the lords of the Imperial Houses, an eyebrow’s twitch could condemn someone to a facilitator’s tender treatments, thanks to their immersion in the Imperial Game’s nuances from birth. One king gave him a knowing smile, thinking to court him as an ally. Another looked between him and Thylia, narrowed eyes revealing jealousy and hate. Most fought to master terror, their failures evident in the sweat beading on brows in the morning chill. The Sulanthan officers watched with universal disdain. He read nothing from Flavia’s blank expression, though her huge green eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

Honorious’ gaze flicked back to meet Thylia’s challenging stare. He forced a brazen grin and overturned his palm to let blood dribble to the grass. “I, Prince Honorious Aquilune, crown prince of the Sulanthan Empire and heir to House Aquilune, swear eternal loyalty to Thylia and Luselid of the Empire of Psithyros and their lawful heirs. I forswear all loyalty to the Sulanthan Empire and my great-grandfather, Emperor Aurelius Aquilune. I do this in the name of Zorthiss the Slayer. May the Slayer take my immortal soul if I violate any part of this oath, in fact or in spirit.”

The blood dripping from his palm ignited with ebon flames that consumed the droplets before they could reach the ground. The sky blackened and the world disappeared, replaced with a lightless realm; its oppressive atmosphere reminded him of the southern jungles. The redolent stink of rot assailed his nostrils, nearly overwhelming him with the stench of a mass grave the size of a continent. Pressure grew within his skull, the sensation suggesting the return of every headache he had ever endured. Agonized howling torn from throats raw from screaming and the crazed laughter of broken souls erupted from the surrounding darkness, a cacophony of madness. Amid it all, he sensed cold dead eyes watching him, examining his soul, assessing every fiber of his existence. The Slayer grinned, and whispers hissed promises detailing special torments devised just for him.

Honorious’ eyes snapped open, a scream stillborn in his throat. He was slumping on his feet, propped up by a pair of gaping Agema warriors. Everyone from the lowliest Sulanthan staff signaler to Queen Thylia stared at him with wide-eyed amazement. Even Jagged resembled an ordure-caked peasant at his first market day, and that old man had seen everything. Gods, what had happened when he was…indisposed? No, I don’t want to know.

Honorious jerked his arms and cloak from the warriors’ hands and snapped, “Well? Satisfied, Thylia?”

She shook herself free of the spell gripping the hilltop and nodded. She then bestowed a rare smile upon him. “You’ll need to swear formal fealty in Crythra when we’re crowned, but yes, you’re one of us now, Honorious.” She looked to Luselid, who scowled, but nodded. “We hereby bestow you with the title of King of Psithyros. You and your line will rule the realms of Artathe, Mendaea, and Susia in our names, from now until eternity. Be fruitful, rule honorably, and serve us well, and future rewards will be yours.”

Honorious had produced excuses to delay this battle until he had received reports confirming that Imperial Headhunters had snatched the heirs to Artathe, Mendaea, and Susia and delivered them to Luselid’s palace. A trio of outraged protests erupted from the rulers of the named realms, who were among the captured Psithyron nobles. Luselid ended the indignity of their usurpation with a curt gesture to the Agema. The nearest soldiers thrust spears into the three kings’ backs, pinning their thrashing forms to the ground. Their howls of pain joined the continuing chorus of slaughter from the few remaining Sulanthans on the battlefield. The expressionless Agema tore their spears free and kept thrusting until the dethroned nobles stopped moving. Heads down, the remaining kings’ eyes darted between Thylia, Honorious, and Luselid.

“Come to my command tent once you set your affairs in order,” Thylia said. “We have much to discuss, King Honorious.”

King Honorious. It sounded wrong after spending his entire life preparing to inherit Sulanth’s Adamantine Throne. The glory of it paled beside the imperial title that was his by right, but this was only the beginning. He realized that Thylia was staring at him. It confused him until he realized that she expected him to play the part of a loyal liegeman. He had expected this, but it was still irksome. Then again, what was this nuisance to him after today’s events? He filtered the sarcasm from his voice and said, “Of course, Your Majesty,” and bowed. Thylia nodded and returned to her war chariot with her retinue trailing her.

“Majesty? What shall we do with the standards?”

A young Psithyron officer, their equivalent to an optio, addressed him in passable Sulanthan. Honorious followed the officer’s pointing finger to where celebrating Psithyron soldiers were depositing the captured legionary standards in a heap at the hill’s base. One man began urinating on them until an officer shoved him on his back. The other men laughed as he doused himself with his stream.

Each standard was a tall golden pole topped with a silver statuette of Sulanth’s striking eagle. A legion vexillum accompanied each standard: a long spear with a large, square blue banner affixed to a crossbar. Each legion’s number and name were in silver thread on the banner, surrounded by a depiction of laurel wreaths. Each legion also had its own sigil; some were centuries old. An image of a battered legionnaire represented the Third Legion/Unbroken, a giant breaking free of chains was the sigil of the Eighth Legion/Titans, and a curly haired blonde youth adorned the vexillum of the Thirteenth Legion/Golden Son. The standards represent each legion’s honor and achievements. It always amazed Honorious how fear of a simple statuette of a bird falling into enemy hands could inspire even embittered veterans to reckless deeds of valor; the legionnaires would do anything to protect their eagles. Blood staining the vexilla showed that the standard bearers had done their duty.

“Return the eagles to my grandfather. We don’t want to give them any more reason to return to Psithyros.” The officer turned to issue commands, but inspiration struck Honorious. He shouted, “Wait! Not the Thirteenth’s eagle. That one is mine.” A hint of a frown flickered across the Psithyron officer’s face, but he bowed and issued the commands. Honorious grinned. He had plans for that standard. But first, another duty demanded his attention.

Honorious put a staying hand against Jagged’s shoulder to hold him back and crossed the crowded hilltop to Flavia’s side. A glare sent the nearby Psithyroi scurrying, leaving them alone. She stood tall, staring straight forward with her hands clasped behind her back. Her pose reminded her of legionnaires struggling to remain stoic while about to suffer a flogging. Her jaw worked from side to side as she gnawed upon her lower lip, a habit of hers when agitated. Strange that this would be the first time he would notice how the quirk made her look rather bovine.

Honorious reached down and cupped Flavia’s chin in his hand, stilling her jaw’s movements, and lifting her eyes to his. Their green depths always suggested a summer meadow to him. It was a peaceful image that had relaxed him countless times after brutal campaigning days. Today, the wetness of her unshed tears superimposed his reflection over the verdant landscape he sought. Gods, was his nose truly that long? He drew his gaze up to her hair. Released from her helm, it had come free of her braid, allowing it to flow in the breeze like a living thing. Its hue still amazed him; the red-brown color reminded him of autumn leaves.

He began, “Flavia. I wish I could have told you. You must und-”

“How, Honorious? How could you do this?”

Sinstra’s box of mysteries. If there was one thing that irked him to the point of madness, it was people interrupting him. He looked to his booted feet with hands on hips, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. He would try to be patient given the circumstances.

“Why? It should be obvious to you, of all people.” To his amazement, her furrowed brow showed that she remained baffled. How, after years of sharing his life, could she not understand? He could have had any woman he wanted, but he chose her because she was one of the few with a mind capable of keeping pace with his. He snapped, “You heard me explain what Grandfather did. I couldn’t serve him for another instant. I had to do what was right.”

Her eyes widened. “You actually believe that ritual nonsense? Honorious, you and the emperor have had your differences, but you can’t possibly think he’d betray your family.”

He threw up his arms in exasperation. “I saw it myself, Flavia! You think I wanted it to be true?”

“I think you have a lot of plans for what you’d like to do when you assume the throne. I think you fear that you’re getting older and see your reign slipping through your fingers. I think there’s a chance that you misinterpreted whatever you saw because deep down, you resent that he’s ruled for this long and that it’s been denying you the chance to match him. If you’d just been patient, you would have had your chance!”

“Would I? Would I really? Courtiers have been whispering in my ear for the past twenty years, Flavia, ever since I reached my majority, telling me that I’m a heartbeat from the throne. Now, he’s over a hundred and twenty years old but looks as hale as ever while my hair is well on its way to gray where it isn’t falling out. I’ll look older than him in another decade.”

He laughed and hated how bitter it sounded. He ran a hand through his thick curls. His locks sprang back into place in his fingers’ wake everywhere but the thinning patch atop his head that he avoided. He said, “I used to laugh at the ridiculous rumors circulating about him. One of those foreign priests he keeps around helped him make a pact with a god. He used an enslaved Kazziran genie to steal from the thread of life that Nuministra of the Fates cut for me. Gods, just yesterday I heard one about a cult that claims he’s a demon that feeds on war’s misery. As crazy as it sounds, I know he orchestrated the Night of the Black Hand. He sacrificed my parents, his children, even his wife, Flavia!”

She looked at him in frank disbelief. “Where’s your proof? Why didn’t you just show us?”

Honorious snorted a laugh. “Don’t you think I’d have done that if I could? He’s too clever to leave evidence behind. The evidence and the people who showed it to me disappeared just after I saw it.

“Look, he’s my only family. Part of me still loves him, but the rumors show that everyone realizes that there’s something unnatural about him. I doubt he’s ever going to die. I had to do something.”

Flavia stared at him. Not with the admiring gaze he sometimes caught her with when he presided over the map table planning strategy with the generals. Certainly not with the sultry eyes that delivered wicked promises in the night. Rather, it was with the confusion of a woman who hailed a friend on the street, only to have the person turn with a stranger’s face.

He laughed again. “You think me some manner of monster now, don’t you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then go with me. It’ll be a long and painful road, but I will defeat him.” He took her face in both hands and leaned close to whisper. “You could rule with me.”

Her jaw dropped. It delighted him that he still had the capacity to surprise her. “I…I don’t know what to say, Honorious.”

Flavia blathered on after that, rambling like a drunkard trying to tell a story after forgetting the point midway through. He listened with half an ear to her endless yammering about her loyalty oath and her continuing inability to understand why he had betrayed the legions instead of confronting Grandfather directly. He could counter her protests, but he had already explained every point to her. She was manufacturing excuses to avoid deciding. How disappointing.

Of all the officers on his staff, she had always impressed him with her ability to think beyond the dusty teachings of the War College’s strategy manuals. That ability was impossible to teach, but she had it. However, the situation had exposed her limits, proving that her mind was still too narrow, too chained to traditional beliefs, to be capable of comprehending his plan’s necessity of. Something she said arrested his attention, standing out amid her blathering like a glittering jewel atop a midden heap.

“…and I don’t think I could ever sit on a throne drenched in the blood of thirteen thousand legionnaires.”

Honorious gritted his teeth. Gods, why in the Black Pit had he ever toyed with the notion that she was worthy of ruling by his side? Honorious decided to do them both a mercy and cut in before she wasted any more of their time. He raised a hand, silencing her rambling in mid-sentence.

“I fear that you’ve misunderstood me, dear Flavia.” Chuckling, he continued, “I wasn’t offering you the ring. Martyr’s mercies, I still have to divorce that barren harridan of a wife Grandfather forced upon me. I merely thought to enlist your services, governing part of my kingdom. Gods, Flavia, House Tempestanus is strong, but you’re what, eleventh in the line of succession? Did you already forget that I’m a king now, ruler of my own realm?” He laughed harder as the absurdity of the situation struck him. “How could you ever seriously consider yourself worthy of Honorious Aquilune?”

Flavia gasped, then looked away with tears welling afresh. Honorious shook his head. She truly had thought to wed him and share his throne. The best way to excise such foolish notions was with directness. He did her a final courtesy by kissing her forehead before turning away, knowing she would be better off in the end. “I’m certain that you’ll require no aid to enjoy a fine career, but may the gods smile upon you nonetheless, Flavia. I fear that we won’t meet again.”

Eight years before Crythra…

Honorious turned the corner, saw Jagged, and panicked. His eyes flicked to both sides, but the only doorway led into a privy and bolting there could cause his reputation more harm than good. Jagged beamed at the sight of him. The old man’s toothy smile reminded him of a leering skull, as if Zorthiss looked through his deep-set eyes.

Honorious masked his discomfort with a broad grin and said, “Master Jagged. A pleasure, as always.”

“Imperial Highness! What a fortuitous encounter. I prayed for a chance to thank you for arranging to have me added to the Expeditionary Force. You really didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate the opportunity.”

Honorious fought not to fix him with a sour look. He knew very well that Honorious had no control over Soul Burner appointments. Jagged just relished every opportunity to subtly remind Honorious that there was a debt between them after he saved Honorious’ life in the final year of the crusade. Being in the man’s debt was odious, but Jagged had refused rewards of money, a palatial city townhouse, and even a minor title, protesting that serving his prince was the greatest reward he could hope for.

“Yes, well. It’ll be good to have you with us,” Honorious said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m already late t-”

“Great glory accrues to those serving you, my prince, and I truly appreciate the chance to prov-”

“Glad I could help. I really do ne-”

“It’s just that you don’t realize how…”

Honorious stopped listening when he saw Drakaina, the emperor’s new Abyssa, pass through an adjoining hallway with an entourage of ranking Soul Burners. She slowed to give him a long stare. Her lip curled with disdain when she noticed Jagged. She said something that made her companions laugh as they continued on.

The vile woman was probably on her way to petition Grandfather again to reduce the Soul Burner detachment assigned to his Psithyron Expeditionary Force. He needed to hurry to stop her. Honorious turned back to Jagged to extricate himself from their pointless conversation, but stopped when he saw the old man’s clenched fists and the naked hate on his face as he glared after the Abyssa. Honorious recalled the rumors that Jagged had fallen afoul of a scandal long ago that left him something of a pariah among his peers. True or not, he and the Abyssa were clearly not friendly.

Inspiration struck.

“Master Jagged, walk with me. I have a proposal that may interest you. I have yet to decide who will represent the Soul Burners on my staff. Would such a thing interest you?”

Next Chapter: New Chapter