Jonathan let his followers pause to pick up some of the scattered bones, which, while broken in places, were still incredibly durable. Tier 3 materials were hard to come by, even in Mire, but in Cessation, they were everywhere. Even the sand beneath them ranged from Tier 2 in strength to Tier 3. Jonathan found himself wondering how mortals lived in the later circles of Hell. He could hardly imagine trying to open a door, and finding it as obdurate as an entire mountain.
“I think it’s time for that word,” Arkanon said, sidling up to Jonathan. “We really need to speak.”
Jonathan took a deep breath. “Alright. Hit me with it.” He surreptitiously glanced at Edgar, who nodded and summoned a sound blocking array around them.
“You have to start acting more like a lord of men, and less like their friend,” Arkanon declared. “It might make the soldiers like you, but it undermines your authority. There is no discipline in your army-”
“That’s because nobody does anything reprehensible,” Jonathan interrupted, narrowing his eyes. “Unless you’re trying to say that talking to their superiors in a casual tone is.”
“That is exactly what I’m saying. What if the day comes that you have to order them to make a tough decision?” Arkanon asked. “What if there is a traitor among your forces, and you need to execute them? Will your soldiers stand by your decision, even if you cannot satisfy them with evidence?”
“I…” Jonathan said, and then fell silent. Would they?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I have had to kill brothers and sisters in Tartarus, a whole other time after they already were corrupted by mimics. Let me tell you, those things can blend in if they want to. I know you saw them in their natural states, but on their own, they try to act naturally.”
“That does sound like a tough decision. However, I will not change my relationships with my closest allies,” Jonathan replied. “Edgar and the other Uthraki have been with me for too long.”
“I’m not telling you to,” Arkanon said. “Just, project a more regal air in public. Like you are always on the battlefield, facing off against the overwhelming odds that you so excel at defeating.”
Jonathan nodded. “I suppose so. I’ll have to practice more.”
“Be sure that you do,” Arkanon cautioned. “The more realms you conquer, the more onerous the burden upon you will be. It is a foundation like this that is needed to not break under the pressure.”
Jonathan nodded in reply, and signaled for Edgar to drop the sound blocking field. He strode away from Arkanon, trying to walk in a more confident manner.
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“Let’s go,” he snapped, and marched off, not looking back. To his satisfaction, he heard footsteps behind him as he was followed unquestioningly.
Ruin Nexus, Bastion of the Stillborn Hegemon
Specters flitted through the dark skies above the conglomeration of ancient buildings and ruined cities that made up the center of Cessation. Unearthly howls drifted from the dark corners of the city, and legions of skeletons and zombies patrolled its streets eternally, never ceasing, never resting. In the sky, skeletal drakes flew, rode by higher Tier warriors, in search of threats to their master.
In the very center of the city, lodged between three crumbling towers, a palace stood, crafted from bone and sinew. It rumbled every now and again as the flesh making it up shifted, as if seeking to tear free of its shackles and walk the world once more.
The palace was empty of life, filled with legions of undead courtiers and an overwhelming presence of pure emptiness and the absence, centered on the being that reclined on an obsidian throne at its center. The throne floated in the middle of a crackling nexus of green lightning, suspended by the raw powers of undeath that the being sitting on it channeled. The creature there was a desiccated mummy of a being, the withered head of a baby attached to a small skeleton. In one hand it held a scepter, and in the other, a set of scales. Blindingly bright orbs of light replaced its eyes, like emerald spotlights peering into the abyss of death. This was the Stillborn Hegemon, Duke of Cessation.
Before the throne, on a small platform made for that purpose, an undead clad in ornate plate armor knelt, prostrating itself before its lord.
“There has been a disturbance near the Mourning Mountains,” the undead said, in a breathless and echoing voice.
“So he has finally arrived…” the Hegemon said. “The Hellbreaker.”
“It seems that he has, Lord. What do you wish for your legions to do about it?”
“My legions?” the Hegemon asked. “No, I think I shall deal with this interloper myself. Granath and Slothari underestimated him, and died for that mistake. I shall not be the same.”
“As you wish, my Lord. The Hordes will follow you,” the undead knight said, with a slight inclination of his head.
The Hegemon let out a rattling sight, air passing over the ruins of his chest, and the tiny, gnarled nubs of flesh that were all that remained of his lungs. In truth, this was all an illusion, for there could be no trappings of life, when that life had never existed. The monstrosity that ruled Cessation had always been undead, a perversion of reality created by the godly strength of Angranor in the epochs of Telvaria’s youth.
He rose from his throne, levitating in the air. Wings of electricity unfolded from nothingness, and with one single flap, he streaked out through a hole in the top of the ruin, and into the storm choked skies of his domain. Glistening white bones formed from the ether, surrounding him in a suit of armor fit for a champion of undeath. His meager body swelled into a titan of death, fifteen feet tall. His scepter elongated, and a blade grew from its end, made from necrotic green crystal. In the dark lands of Cessation, there were three constants. Grey, white, and green. The color of a world left untouched by life for eons, the color of bone, and the energy of the dead itself.
