Of Banners and Blood

  Long grass pastures, golden fields

  Wherein he wanders—hoist your shields!

  Wandered woods and thick green dells,

  Daffodils and Honey Bells.

  Hoist your colors, white and gold,

  The Stag arrives, his banners bold!

  Pledge your heart, man, make it clear:

  Empire, Empire—hold ye dear!

  Jerrid Bornsworth, rest ye well,

  Enemies are sent to hell.

  Ozewrath, your line lives on—

  Lead us well now through the dawn!

  Hoist your colors, white and gold,

  The Stag arrives, his banners bold!

  Pledge your heart, man, make it clear:

  Empire, Empire—hold ye dear!

  Black Bear, Black Boar, and Raven,

  Panther, Badger, and Marlin—

  Kinsmen all, test and you will see:

  Empire in diversity.

  Hoist your colors, white and gold,

  The Stag arrives, his banners bold!

  Pledge your heart, man, make it clear:

  Empire, Empire—hold ye dear!

  Jerrico, the deep black throne,

  Walls of strength and wills of stone.

  Come ye soldiers, raise your blades—

  Empire stands till end of days!

  Hoist your colors, white and gold,

  The Stag arrives, his banners bold!

  Pledge your heart, man, make it clear:

  Empire, Empire—hold ye dear!

  — Traditional Imperial March, “The Stag’s Advance,” composed circa 287 I.C.

  Of Crimson Edged Dawns

  Sometimes the hardest thing a man can do… is nothing.

  — Imperial truism

  On the first morning of New Spring, in the proclaimed Year of the Butterfly, Biaun cut a lonely figure on his lofty balcony.

  The golden sun rose despite the somber notes of death that still lingered in the air, casting the emperor’s city in a soft, forgiving light.

  It had been a restless night.

  He was angry. Angry enough to withdraw from the tournament. Angry enough to ride into the countryside and hunt more of those vile, blood-sworn beasts.

  But it was pointless.

  Drinking in the rising sun, the knight clenched the marble railing until his knuckles whitened—then slowly released it, letting his breath carry the heat from his chest. He forced his emotions to melt away, one by one, until there was nothing left to feel at all.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Calm. Hollow. Focused.

  Only then did the wolfish figure turn his eyes to the distant city below.

  He had no doubt the people were already beginning their celebrations. New Spring always brought joy, no matter the omens. Despite his own distaste for revelry, even he could not deny the beauty of it—the emperor’s city brimming with smiling faces, laughter dancing through the winding streets like petals on the breeze.

  Jerrico, crown jewel of the realm, was the grandest human city ever built.

  Perched atop a massive plateau, the imperial metropolis of Jerrico sprawled upward in three magnificent tiers, each one more ornate and exalted than the last.

  The ground level held the beating heart of the city: the common folk, the bustling neighborhoods, and the sprawling marketplace that stretched nearly a mile in length. Long ago, imperial taxes had paid for dwarven engineers to design much of this vast district, its precise geometry of thoroughfares, its subterranean plumbing, and its gently curving arcades. Clean, even cobblestones paved the wide roads, while granite and timber had been laboriously hauled from afar to construct the shops and homes that now formed a vibrant maze of stone and wood. Yet no matter the material, every alley and avenue was kept remarkably tidy. Civic pride—or perhaps fear of imperial reprisal—drove the labor force to keep refuse off the streets and soot from the walls.

  The second tier rose in elegance and affluence, a breathtaking elevation of arched bridges, lofty towers, and winding manor houses linked by elevated paths of silverwood and stone. This tier was the domain of the empire’s elite: the noble families, high clergy, and the Mages’ Guild, those who shaped thought, faith, and power. Its towers and halls were carved from gleaming limestone and veined marble, a white-and-gold vision that shimmered like a mirage when viewed from below. From a distance, the entire city appeared to flow upward in sweeping spirals and slender spires, as if some divine architect had sculpted it from the bones of a fallen star.

  And above all loomed the final tier: the Obsidian Palace, a citadel of ancient splendor that rose from the summit like a dark spear piercing the heavens. Its onyx towers vanished into the clouds, a fortress so old that even the eldest elves and dwarves could not recall its origin. A symbol of human ambition and power, the palace had withstood the siege of centuries unblemished, its shimmering black surface untouched by time, blade, or storm.

  In design, it was something wholly alien.

  The first level of the palace lay deep underground: a vast dungeon and a labyrinthine plumbing system that still carried water effortlessly upward. Though magic fueled the mechanisms, the enchantments were so arcane—perhaps even divine in origin—that no modern mage had been able to unravel their logic or replicate their design. That it still functioned at all was a mystery credited only to the gods.

  Above this subterranean foundation was a massive, circular coliseum, the site of the Empire’s annual gladiatorial tournament, where warriors of every realm came to prove themselves before emperor and crowd.

  The third, fourth, and fifth levels had been retrofitted into the palace proper, housing all the traditional trappings of royalty: throne rooms, war halls, guest chambers, ballrooms, and libraries, as well as the imperial apartments themselves.

  And then there was the final level, an enormous, hollowed-out chamber unlike any other. No rooms. No corridors. Just a single cavernous space lined with stone grottos, long ago repurposed into the royal kennels. It was said that even the fiercest hounds grew silent in that eerie place.

  Encircling all of Jerrico was the Wall, an immense curtain of stone that stood among the greatest feats of human engineering. Hundreds of feet tall and several dozen thick, it was fashioned from gargantuan blocks of granite—each one twenty feet wide, thirty feet long, and thirty feet deep. Wide interior corridors and barracks ran through the wall’s heart, allowing soldiers rapid movement around its entire length. Gigantic siege ballistae, enchanted and reinforced, stood at regular intervals atop its battlements, ever watchful, ever ready to rain fire and steel upon any who dared lay siege to the imperial jewel.

  And yet today, behind those mighty walls, the city would bloom—its people rising with song, garlands, and celebration, as they always did on New Spring.

  And Biaun, lone sentinel of the morning, would not.

  It seemed odd to the knight that after all the years he had spent within the Imperial City, he could still feel a flicker of wonder while watching it from his balcony.

  Turning away, Biaun moved through the study, descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen. With Carrigan’s death, the Emperor—likely at the urging of the Empress, Trina, if Biaun knew anything—had kindly sent a temporary serving staff to assist him until he found a replacement.

  Along with that thoughtful gesture, the Emperor’s enigmatic magician, Eros, had appeared at his door earlier that morning, accompanied by a small retinue of adepts. They claimed the dead assassins’ bodies would require significant preparation before any reliable divination could be performed. After wrinkling his nose in distaste, Biaun had shown them to his private sparring arena. Allowing them privacy, he’d promptly left and made his way to the kitchens, which were now bustling with unfamiliar activity.

  The kitchen, Biaun was relieved to see, bore few traces of the previous night’s tragedy. Fallen cookware had been returned to its rightful places, and the flour and fruit once scattered across the floor were gone without a hint. The smell of polish and bread yeast hung in the air, comforting, almost.

  As he stepped fully into the room, three plump serving women curtsied quickly before hurrying back to their duties. A fourth, a large, matronly woman with an air of command, moved to intercept him.

  “Your Lordship, I hope everything is to your satisfaction. We’ve finished the cleaning and would like to begin preparing your morning meal. However, there is… a slight problem.”

  She looked mildly nervous, and Biaun took a moment to study her face. Large brown eyes, soft skin, amber-blonde hair. Familiar, yet distant. He searched his mind for the name she had given him just hours before, but it had already dissolved in the fog left by the night’s chaos.

  “Problem?” he asked calmly. “What sort of problem?”

  “Well, Milord,” she said, smoothing her apron, “it seems your late manservant misplaced your menu. And without it, we aren’t certain what you’re expecting. If you would be so kind as to give us a list of your preferences, we’ll begin immediately.”

  The woman spoke with haste, suggesting she wasn’t entirely comfortable serving a man with his less-than-personable reputation. Biaun ignored it.

  A dull pang surfaced—pain, not physical, but familiar. How long had it been since he’d given thought to anything as mundane as a menu? Carrigan had handled it all with such quiet precision that Biaun had never needed to think about it. The man had known his every preference, often before Biaun himself did.

  Shaking the thought away, the knight admitted to himself that he couldn’t recall ever dictating a meal before. Verbal instruction would have to do, for now. There was still a tournament to prepare for.

  “The reason you found no list,” he said, voice even but firm, “is because Carrigan never needed one. You’ll find I don’t much care what I eat, so long as it once bled and preferably still bleeding when it’s served. Don’t waste time on pastries or fruit. I eat very little of them. Pie’s fine for dessert, but keep it light on the sweets. I prefer green vegetables—peas, beans, simple fare.”

  He paused, realizing the woman was trembling slightly. His gaze had hardened without meaning to, his tone drifting toward reprimand.

  Drawing a breath, Biaun softened. He reached out, his calloused hand brushing her arm in a rare gesture of reassurance.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “This… will take some adjusting. But you’ll learn quickly enough. I’m sure whatever you make will be fine. What was your name again?”

  The woman relaxed visibly, dipping a quick bow. “Dea, Milord. And I shall do my best not to disappoint you.”

  Satisfied that Dea now understood what to expect, Biaun turned and left the kitchen.

  As he passed through the cool, dim corridors of Castle Greyblood, the stillness pressed around him. Without Carrigan’s sharp tongue cutting into the silence, the knight found himself entirely alone.

  His scowl deepened.