“There is no greater gift to the advancement of the scholarly arts than the records passed down to us by our ancestors. History… it is a fascinating subject, indeed. So many nations, perished—now only remembered through the written word and the bequeathment of memories. Through them, we build upon their knowledge and seek ever greater epiphanies.

  Admittedly, it does also provide a sport of entertainment. Sagas of heroes past, tales of valiant feats! These stories provide priceless insight into these lost civilizations. To, for but a moment, glimpse through the eyes of a people forever vanished.

  But these stories all hold a tragic ending: destruction, wrought by a singular being time and time again. The tablets warn of a menace. The scriptures herald a calamity: all brought forth by the Constellation."

  —Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

  ———

  The Shell

  The winged woman’s corpse crashes onto the ground and tumbles into a lifeless, mangled clump of dirt. Her severed head lands onto the earth not far away, the helm falling off to reveal a disfigured face frozen in surprise. The gold and silver auras fade from the swords near her side. Blood pools from the severed orifices and stains her armor in scarlet filth.

  Threat eliminated. New variable introduced. Commence: retrieve the Astral Armament.

  The Shell walks toward the carcass, every step crunching the earth below and emitting a splattering echo. When it arrives at the remains, it reaches forward and claims dominion over the twin blades.

  The weapons spark and sputter, desperately attempting to reject their captor, but their light eventually fades, and the swords are forced to submit. They have no choice. They must obey.

  Irregularity determined. Armament fractured into two. Strength: weakened. Reevaluating current capabilities.

  A voice sputters from afar. It is the human clad in grease and blackened ash. Their balance is unstable.

  “Your end was truly a beautiful one, little bird,” the man says, falling onto his knees. “A shame it… didn’t come by my hand. How unexpected.”

  He rises up, meekly lifting his weapon in resistance, and growls.

  “But I will not allow myself to be put down like a mangy mutt. My death shall be one of pride!”

  The man charges.

  Estimated strength: powerless. No danger detected. Commence.

  With a singular slash, he is bisected into two. A swift extermination. The smoldering aura from the fragmented sword of the sun melts the unfamiliar metal plate, leaving only cauterized flesh to plunge afoul.

  All life has been extinguished in the region. The last objective remains: Slay the Comet.

  The Shell sheathes its trophies and marches to the colossal construct. The entrance resembles a fortress.

  Proceeding with siege protocol.

  Steel walls block its way. It smashes it.

  Unknown mechanisms trigger and halt its advance: projectiles, crumbling passages, and incantations of debilitating curse. It endures it.

  Soon, the halls fill with those of Cosmos’s kin. It appears the construct protected them from the Shell’s miasmic release. They are of no threat. It slaughters them.

  The Comet’s presence is getting stronger. Deeper into the heart of the construct it marches, and all the while creation swirls in desperation. It begs for the Shell to stop, to spare their beloved child.

  Its pleas are useless. The being is a mere Shell, and its only priority is to fulfill the eternal duty.

  Another human appears. It is a woman, strength estimation far above the other spawn, yet she does not move. Her gaze is filled with despair.

  “T-those blades,” she mutters, collapsing onto the ground. “No. No, Lorelai? You can’t be...”

  Her face stains with tears, throat wracked with gaping sobs. Slaying her proves simpler than the rest.

  Finally, it arrives at the Comet’s shelter. The room is cluttered with infantile toys and decorations - the walls plastered with paintings of the night sky - and in the very center, a crib holds its objective.

  A baby boy. Newborn, slumbering, and carrying the mark of inevitable ruin.

  The Shell steps forward. It raises its blade.

  But right before it can claim the child’s life, a faint muttering stills its hand. The child wakes up and opens his star-speckled eyes.

  The irises display a wondrous, never-ending nebula of space and galaxies. It is a portrayal of the heavens above and the realm that humanity once called home. It is an echo, a song of love, of tragedy, and of grim stoicism. The being can never go back to those bygone eras. Its life shall never be the same.

  Home, forever gone. Purpose, forever wandering. All that awaits it is an eternity of imprisonment.

  The baby reaches out to the frozen hollow, his tiny hands full of curiosity, and lets out a loud babble of amusement before the trembling blades.

  At that moment, the Shell disappears.

  And the Knight awakens.

  ———

  Ascalon

  Lorelai has long since departed, yet her confrontation remains strong in Ascalon’s mind. Deep within he knows she only wishes the best for him, but the heart is a fickle thing — always in conflict with the mind.

  It won’t do to dwell on such things now. Life is surely to change once she returns with the Comet. The grievances of the past should be left to scatter in the wind; so he’ll greet her as a renewed man, one not burdened by petty indulgences. His face still burns with embarrassment upon remembering his prior vulnerability. Never again.

  “My liege? Is oft the matter?” Gadreel says, bringing the distracted king back into the court session.

  “Ah, pray forgive me, Gadreel,” Ascalon stammers. “Please continue.”

  “Very well. Recently, there have been some concerns amongst the people over an increase in odd… disappearances, so to speak. It is not a large number by any means, a craftsman or artisan here and there whisked away into the night after a hearty drink, but their families are growing restless.”

  The chancellor bellows out a hearty guffaw over the notion.

  “Hohoh, back in my day it was often common for us youthful scamps to vanish for days on end, only to awaken clothless and dumped out onto an alleyway recluse. Give the poor souls another day or two and I am sure they’ll wander back home eventually.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  It does appear to be a minor commotion at first glance, but Ascalon isn’t quite sure. Intuition is the body’s contingency when the mind fails its initial glance. One doesn’t succeed far without learning to trust such doubts.

  “I understand your stance, but let us err on the side of caution just in case. Have the local guards patrol the streets for the missing citizens and send out a notice discouraging against roaming the taverns at night whilst alone. If they must, depart with a companion of sober gut.”

  “By your wisdom, my liege. It shall be done with haste.”

  Indeed, intuition should be regarded with the highest of concerns.

  But then why does Ascalon feel it creeping now with such dread? Gadreel’s words are becoming but inaudible drawls. The world drowns in a vision of hazy blurs. It’s odd. His soul is warning him of something.

  Could it be in regard to the expedition? Unlikely. He has stirred not once during Lorelai’s impassioned plea, otherwise he would have forbidden her from leaving no matter how much it garnered her loathing.

  Yet, his heart lingers to her absence. It alerts of a danger none could have ever expected.

  “Onto the next matter… oh,” Gadreel mutters with a dismayed groan. “Hrm. I see. The Untamed Throne of Nature, Annalay Virtue, is expected to arrive soon. How exciting.”

  Is that a rare sigh of defeat I hear?

  “Your voice lacks its usual bravado, Gadreel,” Ascalon teases.

  “Oh, do not goad this poor old man, my liege. My temper already flares at the thought of that mannerless woman disrupting this sacred chamber.”

  He harrumphs, plump face reddening into a scarlet hue. “How she became a Throne, I know not. The title was once used for those who embodied the ideals of Polus such as Lorelai, but the only ideals within that brute’s head are of drinking, cursing, fighting, and debauchery. She has no respect for our customs nor any respect for seniority! Her mouth is as foul as her lifestyle.”

  “Hehe, harsh words those are, chancellor. I find it rather charming, her briskly demeanor. She brings a certain… liveliness to the room. It’s all in good fun.”

  “You are much too kind, my liege,” the elder sighs. “Much too kind. It is a ruler’s duty to be magnanimous, but it is mine as chancellor to remind that woman of her duty as a knight of higher standing. Promise to me that you shall not abide by her rudeness.”

  “I will do my best, Gadreel. However, I must make a request of my own.”

  “Hm?”

  “Please do try to be a bit more lenient toward her.”

  Though Annalay’s presence is a topic of frustration amongst the elders, her love for the nation is as passionate as any other.

  “It is only once a year she is able to return home.”

  “Thank the Stars for such a boon! My poor heart would have succumbed long ago if I had to go back to those days of her insistent quarreling.”

  “But you cannot deny her contributions.”

  The chancellor hesitantly lets out a grunt of agreement. “Yes, but… that is that, and this is this.”

  “And you know of her circumstances as well.”

  Nobody can blame Annalay for her unruliness. They can disapprove, even mock at times, but they know how she came to be.

  “… Hah.” Gadreel throws his hands up in the air and kicks his feet like a school child being scolded by their parents. It is a rather humorous display for a man his age. “Oh, very well. I shall try to be understanding. But only if she makes an attempt to speak at least like a noble and not some common rogue—”

  The chamber doors burst open with a boisterous swing. A blast of air sends the more sluggish officials toppling onto their rear, murmurs and gasps dominating the former peace, and a deep, earthy scent wafts into the room. It is the smell of aged pine, of damp soil and cedar soaked in the dewdrops of the forest’s musk.

  A royal herald scurries over and anxiously unfurls their parchment. The sudden entrance has clearly disoriented the poor soul, but they make an effort to fulfill their duty, nonetheless. What stunning professionalism.

  “Ahem,” they begin. “Entering the warden of the earth’s—”

  “Oh, stuff it already. I don’t need any of that nonsense.”

  A burly knight strides into view and brushes past the stuttering. Her voice is sharp, harsh with a prickly grit, and her height towers above even Ascalon as she enters the stunned courtroom whilst clad in a union of verdant green steel and bark. It is as the forest itself is her bulwark, toiling around her plate in a wild entanglement of thorns.

  Her weapon is no less of staggering size: a gigantic, honed glaive. Its edge is coated in a rustic brown, handle curled with bulging vines, and rises up toward her horned helm, where a smug gaze looks down upon the officials.

  The knight is the embodiment of freedom too, in her own way: of a selfish exuberance which cares not for the looks or whispers of others. She is the Nature’s Throne: wild, untamed, and a warrior who spends her every waking moment in celebration of the present.

  When one looks upon her, they cannot help but smile.

  “It is alright,” Ascalon says to the protesting herald while desperately holding back his laughter. “I do believe we need no introduction.”

  The knight saunters over to the center of the room, a gathering of eyes leering at her from every direction, and then sinks into the largest seat she can find.

  “Yep, this place’s the same as ever,” she sighs. “Stuffy old farts, cordial stiffness, and a dreary air of monotony. I don’t know how you can stand being cooped up like this, Ascalon. One day in that seat and I’d be strangling the throats of everyone here.”

  “It becomes easier with time,” he says with a veiled grin. “That was quite the bold entrance, Lady Annalay. It appears time hasn’t diminished your enthusiasm.”

  She grimaces at his words. “Stop it with that Lady stuff, you brat. Just because I haven’t seen you in a year doesn’t mean we’re suddenly strangers. Ignore those boorish fools and just talk like normal.”

  Oh, Gadreel appears to have much to say about that.

  “I apologize, my liege,” he says. “But I am unable to keep my promise.”

  In an instant, a deafening barrage of curses and insults erupt from his raging, frothing mouth. The chancellor’s tirade is filled with such colorful language and, rather creative, taunts that Ascalon can only be impressed, yet his scoldings only beget a yawn and a blank stare from the drowsy Throne.

  “Yes, yes. It’s good to see you too, Gadreel,” she says with a lethargic wave. “Mm, this is just what I needed. Nothing puts me to sleep more than listening to your drivel.”

  “Drivel!?” he shouts. “You… why I never! Thine ignorance is truly astounding, you dull-witted buffoon! It pains me so that your moronic stature is allowed to corrupt this noble kingdom. Shame upon you! Has a single coherent thought ever passed through that empty cavern you claim to be a brain!?”

  “Go choke on your wine, you relic.”

  “Hah! You will sooner suffocate from your endless merry-going of mead and carnal pleasures before I ever—”

  “Ahem,” Ascalon coughs with a clear, direct warning. “Let us all settle down now, Gadreel.”

  “My liege?” he stammers, betrayal etched across his face.

  “Hah! Serves you right, you tottering—”

  “The same goes for you too, Annalay.”

  “Ah.”

  As much as it entertains me to watch the two of them scuffle, I best end this before they get truly heated.

  “I understand the two of you have a rather close bond…”

  “What!?” they cry in unison.

  “But we must not allow our emotions to get the better of ourselves. So, I ask of you: Let bygones be bygones. The two of you are both confidants I trust dearly with all my being, and it pains me to see you fight each other so. You need not exchange friendly greetings, but at least respect the other with silence. Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” they begrudgingly agree.

  “Very good. Now, your report Annalay—”

  Everything stops. The world, the air, time’s ticking hand. everything is reduced to a crawl.

  And then, it happens. With neither a word nor sound, King Ascalon feels it instantly.

  Pain.

  As if a piece of his soul has been permanently ripped out from his heart.

  A nauseating sensation of bile permeates his core. It spreads through his blood, burns his nerves into a screaming hellfire, and seizes his throat with wretched sobs as he collapses from his seat. He does not know how, and he does not know why. But, right now, his intuition is screaming. It wails out a despondent, impossible certainty.

  Ascalon’s connection with Lorelai has been severed. She is gone.

  The space outside is but a blur. A cacophony of concern and panicked cries reverberate in his ears, but he cannot discern a single word. The pain threatens to consume him.

  But like all things, it passes eventually. And all that is left is hollowness.

  Lorelai? It can't be. This has to be a mere trick, a disgusting nightmare. I just need to wake up. Everything will be—

  No, this is reality.

  But he refuses to acknowledge it as truth. He has to. He needs to. Or else everything he has ever strived for will come crumbling down with a meager whimper.

  “Ascalon! Stars be damned. Answer me you idiot! What’s going on?” Annalay bellows by his side. “Ah, hells. I ain’t suited for these kinds of things.”

  She turns around and barks to the other frozen officials in the room. “Well, are you all just going to stand there? Get moving already!”

  The room descends into a chaotic jumble of footsteps and nervous paces. Ascalon really shouldn’t be inconveniencing them like this, but right now, he wants nothing more than to stay curled up on the floor. To remain as a pathetic stain wallowing in misery.

  But you know what must be done, don’t you Ascalon? You have a responsibility to stand and continue leading the nation. You can’t stay like this. The people need you.

  Get up. Get up you miserable, pathetic fool. Is this all you are worth? Without the crown, without your mantle as king, you are nothing.

  Rise, for that is your duty.

  Ascalon bites his tongue and clenches his fist, before slowly staggering himself back onto the throne. He has to persist no matter how his heart aches. A King must not allow themself to be weak.

  “I am okay, Annalay,” he lies through gritted teeth. “No need for the healers.”

  Despite his attempts at reassurance, Gadreel is not so convinced. “My liege, are you truly alright?”

  It doesn’t matter if he is. All Ascalon cares about is the constant, loathing thought festering in his mind.

  “Chancellor, send another force to the border of the Aeternum. Tell them to keep watch for any signs of Lorelai and her crew.”

  Realization dawns on the elder’s face. “Impossible. Do you truly mean?”

  “I don’t know, Gadreel. I do not know.”

  He cannot rest until he discovers the truth with his own eyes. As long as Lorelai’s body remains undiscovered, Ascalon will continue to wait for her.

  Because she promised. She promised to return, no matter what.