And for anyone who was following Kiss of Death, this is why I've had to put that on hold. I hope to get this published, you see.
Prologue
In the beginning of this Living World, the World was One and the World was Whole. There were no divisions in colour, no divisions in place and look. Divisions were foreign conceptions to us because we were a whole. An Entire.
But then we fell. We fell far, and when we fell we scattered. Hatred and fear awoke in us for the very first time, we became aware of others, in them we noticed differences. We could see another wandering lost and call them a stranger.
We forgot what it was we once had. We began to fight amongst ourselves and started wars. Some still remembered. But they were few. And when they tried to speak out in our torn, violent World, we killed them, silencing their voices forever.
We didn’t know the meaning of wrong or right any longer. No one was able to achieve anything but the latter for so long.
And then the Great Heroes came. They united us. Warring nations lay down their weapons and stood side by side, prepared to face the evil of that time. And together, it was defeated. Not quite destroyed, but defeated, and at that time it was enough.
But then the Heroes died. They died and as their bodies turned to ash so did our remembrance of them, dying as a forgotten fire. And nearly two centuries later we have become twisted again. Old wars have started again. The Nations isolate themselves from one another. And a new evil is on the horizon.
And yet, I have seen rays of hope. I have seen them in small acts of kindness. The early younglings remember the way the World once was before they learn its tongue, and so do the older creatures of the World. All is not yet lost.
Once, I gave up on the World. But now I have changed my mind. The Reborn are coming, and I will watch over them. I can only hope that they are up to the great task that lies ahead of them. But I must have hope. I must.
We will be an Entire again.
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I wait. I have been waiting for so very long. For the Reborn. Not because I care for the prophecies around them, not because of those hoping for a saviour from the war I have wrought. But because they are variables; players in this game which I cannot control. The rumours of their existence might be false. And even if they aren’t, the Reborn might do nothing. But they are still variables. And for that they must die. Not yet though. Soon. After I’ve seen what they can do. Especially the Phantasm.
But I don’t plan to let them stop me. Never.
Ananias has a plan. That one is always plotting. Against me sometimes. But I haven’t any choice but to watch him, for his abilities are useful to me.
He has found the Phantasm, and plans to query her again. She has power that one. And I need it. Even more importantly, I want it.
Fidus always brings me scrolls. I must have read almost a thousand prophecies since we moved to this barren, cold place. But both the knowledge of the scrolls and this move is for my safety.
It is in the midst of reading that I am interrupted. Two of my Elite Guards drag a half-living boy into my throne room. He has been whipped so that there is barely a distinction between blood and the tissue underneath his skin, so that on his right arm I see the pink start of a muscle beneath the red mess. I wonder how he still lives.
The Guards throw the boy to the floor; he is too weak to rise. They kneel to me, and their noses nearly touching the floor; one says:
“Your Imperial Majesty, my apologies for the interruption.”
“What is it Forin? You see clearly I am busy.”
Upon hearing his name Forin lifts his head. He stands, and pulls the boy to his feet.
“Sorry, Your Majesty. But this boy,” and here he shakes the bloodied fellow who nearly falls to the floor again, “is a traitor. He was a servant in the Outer Shell, and we found that he had been communicating with the locals. He is a mole for them, and we believe he has been trying to find out your location.”
“So you bring him to me? For what?”
Forin grins, and I see that his teeth are yellowing. “For irony, Your Majesty. For irony.”
I glare at him, and he looks away. But the boy, the spy, is looking at my face. Into my eyes. And in his I see the hardness that may have made him into a good warrior. There is absolutely no remorse in those eyes.
Under the guide of my arts, his body bursts into a ball of fire. Both guards jump back; smiling. Animals. Do they not see the waste of potential?
The flames die and only ash remains. I tell them to clear the mess fast, and they do so without a moment’s hesitation lest I show more anger.
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