My long life taught me a simple creed on how one should live.

  Yesterday is a thing bitter, today is a thing sweet, and tomorrow a dream.

  What it means?

  Let go of the past, cherish the present moment, leave tomorrow for tomorrow.

  Personal reflections of Emperor Maximus Cornelius, from his work Contemplations

  The footbridge I walk upon now is the spine of a behemoth. Sadly, not in a literal sense. That filth is only good for destruction. Nevertheless, the footbridge is a large structure in its own right. The huge white-gray bridge piers that rise from the abyss are densely packed, giving the superstructure a certain robust look.

  The walking surface of polished marble is outlined by rich purple grass and flanked by scores of life-sized, painted, gilded statues that depict some of my children, many of whom now long gone.

  The footbridge leads toward the impressive perron, located in front of the main entrance to the library. The perron itself consists of three flights of stairs. The giant staircase was clearly built with no children in mind, demanding of long, confident strides. I designed it to be imposing, magnificent.

  Flanking the third flight of stairs are the two spurting fountains: big chunks of white marble lost in the center of a quadrant-shaped pool of glass-clear water, tinted the palest blue.

  About me is a world of granite rock, a world of stonecrete and gleaming marble.

  The hills of granite rise boldly, and yet it is our edifices that truly command the landscape.

  In creating the five cities there was one less than noble drive which pushed me, a spiteful way of thinking of which I am somewhat ashamed of. To build higher, more massive, obscenely large, more magnanimous structures than humans ever did or could build. They used my progeny for conquest, never really unleashing their true potential for creation.

  While looking at this splendor of large structures around me, a flurry of cascading thoughts slams my mind and I ponder how in human history their scholars would often write about some old monumental structure as if it were built by one human. The name of the architect would often become lost forever, and slaves or workers who did the bulk of the work and who often gave their bones for the foundation of the structure—to quote an old book on architecture—would go unmentioned, or forgotten completely in history books. A ruler would not move a single block of stone but would get all the praise. I smile at my own musings. Perhaps this is why I pulled all those thousands of huge blocks on my own.

  Historians of old would often try to ingratiate themselves with the great ruling families of their day; they would write endless praises concerning the ancestors of those families—obviously, architectural achievements were just a small part of all those praises. Not to mention this would often reduce the chance of the mentioned historians ending up being burned alive with their scrolls and books. Generations of scholars that would come thereafter would also embellish and add to the praises made by long-dead historians. A huge chunk of humanity's history is a fantasy of selective falsehoods.

  Moreover, before the printing press, book copying was done by hand, and over time mistakes would metastasize and grow—being copied and recopied. As you might assume, these inaccuracies were added to by the newer generations of scribes and historians. All embellishing or twisting events long past, or adding their own interpretations and events that did not happen. Consequently, historical texts would correspond with the way of thinking and beliefs of the age in which they were penned.

  The further back in history one goes, the more it becomes akin to fiction. Human history is rarely objective, it was often a malleable thing, a subject to interpretation and plagued by many aggrandizements and embellishments. Even the current civilization that my progeny and I have created is not entirely immune to this.

  It is a great shame of history to lose the name of the architect forever; to not have at least an echo of a single word from countless workers who died building the edifices of old times. Nonetheless, architects and workers created something that outlived them by many human lifetimes.

  The architect's name is in the grace and beauty of the structure, and the names of the workers are in the colossal scale of it.

  A small grin escapes me.

  I am rambling to myself.

  Fathomless ages from now, I do not care if historical writings remember my name, as long as the descendants of my offspring are the ones who write the last sentence.

  It is the fate of every empire to die, every realm to perish. And those that build a new world upon the ashes of old will be of my blood.

  If you ask an average human What is power? they would, many of them, essentially say It is the ability to destroy. Yet that is but one side of power. Paradoxically, they...were creators obsessed with destruction. True power, or at least one of its many sides, is the ability to create something greater than what was before.

  I did not erase humankind because they were flawed and self-serving. There was greatness in them, a potential endless. I ended them because they would never have shared this vast and beautiful world with my progeny.

  For I knew their heart and it was a thing forever restless.

  Far above and to my left, thousands of Void-black ravens fly somewhere westward. When compared to the edifice that is the Palace they are smaller than flies.

  A black sun in a field of green, my eye focuses on them as I continue to walk toward the library's grand entrance. I see each feather with great clarity. Their pupils are enlarged. I stop. A feeling of dread runs down my spine. It is nothing but nothing.

  I twirl my valorium ring for a few moments and then look at the distant, alamarium-clad guard, walking past a fountain. My thoughts fly far faster than those ravens can; the order is received in an instant. The guard nods and then runs.

  I commanded for scouting parties to be sent, east of Vantium. A winged Wraith could have sent those ravens fleeing, scattering them far and wide.

  It is nothing.

  On my index finger is a serpent eating its own tail. I am fond of twirling it, from time to time, especially when alone.

  The ring is valorium—silvery-white in color and several times stronger than bloodsteel. It boggles the mind, but this ring is the only manifestation evidencing the existence of valorium. I wear the entire known world's quantity of the metal on my finger.

  A rather plain-looking thing, considering its strength. Harder to work with than hepatizon—if such a thing were even possible. Tiny ore of it was found in the deepest of mines, near a sunken and roughly circular valley located within the mountains of Caledonia, north of my eastern city, aptly named Caledon.

  At night valorium glows; the glow pale, weak, and greyish, that of a forgotten star: distant, cold, and beautiful.

  Perhaps I cherish the ring, just like a human would because it is beyond rare. Would I even look at it twice were its abundance to rival that of gold?

  I am ridiculous. I almost despise that...human side of me, the side I could never hope escape. Some chains are made of stuff stronger than even this ring.

  My mind and mood rise—escaping the gloom—when I remember the sweetness of her. The memory of her lips abiding, I want her more each moment we are separate.

  When I woke up—still tired from our forty days of union—Kali was gone. It was not long until my eyes found her swimming the Silver Lake, racing a lorelei—the very same that beat me, not that long ago. The strain of doing so even gave me a slight headache. A price I would pay tenfold for just a glimpse of her. Afterward, my longing for her only grew, and we have spent...a few scant days together. Chambord is mayhem.

  Almost two decades or so prior, I was tempted to tell her everything.

  ''Where were you!?'' she yelled at me. It was rare indeed to see Kali in uproar. ''We lost thousands. Many from our warbeasts—unruly—breaking into our own lines. Their master who knows where.''

  ''Yes. And I am told you executed thirty-six of your fellow kindred.''

  ''Oh, Maeve reported to you already? Did she mention how they broke formation, spread panic, aiding the monster we fought? Your army was leaderless. Why?'' she whispered the last word filled with hurt.

  I was tired at the time, so tired—mind and body; remnants of unequaled cold still in me. I remember not wanting to argue. ''Leaderless? You were here. You are always here. Always protecting your brothers and sisters.'' I moved closer, the top knuckles of my right hand caressing her cheek, an action that seemed to have paralyzed her completely. ''My own Theia,'' I whispered.

  She took a step back, and not meeting my eyes said, ''Whole legions need to be reorganized.'' She left without looking back.

  I remember wanting to tell her where I had been but then thought better of it. The less knew the better. She would never approve of my...methods. And rightfully so.

  After quickly traversing across the grand steps, I am almost upon the main entrance to my library.

  On tall, ornate, polished, reddish-brown doors of cedar—two huge wooden panels that would not have been out of place serving as a gate to some large, ancient, human city—and inscribed beautifully into them are words coming from one of the earliest human civilizations, With knowledge I conquer, with words I dominate.

  It often reminds me of a witty remark I had read more than sixty years ago, Conquer with a sword, rule with a quill. It was the bon mot of some human historian when commenting on how one could increase the longevity of his kingdom.

  With my bare hands, I easily push the giant doors wide open, leaving them such as I stride forward.

  The Palace is my design.

  Stretching before me is the Hall of Wonders: the main, central, huge walkway that extends through the middle of the Palace

  To my knowledge—and especially to that of almost all of my scholars—a library quite like this never existed.

  The sea of books surrounding me is only possible due to special devices that have been and still are used to efficiently, immaculately, fruitfully, and satisfyingly print and copy a welkin-expanse worth of texts and scrolls; thus replacing the archaic, mistake-plagued, and slow way of handwriting.

  Despite this, the Palace has many codices, some older than even me. I find that handwritten works, although often archaic in text, are pleasing to me—to both possess and read. The exquisite penmanship almost gives each codex a personality unfound in the ways of printed works.

  There is one book in the library titled The Way of the Humankind. Written by one of my scholars, it speaks of human pride and greed, teaches about the follies of seeking immortality, teaches against hoarding wealth and power through hereditary transfers of them.

  Most importantly, it teaches one about the transient and changeable nature of all things, and how one must adapt and embrace change when times demand it. The work also argues that there is no higher purpose in life than committing it toward the betterment of all of one's kind. The book has been printed into hundreds of thousands of copies; taught to younglings all over our realm as part of an obligatory curriculum.

  A device like no other, the printing press allows for a fast dissemination of knowledge. Many books have copies beyond number; the knowledge of the world is not concentrated in one place.

  And we have thousands of these word-forging machines.

  Far cheaper than papyrus or parchment, a profuse abundance of paper ultimately enables the dissemination of knowledge across the world. And allows one to build libraries with books so plentiful that not even my entire lifetime—potentially spanning over dozens of millennia—would be enough to read them all.

  There are books of parchment and books of papyrus in the Palace, of course, but obviously in far smaller quantities.

  Much of humanity's ancient knowledge is here, often drowned by the works it inspired.

  A tall pale-blue form, ceaselessly I walk onward through the Palace.

  The world is at my feet.

  At a junction, embedded in the marble floor of the library, is the world's map. Beautifully depicted.

  The Crown of the World, stretching north to south, is charmingly shown. The expansive ancient forests are marked by adorable clusters of tiny trees.

  The huge continent is attacked on all sides by Alldora, the raging ocean: a resplendent flare of blues and raging whites.

  As I tread across the world, my heel lands on Parthios, my northern city.

  Clustered together, a group of silk-robed scholars, tall and graceful, is moving in the opposite direction.

  ''...Maker...''

  ''...Maker...''

  I look them all in the eye and nod slightly at the cordial greetings and smiles coming from a dozen or so of my daughters, more than half of them holding books and scrolls.

  They are students of Helix Academy, a theological college located in the far outskirts.

  The Palace is never closed. Comings and goings happen day and night.

  The majority of my offspring are with human likeness, tall and sinewy.

  Blessed with life spanning several centuries, and wanting for no food or water, knowing no disease or aging, many of my blood spend their time on scholarly pursuit and art, creating their footprint upon the face of eternity.

  And with little to no need for sleep, my progeny was prolific over the centuries since the library was built. Knowledge is built upon prior knowledge and it continues to bloom. Books on any topic imaginable, and many works of fiction; the Palace has it—a dream for those thirsty to read and a nightmare to sort.

  It would hurt one's neck to see the top shelves of my library.

  Fine furniture, rich paintings, tall statues, even a few aurichalcum and some more dark-purple ornaments of hepatizon, all added to the splendor of the library, thus vindicating its name.

  Marble relief tondi and oil paintings of the same circular nature decorate the sides of pedestals upon which smooth polished pillars stand. Every second pillar is carved into a dark-purple, helical shape—while the ring-like base and ornate capital of each are drenched with pure gold.

  Archangels of Empyrean, these glistening pillars all stretch until the very limit of even my enhanced vision—lining the distant walls, hugging the corners, and marking the sides of shelves. Many of them support the balconies that are caking the higher-level spaces above.

  High above, there are different chairs and ledges for winged kindred to do their reading, marked with crystal-holding sconces.

  Fire is, of course, forbidden. Crystals are used for light during night readings or in those rare places that receive little to no sunlight; such as in isolated reading alcoves and other small reading rooms.

  The ceiling has frescoes portraying blue skies, winged beasts, human-shaped kindred, long-gone scholars and warriors of note, and many, many optical illusions of domes with circular windows framing the eternal blue.

  The real windows, set along the sides of the building, are mostly narrow but numerous and very tall. The library lets an immense amount of sunlight in.

  With the pale light of the day and the might of the crystal light, the Palace has brightness aplenty.

  Chiaroscuro is used to give the ceiling frescoes depth, a life frozen in time. Powerful contrasts of light and dark do to my eyes what a noble-grape wine of over fifty summers—rich in acidity and sugar, and aged in oak casks—does to a tongue.

  The greatest artists are those who know when to sacrifice logic for the sake of creating a magnum opus. For example, maybe the colors of some landscape painting do not belong to the natural world, yet they work on canvas, creating a pleasing effect for the eye. Maybe the proportions of some statue are completely wrong, yet place that same statue somewhere high and the eye will be pleased.

  Art is about sacrificing the truth for that glorious end result of causing a powerful emotional reaction—raw, primeval, visceral—inside the beholder's mind.

  A brisk wind cutting through a rich forest, I walk onward without pause.

  Like a fountain of some...grand plaza, an elaborate armillary sphere stands in the center of an intersection, giving life to the space. It is a meeting place, a joining of four long and wide walkways, each flanked by ten-story bookcases packed with countless texts.

  There are several spheres like it in the Palace, but this one before me is the largest, at about three times my height.

  High above the sphere, thick glass panels form a skylight, bathing the space with natural light. I have designed the library to let in much of the dim daylight, greatly diminishing the need for crystal light.

  For some time, I walk, I walk.

  Vantium's library is allowed to most; however, there are sections where it is not so, sections where only a select few may tread. And one special room in the library is allowed to none but me.

  Lancet arch door of pure oak marks the entrance to my private study.

  The room is specially designed to isolate the outside noise. Necessary, for even through an armspan of the wall—and distracted by reading—I would be able to hear a bird's wing flapping or nearby conversations.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Strategically placed paintings of landscapes with clear skies, and thick tapestries, richly decorated with swirling green and yellow floral motifs, help to additionally remove any sounds from the outer world.

  Books on Genesis and its many symbols, as well as architectural literature and philosophical works, dominate the room's two-ceiling-high shelves. A dark mahogany mezzanine cuts the shelves through the middle.

  A small katadron statue of Acrona, emulating the one found within the eastern outskirts, stands upon one of the taller shelves; her glossy features delicate and fragile.

  The room I spend much of my time in has rich furnishings of gilded stonewood and walnut, as well as a collection of gorgeously illuminated historical and literary manuscripts.

  Many of the furnishings were gifted to me by the craftsmen from all four corners of the Realm. I sometimes offered crystals, paintings, or various works of art in trade but since everything is accessible in relative abundance to any kindred—from clothes, musical instruments, and of course books—there was never a reason for barter. Usually, once they are done with it, almost everyone returns the item they take, leaving it in one of the massive storage units located in Vantium's southern outskirts.

  I pause to stand before a top-to-bottom stained glass window.

  It is a window only in name. Behind it is a hidden carved space that holds many Ambers. Their golden light hits the glass, making the depictions crisp and bright.

  Embellishing and outlining the stained glass window are the Genesis symbols, stylized greatly.

  The humanoid figure of Balaur, my firstborn, takes up most of the colorful space. He is placed in the center, standing proudly, with hands holding a book near his abdomen. In the lambent image, Balaur is dressed in the finest damask silk garments—obviously something our captors would never provide.

  Balaur possessed a type of intelligence different and far greater than that found in most humans. Not only did he see details most would miss, but was also able to grasp the broader patterns.

  It was Balaur's work on the Genesis process that eventually emboldened the humans to attempt at becoming a god.

  Humans described Balaur as physically unremarkable, like a scrawny boy of below-average height.

  Had my boy been able to wield Genesis, he would now stand where I stand, and the skies would have been blue. Of that I have no doubt.

  I look around me and exhale deep, the familiarity of the space calming my mind.

  The entire room is agreeably lit.

  This space, besides being my main reading room, is also one of my favorite ateliers.

  At the center of the room is a very large black walnut table—dramatically slashed through the middle with a thick, uneven, pure-black stripe surrounded by stretches of dark brown, contesting lines.

  At the moment almost all of its glossy surface is covered.

  Strewed across most of its middle is a jumbled pile of stacked papers—scores of them half-rolled and a few fully spread. Some show marked up architectural drawings, mostly of structures that are unfeasible with any known construction method, while others feature diagrams, sketches of my crystalborn, Genesis symbols, scribbles, and notes.

  Above the pile and slightly to the table's right are three small bottles of ink and two scrolls. Even more to the right is a slim, book-sized box containing eight dip pens, with each pen having a uniquely shaped nib made of hepatizon or alamarium—and there is also one fountain pen, a thing very dear to me.

  The fountain pen has an extra fine aurichalcum nib, etched with simple spirals and a triskele symbol in the middle of the nib. It was a gift from Kali for my seven hundredth birthday. Unexpected, considering I do not celebrate those, ever. The pen itself came in a strong leathery pouch made of Wraith's skin and, to make things even more over the top, the pouch was in a pale-glowing katadron box. After thanking her, I made a point of saying it was just another day like any other and that there was no cause for celebrations or presents. Then I did something foolish, tried to return the recherché gift, but she just left the chamber in a huff, ending the matter.

  Ah, yes.

  The table's left side is suffocated with trinkets: a small wooden chest, some red chalk, a sandglass, a sizeable thick glass goblet filled with spherically carved shining Cobalts and Ambers, tiny clay jars, some more scrolls, and a small tower stack of fat, coin-shaped osmium weights for holding paper—the weights glistering bluish gray.

  An unstable hill of about seventy-seven books is on the far right side of the table.

  I am messy.

  A well-used stonewood drafting table sits tucked in a corner. Next to it is a cylindrical basket with rolled sheets of paper.

  Making architectural drawings, from stylobate to raking cornice, is an excellent pastime. I have even made designs of structures that are impossible with our current materials and building techniques.

  Nevertheless, impossibility is but a very low probability. Today's impossible is tomorrow's ordinary.

  Located against a wall and behind my main table is one of my favorite pieces of furniture in this room: a walnut credenza. It was crafted by a talented carpenter, John of Akti—our western city.

  The credenza is made out of straight-grained, deep brown walnut; it has nine drawers positioned around a small door, with a thin layer of dense, white granite on top. The marquetry design has a honeysuckle pattern found in the corners of each drawer and one spiraling one located in the middle of the door—formed by tiny human figures as if emerging from nothingness.

  I prize the credenza for its function; a thing simple, elegant in design, and decorated tastefully.

  Placed on a small table, a chessboard with most pieces still on it lies tucked away to the side of the room. The board is of polished katadron, and the pieces are made of alamarium and hepatizon. I make a move with my metallic-gray pawn.

  I play against myself. One move a day, a month, does not matter. I keep the game going.

  Today I have a special treat. A while back, one of the more enterprising of my scholars uncovered dozens of volumes from the ruins of the old human capital. The rotten head still has valuable morsels left to give, even after centuries. Sadly only a few were in any decent condition.

  Nevertheless, there was one book in a special hepatizon casing that has remained almost intact.

  Cleaned and reposing upon my walnut table, my treat awaits to be spread open by my eager hands. I should have read it by now but I was...engaged in important matters.

  The book's cover is the bright red of pure silk velvet and graced by elegant scrollwork of dark grey. A black outline is found between each raised band of the spine. The front cover itself has an exquisitely engraved silver frame featuring a vine pattern. All in all, the book is in excellent condition, and I intend to keep it so.

  Knowledge is a beautiful and delicate thing. This work needs to be handled with care.

  First Light

  The letters of the title are an inlay of palladium with a tiny addition of crystal dust—making the silvery-white letters sporadically sparkle. The cover is remarkably well preserved.

  I have read many human legends and fantastical stories relating to crystals and legendary heroes. The humans often disregarded them, but in every story, there is a speck of truth. Clues that may help my cause in case my cardinal experiment never bears fruit. A new report should be coming soon.

  Every year, despite my best efforts to kill it, I continue to hope. A rational part of me understands the chances of success are close to nothingness but there is always that infinitesimal spark that refuses to die. And so, a fool, I hope.

  I do not like keeping secrets from my creations—from her especially. Kali would take things into her own hands, ending everything. I tell myself that silence and lies are for the greater good. Perhaps I am not that different from humans. For a moment my face contorts at the unsavory thought, but only slightly. They were a beautiful chaos.

  I must handle the book gently.

  Slowly, I open it.

  Translated and collated by Imperial Archivist Zenodotus Philitas, with critical commentary.

  Pages are of calfskin vellum, high quality, smooth, and fine; the skin of her thighs.

  The book's soft scent is wet earth and aged leather.

  Hours are spent reading, making notes, and slowly turning the pages with care until I find the text that truly interests me.

  About her birth there are many myths. I will give here but one.

  There was a legend among Shiwei, a story about how Dheira's mother was ambushed near a river one morning: taken by a great red tiger. Dheira being the result of such an unholy union.

  Of course, being but a mere fragile woman, Dheira needed a well-made story that would help validate her own right to rule. Which is why she herself seems to have propagated the vile tale.

  Her story perhaps truly began with the death of her father. He often heeded Dheira's shrewd advice and their tribe naturally turned towards her for leadership.

  Life in the hyperborean grasslands of Western Equiya was primitive and short, with different nomadic tribes constantly at war.

  Shiwei were always divided into endless tribes, with each having its own chieftain. Blood feuds were rarely forgotten and could last for decades or more. These ancient horse riders used spears, which they would throw at the enemy and quickly retreat, with arrows wicked following not long after.

  Their neighbors to the south, the sophisticated Akti Empire, with its large cities and large armies, naturally, viewed the Shiwei and their stratagems with disdain.

  Dheira Zetian's father was a chieftain and after his passing she knew that to secure the future of her tribe they would need an ally. Thus, she married the leader of another powerful tribe.

  In the beginning, this worked well, and more than a few smaller tribes turned towards Dheira for protection. Her husband, whose name she seems to have erased from history, saw how not only her tribe refused to follow him but many of his own kin flocked to her. He eventually arranged for Dheira to be kidnapped and sold into slavery.

  After a few months, using her guile and cunning, she managed to escape. Dheira convinced her captor that her husband had hidden vast treasure and buried it away, and that she would disclose its location if he promised to let her go and give her some of it. Obviously, she knew such a promise meant nothing, but it was enough for her captor to believe in her expertly-acted naivety. To avoid sharing the spoils, Dheira's captor only brought two soldiers with him.

  During their journey, Dheira convinced one of the soldiers to not only take the treasure for himself but that her tribe would reward him with many horses and cattle if he brought her back to her tribe.

  During the night he killed the other two men while they slept. But Dheira failed to see the traitor's real motives. As he tried to force himself on her she managed to bite off a large chunk of his neck.

  She returned to her tribe drenched in dried blood.

  Since Dheira's husband had conveyed to everyone how she was killed while on the steppe, his deceit was not seen with kindness. Marriage was sacred to the people of the steppes, a union blessed by gods and spirits of nature. It is said she ordered for him to be tied, rolled into felt cover, and then trampled over by dozens of horses.

  One might think a new marriage would be far from Dheira's mind, regardless, her late father's closest friend had his own tribe and she offered to marry him and form a new union.

  He was old and it is said he had a heart attack while they were sharing a bed one night. This was less than two years into their marriage.

  After some negotiations, the sources do not specify what these were but one can easily assume she removed any opposition dagger and spear, Dheira became an undisputed leader of both tribes and did something unthinkable in those days. She gave positions of power based on merit instead of bloodline or wealth. Instead of hoarding wealth, she gave most of it away; thus, attracting many more followers.

  She arranged numerous strategic marriages between her family members and potential adversaries. In many blood feuds, she would often support the weaker tribe, possibly giving her the aura of a protector of the downtrodden.

  Naturally, aristocratic elements that existed for centuries, led by the young nobleman Nogai of the Tavkhai tribe, did not take the rise of this demoness lightly. Nogai, supported by these elements, gathered a large force of tens of thousands of spear and bow-armed horsemen and defeated Dheira's army. However, the victors obliterated any chance of gaining followers after boiling ninety young female captives alive in large cauldrons; an act viewed as barbaric even by the peoples of the steppe.

  Shiwei had a saying, What is not paid in honor must be paid in blood. Their lives were hard, often brutal, but even the peoples of the steppe had constraints forged over centuries by custom and tradition. When due respect is not given, blood must be taken, their creed.

  Due to the distant age covered here, many truths are lost and during the next few years of her life, nothing is known.

  Next time she is mentioned, Dheira aids the Akti, a large and wealthy dominion to the south of the Shiwei steppe, during a civil war that threatened to dismantle the Akti Empire completely. Her troops participated in the final battle of this civil war and, after victory, the Akti restored her to power.

  Again she did something that defies tradition and shared the spoils of war equally. During her conquest of rival tribes, she promised any future treasures plundered would be shared among those who follow her. This made her numbers swell and not just soldiers but also many civilians joined her as well. And what is perhaps even more astonishing for the realities of the harsh life on the steppe, some loot was given to the elderly and disabled.

  Among many, I believe one of the main reasons Dheira was successful was that after conquering her rivals she did not slaughter the captured soldiers and civilians or exile them, instead, they were offered to join her and she eventually turned former chieftains into many husbands. They were forbidden to fight or lead any men, and in some cases, their legs would be broken if there was even an indication of disobedience to her rule. Such cases were rare since she showered her favorites with rich gifts, sweet wine, fine food, and even many concubines; therefore supplanting their once hardships-filled lives with those of opulence, albeit within a bloodsteel cage.

  Some impossible-to-verify account states that if one of her male pleasure slaves did not perform to her satisfaction he would be strangled. This claim is made in one older source, written centuries after she had supposedly lived, and I would give it little to no merit.

  Since she lived her life on horseback, those tribes that became conquered by her did not feel oppressed, as they certainly would if ruled by some foreign invader, but possibly had a sense of being a part of one huge tribe. Dheira would adopt any children who lost their parents during her conquest, bringing them into her care and protection.

  Instead of losing soldiers with each battle, the opposite happened and her might grew. Obviously, such growing power makes one into a large target and there were scores of attempts to assassinate Dheira.

  Her nemesis Nogai and the alliance gathered around him were back, ready to destroy her and the threat to their way of life, as they saw it. But waves of change could not be stopped and many deserted the aristocratic cause and joined Dheira's forces, and thus the outcome of the conflict was certain. Nogai was killed in this critical battle.

  She ordered for his captured generals and scores of other Shiwei nobles, ninety souls in total, to be executed by having their backs broken. Considered a good death among the Shiwei.

  With no real opposition left to speak of, the next step must have been a thing obvious to Dheira.

  At the kurultai(a grand gathering of her trusted generals, supporters, leaders of tribes, and other people of note), she was proclaimed ruler of rulers, an empress of all the land under the blue sky.

  The Shiwei Empire was born.

  So much is lost, I fear forever, and the exact path of her conquest of the entire Western Equiya is unknown. However, we do know certain details which I painstakingly collected over the decades.

  Dheira was brutal. One might argue necessarily so, for there is no such a thing as a crystal clear or sinless empire. It is not known what caused her estrangement with the Akti Empire. Their cities, with walls mighty and taller than even the tallest of our aqueducts, resisted; some for a year or two, while others, perhaps more prudent ones, surrendered to save themselves from fire and iron, giving vast tributes of slaves and alamarium to the Shiwei.

  Moreover, there are horrific accounts of burned city streets overflowing with human fat and, according to several sources, literal mountains of heads piled for everyone to see and know the price of resisting the Shiwei.

  Tragically, most stories about her life have remained preserved through the oral tradition and were only put into hard words centuries after her death. In addition, the validity and accuracy of even the best sources leave much to be desired.

  Wars, famines, and diseases, just to name a few erasers of history, separate even our best sources from her age; therein lies the problem for any scholar in discerning the truth.

  Surprisingly, Dheira ordered the construction of myriad buildings and public works across her huge empire.

  From the nomadic people of the steppe, the Shiwei became sedentary.

  She developed an unquenchable taste for khar-nogoon rock; to not just make temples, grand estates, theaters, law courts, tombs, and other public buildings, but also clad her many palaces and most prized structures with it. Floor to summit. So much so that most of the now scarce green rock we see used in our own empire comes from the ruins of the Shiwei one; our distant ancestors requisitioned the extremely durable rock for their own means.

  And it is written in letters ancient that even the magnificence of her grandest of palaces was eclipsed by the splendor that was her throne.

  In the lands southern, living in mountain fortresses, a cult of Gehenna(what we would call the Void) worshipers, members of which were said to be some of the best assassins in the world, repeatedly made attempts on Dheira's life. Sometimes even forcing the empress of the world herself to wear commoner clothes or to be clad in the livery of one of her many servants.

  We do not know the exact name of this cult nor the true location of these mountains, for Dheira deleted them from history after destroying even the very foundations of their fortresses.

  After conquering this small mountainous kingdom, Dheira depredated an object from it.

  Deep inside their biggest of temples, the cultists supposedly enshrined a giant dark crystal, which Dheira took for herself.

  The Shiwei slaughtered all those who worshiped the forever-black crystal and burned the temple to ashes.

  The throne of this blood-drenched empress was said to have been painstakingly carved for years out of this huge black rock, which the cultists called God Crystal(a thing supposedly as black as the bowels of Gehenna itself, or, as one of the more poetic of my sources noted, almost as black as the hair of the World Empress herself).

  Her blackcrystal dais was noted to be carved into a rising form of gradually shrinking octagonal shapes that formed the steps; with the throne itself being an inescapable part of the structure and erupting seamlessly out of the center of the wide eight-sided platform. The vertices of these layered octagonal shapes were supposedly orientated to point toward the eight sides of the world.

  The Black Throne of Dheira Zetian was the source of many tales, a thing of magnificence, a thing of dread.

  Legends bearing on her death speak about how hers was the victory of light over darkness, in the most literal way. Shadow-flesh, a fog of black that feasts upon firelight, was slowly spreading across the lands of the West, giving them to chaos. They tell how Dheira obliterated the spreading Shadow(my best translation for this supposed, malevolent force) in a process that claimed her life.

  We will never know what truly claimed the life of Dheira Zetian.

  Some legends claimed that at the very moment of her death Dheira's body became pure light, brighter than the sun itself, which exploded all over the world, thus ending the Shadow's dominion. Others talked about vortexes made of lightning destroying much of the world. Naturally, my main focus was on the most numerous and relatively consistent of accounts, such as they were.

  Her age was a primitive time, before the discovery of Genesis, before crystals were used as a source of light. An old time of torches and horses.

  The beast most noble, wind gained flesh, horse was a friend of humanity before the first scroll was penned. Aiding the unstoppable rise of humanity, useful for warfare and transport, and even, in times of great trouble, a source of food for the desperate, a last resort to save themselves and their families from starvation.

  Surprisingly, the horse still saw use even after the prevalence of crystalborn beasts began.

  I will add that many accounts note she handled unbroken horses with superb skill and was an excellent rider who fought in first lines.

  The histories of Dheira Zetian all agree she was of a keen mind. She united the then many Shiwei tribes, and only after the river of blood her empire was forged, over which she supposedly ruled for centuries. For added stability she encouraged religious tolerance in her empire. Her rule brought prosperity, trade, and a mixture of different peoples led to exchanges in ideas; different communities came into contact, influenced each other.

  Furthermore, she seems to have known to position the most suitable people in all the proper seats of power, often ignoring blood ties and appointing only the most capable.

  One of those rare characters in history that turn everything they touch into bloodsteel.

  After her death, the Shiwei Empire fragmented into several smaller empires. Only after many ages did the West become united again.

  Considering she lived many ages ago it is impossible to say exactly when her story began its slow transmutation into a legend. And when legend turns to myth, truth is but one immaculate leaf of a dying sky-tree.

  As stated before, burnt libraries, orally preserved stories that were only centuries later put into hard words(with small mistakes and mistranslations constantly adding up over many further centuries), all of these factors combined, creating a fantasy with a hidden gossamer thread of truth buried within. A thread which I have tried to bring to light in this humble work of mine.

  Legendary Empress Dheira Zetian features in many old poems, dirges, odes, ballads, and surviving epics written during or about the Age of Fire. Coincidentally, or, perhaps rather fittingly, fire and time are what claimed most of them.

  Some historians have referred to the time before crystals became commonly used to light the world as the Age of Fire, and the period of history whenwhich they have been used only for light or adornment purposes as the Age of Light.

  Scholars vigorously disagreed over centuries as to the exact dates pertaining to each age's birth and death. It can be a very ambiguous term.

  Here, my dear reader, I have added a summary of all of the ages, to be used at your discretion:

  Age of Fire - considered a very primitive and archaic period of history, which lasted for roughly nine thousand years.

  Age of Light - a flourishing period of writing and art, which lasted roughly six thousand years.

  Age of Genesis - current age, age of empires, wars, power arcane and beasts evil.

  It is believed, dear reader, that the Age of Genesis started more than two thousand years ago, and that it will never end.

  I gently close the book and throw my eyes straight ahead at some unseen distance.

  The silence that takes me is long, palpable almost.

  The least believable part is a throne made entirely of crystal. The legend clearly describes an Archcrystal but they have always been charged with their eternal living light and cannot be cut.

  Only many millennia later did humans learn how to break an Archcrystal—birthing me—and forge blades from the shards.

  Regardless of the story's veracity, many things can be learned. A selected few scholars and I shall dissect each word of this book.

  Magnus will probably give me some cold, logical conclusions.

  I gifted Magnus a citadel—for his immeasurable services to the Realm. I designed the citadel myself, about a century ago. It is in fact a huge palace designed to give a feeling of a royal stronghold.

  All stories have a speck of truth to them. And in regards to the text before me, these specks—my instincts tell me—are worth their weight in aurichalcum.

  Humans often confused strength with brutality. A wild animal can be brutal its whole life.

  Strength is brutality applied at the right moment.

  And this imperatrix, this human, if she even existed, seems to have understood this.

  I am outside again, strolling through the area in front of the grand entrance and before the perron—a dot upon the polished, wide walkway surrounding the Palace.

  Escaped again. A screeching demon cuts my path.

  Asking for attention, sweet Jeju looks at me expectantly.

  I crouch and gently pinch the dog's ear.

  When I rise, a shimmer attracts my attention and I look to my right, far away, and hard-focus my eyes, eating away the distance of several miles.

  A powerful eastern wind buffets the upper reaches of my crystalborn trees, strong enough to tear their perennial leaves. Outskirts are showered by an ocean of shimmering crystal dust.

  In the distance, hundreds of winged beasts are circling the Green Archcrystal, instinctively drawn to its nurturing light.

  I look to my left. A ten-foot-tall guard, clad in thick full armor, kneels before me.

  ''Maker,'' the ogre says deferentially.

  I smile, gesturing for him to rise. ''Do not do that, my son. Bad for the knees as well as the marble.''

  Brontes straightens, debriefing.

  All of the scouting parties have reported.

  It was nothing.

  I tilt my head skyward.

  Swirls of white and gray clouds dance across the heavens.

  Stretching endlessly, the sky reflects across my eyes.