"Your Imperial Majesty," the chancellor whispered. "The Berians are barbaric, their ancestors were the word's origin after all. Dealing with their squabbles and bringing prosperity was a difficult task, one that had still many years before success."
"I read your reports before I entered this chamber." He shuffled through the stack of paper and pulled one out. "Six times, you have refused financial help from Istra, twice you refused military help from Camirna. During the first quarter of this year, you refused to partake in the imperial food distribution program citing an abundance of resources."
"I-I felt that the need of the capital was greater than the need—."
"The capital has a need for the people of the Empire as a whole to be well fed. That includes the people of Beria." He sighed. "I will hear no more of this. You, on purpose, have done all in your power to bring the city down. This rebellion is on your shoulders as much as on those of the revolutionaries." With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a half a dozen soldiers. "Take him to a cell."
"Please, I beg you!" he shouted and resisted. "I will not last in a dungeon."
Morael shrugged. "Chancellor, with all due honor, little of which there is, you should have thought of that before committing crimes." He waved his hand, and the soldiers led him out of the chamber.
"I wonder how many of us will remain here," said the garrison commander.
"One more remark, and you will join him." Morael then turned to the treasurer. "Lady Farina." With a shake of his head, he said all there was to say, "You know what you have done." The fat woman nodded. "Leave us." She did so without a word. The guards knew what to do with her, a cell awaited her just like the chancellor. Embezzling money was a serious crime, and she committed it daily. At least it explained why their documents never made it to Istra for inspection.
Finally, he turned to the two remaining members of the former government. "Adjudicator Halla. I have also read your reports." He pulled the documents from the stack. "In the name of the crown, I must apologize that the system has failed you." He bowed his head.
"Apology accepted Your Imperial Majesty. The flaw was with the system here. I cannot in good conscience, say otherwise."
"Thank you." Last he looked at commander Anir. "Commander, remind me, was it who was fooled by the two rebels pretending to be imperial officers?" He nodded. "How?" Morael asked, befuddled.
The commander coughed and stood up. "It is true that I was fooled, but it never occurred to me they would be able to obtain armor of an officer and two other men."
"By the sky above, man," shouted Morael, "there were three of them. It goes against every protocol we have! No officer is allowed to travel without a proper party, especially when not announced prior and with special permission signed by government officials. Did you forget about your time in the academy?" With a sigh, he commanded, "Sit down." His look turned to the adjudicator and then back to Anir. "You are relieved of your duties and demoted. Report at the military academy in Istra." He snapped his fingers, and the sigil of the commander rank disappeared from Anir's armor. With his head hung low, he left.
"I apologize once again," he said to Halla. "You are the only one to remain. I want to hear your genuine opinion on the city."
The adjudicator sighed. "It is very difficult to do a proper assessment of the city for my powers were very limited. However I believe that with proper government it could stand as a region of its own. Much of the crime the justice system has met with originated from the feeling of being underrepresented. The distance from both Istra and the capital is so great that the Berian people feel not as a part of the Empire, but an oppressed city."
"Would it not support that notion if they were made a region of the Empire? There is little on the peninsula, and I dare to suggest that it could even support ideas of a future rebellion."
"I do not agree," Halla replied. "Being a region would give them the feeling of participation, becoming a building block of the Empire."
"Very well, first, an archon must be chosen. Afterwards I wish to enact a special policy. People from the Empire will be paid to leave their lives and move here. Similarly people of this city will be moved out, even if against their will, and scattered around the Empire. I believe it can easily eradicate notions of a rebellion when a third of the city is imperial nationals from anywhere."
Halla agreed. "Now, I would like you," said Morael, "to suggest a new government. Including the archon for the city. You have spent the most time here. Two to three suggestions per position please. Attempt to include some Berian nationals. If they feel ruled by someone other than them, we may just relive today's events in a year or so." He stood up. "That will be all."
Before he could go and rest, Morael had one last thing to do. He would show the people of Beria who he is. Before he walked out of the castle, he put on the shiniest of armor with a beautiful scarlet cloak, and on his head, he put the crown of an imperial prince. The cold gold, summoned by magic, rested in his ashen hair.
Ready, he stepped outside, his weapon a shining sword attached to his waist. There was no crowd waiting, only a few commoners sitting down beside the stone steps.
He walked down and paying them no mind; he set out to walk through the streets. “It’s prince Morael!” someone shouted, and soon people started coming to see him.
“Imp!” many shouted, but some were silent, and a few told off those spewing insults. He wondered whether it was out of fear or respect. Even if he wished to, he didn’t respond and continued walking.
The people followed him and watched just what he is doing. Soon they began shouting their sole demand - to know what is happening. He wouldn’t tell them.
His destination was the market square. Destroyed, in the rubble, some stones still had blood on them. No building remained after his fight with the green-eyed opponent. There, in the center, he stopped and turned to the amassed crowd. “You know who I am,” he said loudly. “Do not think I am blind to the hatred with which you are watching me.
“But know this. Nobody wanted it all to come this far. Alone, spent and depleted the city wouldn’t last. In a month, your rebellion and your independence would crumble. Without supplies of food from Istra, it would be the end of you. All citizens of the city would starve to death. You all know this.
“Beria was conquered twice now. Understand that freedom is impossible, accept life in this new world. I promise you, in two years, your stomachs will be full, and you’ll be happy living a prosperous life.”
People kept quiet and looked at him. No one dared to say a word. “Let me show you just what we can do.” He ran and jumped on one of the largest rocks and raised his hand up high. From it came blinding white light. Like a blanket, it fell onto the entire city. The crowd watched each other now as every bruise, broken bone, and human illness was cured. Blind could see again, cripples walked and jumped and ran around.
“This is the power of magic!” Morael shouted. “Every illness that exists in this world can be cured. A broken bone is not a death sentence, it’s a minor inconvenience.” He pulled his hand down, tired, his strength now entirely spent.
The light was gone, and the people cheered. Through the crowd commander, Arter forced his way. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said and bowed. “There is something you must see.”
“What is it?”
“There are ships coming from the west. A sigil of a dragon on their sails.”
Following the commander, Morael ran from the market square onto the city’s remaining battlements. On the horizon, he saw a fleet of ships arriving to the shore. “Spyglass,” he uttered, and Arter handed it to him. Just as he was told, ships flying the banner of a dragon. “Get the men ready. We go out and meet them. If they were to assault Istra, it would be devastating.”
“Understood,” the commander ran off, shouting.
Morael’s knees got weak, and so he sat down, his legs hanging down from the city wall. How could it be possible for someone to come from the west? Never, not once, it
has happened before. He wished Aelir was there with a book that had an answer, but he didn’t even know whether his little brother was even still alive.
With a sigh, he watched the trees moved by the wind, trying to avoid looking at the incoming fleet. If only he had enough strength, he could have destroyed them from where he sat. Yet that was impossible now. Having spent much of his strength during the battle and the little that remained to heal Beria’s people left him in a difficult position. Were he to attempt something so taxing as breaking apart a fleet, most likely full of magical users, he would be risking his life.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” he heard Arter’s voice. “I ordered my men to prepare for battle. I must ask what of the people.”
Morael shrugged. “What of them? The wall is breached, if the enemy makes it past us, they’re dead anyway. Still, send a word to Camirna. Tell them to send as many ships as they can. Have the people move south, beyond the walls, and to the port. If there are ships, then I want as many to leave. We can’t send them to Istra. Not without running them right through the opposing army.”
“As you command.” He bowed and walked away, leaving Morael alone yet again.
Looking down onto the long fall, he wished for someone to nudge him and end it all. Not since Vanquisher was broken, there was a calm day. He was worried about the battle. For a long time have the imperial soldiers not fought against a proper enemy. Not for thousands of years against an enemy who also wields magic. The upcoming battle would be the test of their military prowess, it would answer, to the whole world, whether the Empire has retained its strength of days past or fell asleep on the leaves of success.
He got up. A battle was coming, and he would not just watch people prepare and fight. He would be on the front lines.
Dragon's Shadow
Out of breath, Oren looked at the sight before him with his tired eyes. His vision was blurry, and on his forehead, he felt wet and cold. He looked at the burned bodies of Garen and his men and then onto his own hand, where he held the verdant sword.
“Are you alright?” he heard Carrine ask while standing up.
He sighed, remembering what he did. Magic. He used magic. Recalling the feeling, he began to shake. “Calm down,” Carrine whispered from behind, touching his shoulder. “All’s good.”
She didn’t understand; he wasn’t distressed, he just wished to feel it again. All his preconceptions about magic were nulled by the thirst for that marvelous feeling. “We’ll have to rest. You must be very tired.”
He coughed and replied, “Yes. I feel like I just walked across the continent.”
“That’s normal.” She looked at him with a strange smile. “Thank you. You saved my life.” With a smile, Carrine gathered their things, took Delia’s reins and lead her and Oren to a patch of a forest not far away.
“I saved mine also,” he replied, his mouth dry.
She didn’t say anything back, just smiled.
Together they walked not too far away. Carrine assured him that no more men would come. They were safe. Oren fell onto the soft grass and let the world of dreams take him.
Oren’s dreams brought him little comfort. He stood in an empty land, the ground brown and dead, all around rubble. A stone was before him, and on it were chiseled ancient words, barely visible washed down by the streams of time. “In the shadow of dragon’s wings, our enemies shall fall,” the text read. He knew those words.
With clear eyes, he gazed at the rubble before him, the shattered stones washed in blinding light, and saw death. Bodies squashed by debris. He despaired, seeing so many dead and what had been a city destroyed. Long gone it was, the time has forgotten it and the ink of history’s quill has spilled onto a new page.
Then a shadow fell onto him, and he looked above where a statue towered. It was old and ancient yet clean and kept. He didn’t recognize the visage of the man but knew he was not ordinary. On his head was a crown shaped like phoenix’s wings and in the center a shimmering golden gemstone the size of giant’s eye.
Making his way to the statue’s pedestal through the skeletons, the dead bodies, and the rubble, he noticed things that were not supposed to be there. A wooden sign of the Crawling Guardsman, the tavern he used to visit, a window from Narra’s store, and even the pens and stacks of paper that Efri and he used to make a living with. Next lay a body, preserved and fresh. He turned his head, refusing to look.
The pedestal of the statue was made of white stone, and there he saw a plaque. “Behold the strength of our power and despair. Look upon this wretched land and remember what brought it to be. Kneel and look upon me, remember who I am.”
A cold breeze ran across Oren. He turned his back towards the statue, refusing to look, but then he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. With force, it turned him around, but nobody was there, except before his feet laid a body. In a pool of blood, broken and injured, lied Efri. Her eyes shimmering with light but dead on the inside.
He swallowed the dryness of his mouth and yet again looked at the pedestal. Resigned to his fate, he fell to his knees and bowed his head.
“Hello Oren,” he heard Efri’s voice and then felt the touch her soft hand on the tip of his chin. She pulled his head up, and he looked at her. “Come find me, Oren, I have been waiting.” Behind her towered the statue, its eyes looking at them both. “They are coming. On the western shore, our destiny lies. Go home.”
He woke up in cold sweat, the voice still echoing in his mind. Seeing Carrine sitting there, watching him under the moon’s azure light, made him calm.
“Are you alright?” she asked. “Bad dreams?”
Breathing heavily, he nodded. “I must go to Beria,” he uttered. “Efri’s there. At least that’s what I think was told to me.”
“Come morning, let’s go,” Carrine announced with a chuckle. “No time to waste!”
“You don’t think I’m insane? Trusting a dream.”
She shook her head. “Through magic, much is possible. I do not care where I go. You saved my life, and I have no way to repay that. So, I will come with you wherever you go.”
“Is that right?” He smiled. “You don’t have to, your debt is paid, trust me.”
“I don’t have to,” she looked deep in his eyes, “but I want to.”
He chuckled. “Very well. Let’s go. There’s a village not far back, Eshtorn. We’ll buy you a horse and be on our way.”
As he said, they did. While packing, he couldn’t stop thinking about the dream, about the little he remembered. So many things he didn’t understand, but there was one clear as day - answers lie in Beria.
With their destination set up, they packed and turned back. On their way, they made a short stop in Eshtorn but didn’t stay for long. They rode day and night. If Efri was truly in Beria, on the western shore, then Oren would do anything to reunite with her.
On the way, Carrine and he learned more about each other, even if there was little to know in the first place. She was an ordinary young girl just like most and besides his sword and the secrets he learned there was nothing particularly interesting about Oren either still Carrine was more than enamored by him.
They slept rarely and not for long and soon they arrived at exactly where Oren and Narra parted ways - the crossroads. Right onto the dirt road and to Natind they went. Only a few days have passed and Oren hoped that everyone in the town was safe. On the way, he told Carrine of his time there and the strangest of monsters they met while leaving the town.
She was excited to stay at the local inn and finally sleep in a soft bed without the threat of Garen’s touch. Oren was excited for a bath and a good meal. To his own surprise, he missed Ulsa’s cooking.
As they rode into Natind, they saw a sight most horrible. The town was a ruin. Only a few buildings remained, the wooden palisade that ran around it was destroyed. Shocked and with haste, Oren rode to where the tavern once stood. The building was collapsed, only some rubble remained, it carefully cleaned aside, creating an open square.
“I do not know,” Oren replied, looking all around, searching for bodies, for a sign that could explain just what has happened there. It passed his mind, for a second no more, that the creatures that attacked Narra and him were not the only ones, and some made their way into the town.
Then, suddenly, from nowhere came a voice. “I can answer that,” it said.
The two turned and saw a man sitting on a large rock. They dismounted and approached as he waved at them. The armor he wore was like steel leafs beautiful and even to a naked eye very clearly strong.
He looked at them, his eyes glowing with verdant green. “Hello, Oren. I must admit it I expected someone older.”
“You expected me?”
The man shrugged. “I did. Knew you’d come this way sooner or later. Ber’Ia would bring you here.” He gestured towards the sword. “Your actions have put a damper into our plan.”
“You wanted the gem?”
“Yes,” he replied with a nod. “The rebels did everything on our command. Their leader was one of us. A’stri, but I doubt you have heard of her. She gave Alec commands and even instructed him to pretend he is their leader. All along, he was a puppet of ours. I have heard you dealt with him nicely. Thank you.
“Still,” the man continued, “Vi Dera’s presence ruined all of our plans. Then the gemstone went missing, thanks for that. Alec knew he had to keep you in Beria, and the plan he devised is going to make it into history books for being the worst plan in existence. He was a fool for enacting a rebellion without our consent.”
Oren looked north. “So, you planned on rebelling as well?”
“We did, but now, if you could see that far, you would see the city fallen to Morael Vi Dera. Such a shame.”
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