Will Wight - Of Dawn and Darkness

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In the wake of the Emperor’s untimely and unholy death, may his soul fly forever free, we grieved together in the years known as the Long Mourning. As a people, we have been fragmented and leaderless, banding together under the banners of those who would divide rather than unite us.

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But now, on behalf of all faithful Guilds of the Aurelian Empire, we will raise a new leader. A man who will bring us together, not drag us apart. A man who will once again protect us from the foul incursion of the Elders and their spawn.

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In memory and honor of the original Emperor, the father of us all, we are hereby proud to announce the man who will lead us forward into the future, the Imperial Steward of the Aurelian Empire, Lord Calder Marten.

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Calder’s name was repeated in much larger, more flowery letters on the bottom of the sheet, as though he’d signed it. He’d never seen the signature before in his life.

“There are several versions of this declaration for various audiences,” Maxeus went on. “This one is primarily aimed at Guild members and their families, but we have variants for laborers, nobility, and the educated classes. This also can’t be our only announcement, of course; we’ll have to send a coronation date along with it.”

Teach scanned the paper and tossed it back onto the table. “It works. I can back it up. As long as you can keep the Regents under control.”

Maxeus leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “If I’ve proved anything this week, it’s that I know how to handle the Regents.”

“But not the media,” Cheska muttered, still reading. “Doesn’t this seem a little…abrupt? The people have no Emperor, and then they read a piece of paper, and now they have one all of a sudden?”

“We have to strike quickly,” Maxeus countered. “And we’ve done our best to acclimate the population of the Capital to the idea for years. If they’re not ready for a leader now, they never will be.”

Calder’s stomach fluttered, and he was having trouble keeping the grin off his face. “Can I have this framed?”

Teach let out what might have been, in someone else, a laugh. “I suspect you can have whatever you want.”

“If he can sit on the throne,” Cheska reminded her.

“That’s still a concern.”

The door flew open, and Bliss hopped in. “No it’s not! I figured it out.”

Calder looked from her to the open door. “Have you been eavesdropping? Why didn’t you just come in?”

Teach was beginning to look exhausted again. “You were invited to this meeting, Bliss.”

“I was waiting for the appropriate moment,” the girl replied, lifting her chin. “That was it. Now I need you all outside the Emperor’s quarters with your weapons.”

Maxeus stood up. “Not me. I have business to attend to at my estate, I’m sorry to say. Not that I would be much use against a wall of Elder flesh anyway.” A Magister’s greatest weapon was his Intent, and using Intent directly against an Elder creation was a particularly painful way to commit suicide.

Bliss waved him off. “I don’t need him. The rest of you, follow me.”

Teach and Cheska traded a look, but they followed without complaint. Calder took another look at the printed announcement.

Imperial Steward of the Aurelian Empire.

It was real. At last, he’d made it.

He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

The night was quiet, and only the slap of the waves and the throbbing hatred of the Lyathatan competed for Calder’s attention. He was mostly focused on the caged man in front of him, who stood and stretched in the yellow light of a quicklamp.

Urzaia was too tall for his cage, his shoulders bunched against the ceiling, but he beamed at Calder. “I have to stand to tell a story,” he explained. “It is not the same if I cannot use my hands.”

“I am your captive audience,” Calder said, his voice pitched low. He wasn’t sure what the two Champions would do to him if they found the Navigator captain interrogating their prisoner, but he didn’t want to find out.

“Are you sure? It has a sad ending, my story.”

Calder raised his eyebrows. “It hasn’t ended yet.”

Urzaia was born in Axciss, the City of Champions. One of the bigger cities on the Izyrian continent, Axciss is known for two things: its gladiator arenas, always popular sport with the Izyrian crowd, and the Champion’s Guild headquarters. Popular legend suggests that fighters are so common there because of the Guild presence, though some believe that the Guild only stays there because of the fights.

His father was a gladiator, a veteran of over two hundred fights that could fill the seats whenever his name appeared. Urzaia grew up in the stadium, sweeping seats and selling drinks as soon as he could walk on his own.

By the time he was big enough to drag bodies out of the sand, the Guild came for him.

His father had died only a few months before, killed by an infection after a victorious fight. When the Guild came through the arena, looking for hopefuls, his mother signed him up for testing. It would be the last time she ever saw him…but the last time she ever paid for his meals, either, so in her mind the scales were likely balanced.

The first test of the Champion’s Guild is a simple one: you’re paired up against another boy, and you have to beat him bloody before he beats you. The strong win, the weak are eliminated. As the Guild only selects the biggest, strongest boys of their age, the fights can get vicious.

Urzaia never thought his initiation was fair; he knew how to fight, and the other boy didn’t. He was pinning his opponent to the ground before the instructor’s shout faded.

Most of the winners went to the Guild, while the losers—and the winners who had been injured too badly—were left in the street. Urzaia spent the next two years working for the Champion’s Guild, doing mostly the same thing he’d done in the arena. He swept up, carried drinks, beat rugs, carried weapons, and dragged bodies either to the furnace or the graveyard. In the meantime, he learned the basics of combat.

He missed those days. There was a certain nostalgia in remembering the first time he drew an instructor’s blood with the point of his sword.

The second test followed his working years. This time, it was a tournament, according to very specific rules. More like a gladiator’s work than actual combat. This was practical, as Urzaia saw it; the bulk of a Champion’s income in the modern age came from duels or exhibition matches meant to show off an employer’s might.

Of the sixteen entrants in the tournament, Urzaia came in second. The final round was the first fight he had ever lost.

He and three others were selected for further testing, while the twelve who didn’t make it were either expelled from the Guild or returned to another year of sweeping and hauling.

At the time, he’d expected a warm welcome from the older Guild members. Or at least an acknowledgement that he was one of them. Not so. They tended to ignore him, leaving him to train on his own unless he made a mistake. He didn’t understand until later that the first two tests were nothing more than building a foundation. The true test came next.

They kept him in a room with a team of alchemists, forcing potions down his throat and syringes into his muscles. He still couldn’t recall the memory without shuddering. He spent months in that room, alone at night and surrounded by faceless alchemists all day, living a nightmare. He saw things that weren’t there, lost control of his body, and lived in constant pain. The agony was like nothing he’d experienced before or since, as though his own body had turned inward to tear itself to shreds.