I, Renher Zarlanter, Emperor of Skairus, was once at the pinnacle of the world—wreathed in power, glory, and wealth beyond imagination.
But it all came crashing down on the very day I was meant to relinquish my throne to a successor.
…..
The night was calm yet strangely heavy, as though the world itself held its breath.
From his chamber balcony, Renher Zarlanter, Emperor of Skairus, watched the castle spires pierce the heavens, their stone faces awash in silver moonlight.
The walls seemed alive beneath the glow, the carved battles whispering their forgotten tales in the breeze.
He reclined on the vast bed, the silk sheets cool against his scarred body. Beside him, Kaileen's golden hair spilled like a molten river across the pillows, shimmering under the low candlelight.
The balcony doors stood open, letting in crisp night air and faint sounds of soldiers patrolling below.
Kaileen's hand moved softly, tracing idle circles on his chest. Her breathing was calm, but Renher could feel the tension in every touch.
"You're thinking again," she whispered at last, her voice feather-soft.
Renher smirked faintly. "An emperor is not allowed to think?".
"Not when his wife lies beside him." Kaileen tilted her head, sapphire eyes catching the candlelight. "At least pretend your heart is here, and not already marching to the forest."
He chuckled, pulling her close. For that fleeting moment he was not the feared Nightingale of Valhalla—not the emperor who led men to glory—but simply a man holding his wife.
"Kaileen," he murmured, brushing her hair back. "Tomorrow is the last battle. My reign must end with victory, not retreat."
Her lips tightened. "And if fate has other plans?"
Renher hesitated. Her words struck deeper than he liked. Still, he pressed a kiss to her hand and forced a smile. "Then fate will have to answer to me."
Kaileen pushed away with a soft huff. Sparks of magic flickered faintly around her as she slipped from the bed, storming toward her chambers.
The door closed with a whisper. Alone, Renher let out a sigh. Stubborn as always. But that strength is why I chose her.
His gaze drifted upward to the ornate ceiling. Shadows from the wavering candles danced like restless spirits across the chamber walls.
Outside, soldiers' boots echoed faintly in the corridors.
The weight of the night pressed upon him until, at last, sleep claimed him.
He found himself standing in a forest drenched in shadows. The moon above bled red, dripping its light like liquid fire across the twisted trees.
Beneath his feet, the earth writhed as if alive, pulsing with veins of black.
He heard the clash of steel echoing somewhere distant, though no warriors stood before him.
Then came the crown—his crown—lying shattered on the ground. From its jagged edges seeped blood, thick and steaming.
When he reached for it, the metal dissolved like ash in his hands.
A voice whispered through the void, faint and indistinct, like wind pushing through a graveyard: "The throne is never owned. Only borrowed."
Renher spun, searching for its source. The trees stretched higher, bending into grotesque shapes, their branches twisting into clawed hands.
A shadow moved between them—tall, monstrous, faceless.
The faceless figure raised a blade. His blade. Excalibur.
Renher reached for his hip, but found nothing there—no weapon, no armor, only his bare hands. The faceless warrior advanced, silent, inevitable.
A searing pain struck his chest, though the blade never touched him. His breath caught. Darkness closed in.
Renher jolted awake, his body slick with sweat. His chest heaved, heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs.
He pressed a hand to his chest, finding no wound—only the frantic beat of life. His eyes darted to the ceiling, to the balcony, to the empty bed beside him. The dream clung to him like a shroud.
It felt so real.
A sharp screech cut through the morning air.
Renher startled, breath still ragged from the nightmare. He turned to the balcony, where Horus, his falcon, perched with regal impatience.
The bird's golden eyes glared at him, feathers bristling as if demanding: "You overslept."
Renher exhaled, half amused despite the chill sweat still clinging to his skin. "Yes, yes, I hear you. Always punctual, aren't you?"
Horus screeched again, stamping his talons against the marble rail.
Renher smirked. "If you're this demanding before battle, perhaps I should name you commander."
He reached for the brass bell at his bedside and rang it once. Moments later, a muffled voice called from beyond the chamber door, "Your Majesty?"
"Bring meat for Horus," Renher commanded. After a pause, he added, "And… a few mana crystals."
At once, Horus snapped his head around, eyes gleaming. His wings flared slightly as if he'd understood every word.
The door opened cautiously. A young servant entered, tray trembling in his hands. He could not have been older than seventeen, his uniform crisp yet his face pale as milk.
Renher arched an eyebrow. "You're new."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The boy bowed quickly, nearly spilling the contents of the tray. "Apologies—I was assigned to your chambers only this morning."
"Then today you begin at the top." Renher's tone was dry, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Hold the tray steady. Horus has no patience for clumsiness."
The falcon let out a sharp cry, wings spreading. The boy flinched, almost dropping the silver platter. Renher reached out and steadied it with one hand.
"Breathe," Renher said quietly, his voice lowering into the tone he once used with frightened recruits. "If you fear the bird, he will sense it. Show him respect, not weakness."
The boy nodded quickly, swallowing hard.
Renher fed Horus piece by piece, watching as the great bird tore into the meat with precise, elegant savagery.
When he placed a shimmering mana crystal on his palm, Horus tilted his head, then snatched it up with shocking swiftness.
A faint glow shimmered along the falcon's feathers before fading.
"Greedy as ever," Renher muttered, wiping his hand on a cloth.
From the doorway, an older servant—broad-shouldered, with streaks of grey in his beard—spoke with a hint of humor. "Greedy, perhaps, but loyal. That bird has never left your side, Majesty."
Renher turned. "Edric. I should have guessed you'd send the new one in first to face Horus."
The older servant grinned, unrepentant. "A trial by talons, sire. Better he learns fear now than later."
Renher shook his head, a faint chuckle escaping. For the first time since waking, the weight of the dream loosened, if only a little.
When Horus finished his meal and returned to the balcony rail, feathers gleaming in the morning sun, Renher rose to his full height.
"The day waits for no man," he murmured. His voice was calm, but the heaviness of what lay ahead pressed at the edges of his thoughts.
The adjoining bath chamber was already steaming, fragrant oils drifting over the marble floor. Renher stepped into the heated pool, letting the warmth envelop him.
The night's sweat, the clinging dread of the dream, all bled away into the water.
For a while he floated there, eyes closed, listening to the muffled rhythm of boots echoing far beyond his walls. The world will not wait, he thought. And neither can I.
When he emerged, his body steamed in the morning chill. Attendants moved with swift precision, drying his skin with fine cloths, then dressing him layer by layer.
The first garment was simple — a linen tunic, plain and unadorned. The lead attendant, an elderly man with ink-stained fingers, murmured as he fastened it. "As custom demands, Majesty. Humility before grandeur. The linen before the steel."
Renher gave a faint nod. "A reminder that even emperors bleed like men."
Next came the padded gambeson, snug against his frame. Then the chainmail shirt, heavy with the weight of hundreds of interlocking rings.
It hissed softly as it settled over his shoulders.
The attendants worked in silence at first, but one of the younger men dared to speak. "Majesty, is it true you fought bare-chested at the Siege of Kalthir?"
Renher raised an eyebrow at him through the shifting haze of steam. "Who told you that tale?"
"Captain Veynar, sire," the boy admitted, fumbling with a strap. "He said arrows bounced from your skin as though you were born of iron."
A short laugh escaped Renher, deep and warm. "Veynar embellishes. I wore no armor, yes, but arrows pierce flesh all the same. I still bear the scars to prove it."
The attendants exchanged uneasy glances, but their hands moved with renewed care, tightening buckles, adjusting plates.
Piece by piece, the armor took shape. The breastplate — forged steel, etched with hydra motifs — slid into place.
Greaves and vambraces followed, polished to a muted sheen. Each piece bore scars: scratches, dents, faint traces of battles long past.
Renher rested a hand against the chest plate, fingers brushing over the largest gouge. He remembered the battle — the orc warlord's axe nearly cleaving him in two. He had lived, but only barely.
"The steel remembers," murmured Edric, the veteran servant who now stood at his side. His voice carried reverence, as though speaking of a priest's relic.
Renher's gaze softened. "As do I."
The helmet came last. The attendants held it with both hands, careful as if cradling a sacred vessel. Its visor was cruel, the sculpted steel giving the illusion of a snarling beast.
When Renher lowered it over his head, the chamber seemed to hush, the laughter and light banter fading.
Only the Emperor remained.
A crimson cape was draped across his shoulders, the hydra emblem gleaming in gold thread. Three serpent heads intertwined, each fang bared, eternal in their dominance.
One attendant whispered to another, too softly to hide from Renher's ears: "They say the first Emperor vanished after slaying the beast."
Renher's visor turned ever so slightly, his voice resonating cold through the steel. "He did not vanish. He ascended."
The attendants bowed their heads, chastened.
The final piece was missing. His sword — Excalibur.
Renher looked to the empty weapon rack beside his throne-like chair.
The blade would not rest at his side until he stood among his generals, ready to march. It was tradition. The Emperor's weapon was the last seal of war.
He flexed his hands within the gauntlets, testing their weight. The armor was heavy, suffocating to any lesser man. To Renher, it was freedom.
"Majesty," Edric said softly, adjusting the clasp of the cape. "You are ready."
Renher's eyes, hidden behind steel, narrowed. The dream still echoed in the back of his mind — the faceless figure, the voice whispering of borrowed thrones.
But outwardly, his stance was unshakable.
"Summon the generals," he said. His voice was iron now, carrying the weight of command. "Today we end this war."