Chapter Text
Aur, the Golden City and imperial capital of the Adlivun Empire lives up to its name, glowing radiantly beneath the desert sun. Towering and majestic buildings with intricate stonework stretch out as far as the eye can see. The golden sandstone used in their construction, unique to this region, gives the structures a resplendent luster as if gilded by solar brilliance. The vast metropolis is flourishing and vibrant, wide stone-paved streets bustling with carts and riders, the infrequent carriage or palanquin bearing nobility.
The crowning jewel of Aur is the sprawling palace complex in the distance, nearly an entire city in itself. The grand façade of the imperial palace is a dazzling pristine white, light reflecting off ornate golden detailing. Set atop an eminent rise, it’s the final destination Khaslana must claw his way up to.
That arduous climb begins here, in the stout and wide alabaster building past wrought iron gates—the city guard’s headquarters. In the lobby, the men who pass him by complain about the arid heatwave rolling through summer, their gold-belted black uniform robes damp with sweat.
Khaslana doesn’t feel the heat. Not anymore. He has no sensation of heat or warmth when his core temperature is an eternal blaze.
The officer manning the reception desk for foreign affairs is a dour man with a scowl etched on his face, deep shadows beneath his eyes from weariness. He looks about as exhausted as Khaslana feels, arriving here at the end of a long journey across two countries.
“Man ná tye ar mana i caril.”
Khaslana takes out a gleaming tablet, its surface the deep color of the night sky. It’s a translation tablet, one of Professor Anaxa’s new inventions. “Rudimentary, but it should suffice,” Anaxa said. Given that it met the Professor’s standards, it’s no surprise that the translator tablet has performed admirably so far, both at the city gates and on the streets when asking for directions.
Recalling the phrase he memorized, Khaslana says, “Ece iyë ata quetë, qua haryalyë? Amphoreus-llon nán.” (Could you repeat that please? I’m from Amphoreus.)
The officer frowns slightly, giving the tablet in Khaslana’s hands a suspicious look. Still, he repeats his request. The words appear on the tablet in Amphorean as he speaks them: “Identify yourself and state your business.”
Khaslana hands over two items; his identity plaque and the ambassador’s token. Tapping the translator to clear the screen, he turns it towards the officer, placing it between them. “Khaslana, Ambassador of Amphoreus, here to invoke the Rite of Communion.”
The officer, apathetically checking the plaques, gives the tablet a dilatory glance. The reaction is instantaneous; the officer is abruptly alert and sharp-eyed, examining Khaslana with an assessing gaze.
The Rite of Communion is an ancient, time-honored tradition of Adlivun, a country where martial might is revered. As such, the rite is composed of a series of trials, which Khaslana had researched in detail with the aid of the Professor. They would have put together this plan of attack faster with the assistance of the Council’s Theoros, one of the stewards of Amphoreus’ history, but the Theoros had been rigidly opposed to Khaslana’s plan, deeming it a futile effort.
Khaslana doesn’t think it’s as impossible as the Theoros believes. Adlivun has ten military ranks. Defeat the chosen opponent at each of the ten ranks and you will earn the right to challenge one of the six Imperial Lord Consuls who answer only to the God-King himself. Defeat the Consul and you will be granted an audience with the Lord Consul of your choice. This is the step that most challengers aspire to, a well-known bypass method that has been tried by citizens of the nation as well as foreign countries.
But how could there be such a convenient method to access the Imperial Consuls, who are believed to be demigods themselves, aides to the God of War? In reality, going up against one of the Consuls is a suicide mission. Many contenders have been buried beneath the bloody sands, most dying without ever seeing a Consul’s face. Some who are luckier escape with their lives intact. Suffice it to say, the number who have succeeded can be counted on one hand with fingers to spare.
But Khaslana isn’t here for the Lord Consuls.
He’s here for that vaingloriously self-proclaimed God-King.
Defeat three Consuls, and the contender earns an audience with King Nanook and the right to challenge him to a duel.
Defeat Nanook, and you will be granted a wish.
Khaslana wants no goddamn wish from that damn king. He just wants the thieving bastard to return the two Coreflames that rightfully belong to Amphoreus. Those two Coreflames, Earth and Genesis, are vital to the country. The Coreflame of Earth grants bountiful harvest and fertile lands, while Genesis is inherently vital to Amphoreus’ stability. Most importantly, the full thirteen Coreflames together are needed to activate the ward that protects their country from the corruption of the Black Tide and seals their borders to deter external attacks.
These critical matters were explained in detail to Adlivun in formal missives sent by Amphoreus’ Council of Elders, but their desperate requests and offered remunerations were ignored.
Diplomacy didn’t work, so Khaslana is here to seize the Coreflames using a language that bastard king understands: brute fucking force.
Back in the present, the officer’s expression is a touch pitying. “Been a while since someone ran the gauntlet. The last two guys didn’t even make it to the third trial.”
Khaslana smiles humorlessly. There is a soft popping sound as he cracks his knuckles. “I think I’ll get a little farther than that.”
**
The lowest level commander with a little bit of power; it’s often these guys who have the most nonsense to say, insecure and putting down others to lift themselves higher. A crowd has gathered, several faces disapproving of the officer’s derogatory comments. Whether it’s due to the officer’s implicit disrespect for the rite, or whether the soldiers’ discipline is better than he expected, Khaslana could care less.
Having crossed an entire fucking desert to get here, Khaslana doesn’t have the patience for this bullshit. He tucks the translator tablet into his pocket—nothing worth listening to here—and punches Officer #1 clean through the wall.
The legs sticking out of the wall are limp and still, a few pieces of stone crumbling down.
Into the dead silence, an indifferent voice rings out:
“Next.”
Through a licensed interpreter assigned by the Ministry of Rites, the officiant in charge offers Khaslana healing (unneeded), refreshments, and rest between bouts, with the time allowed for rest and recovery until the next challenge unlimited. Khaslana declines them all, the officiant’s doubt turning to awe as Khaslana blows through the duels.
The fifth duel is where the imperial ranking military begin to be called in, the venue changed from the training grounds to the Colosseum. The grand stadium is constructed of polished white limestone, row upon row of tiered stands marching up to the rim. Crossing the central arena to the competitors’ alcove, Khaslana breathes in the earthy golden scent of hot sand tinged with rust.
The arena requires preparation, raising safety wards for the audience as the stands gradually fill. With his opponent yet to arrive, Khaslana accepts a bottle of water and takes a light meal in a private, shaded rest area on the sidelines. The food is Adlivunian fare, roast venison and sauteed greens. The taste isn’t exactly bad, but he’s not sure he likes it either, the spices unfamiliar and the flavors strong. Still, he chews and swallows the protein and vegetables, fuel for the three Coreflames continuously burning his body. Worldbearing, Sky, and Time; these three Coreflames are the reason he isn’t worried about any opponents below the Imperial Consuls.
Ordinarily, Amphoreus’ golden-blooded Chrysos Heirs, while possessing constitutions more robust than the populace, can still only contain a single Coreflame, ascending to demigod and maintaining the particular authority after passing the trials. Khaslana, born an ideal vessel, can hold three—with consequences. Taking on the two additional Coreflames was a last resort, no remaining candidates able to pass the trials and disorder growing with the seats of authority left empty.
Bearing three Coreflames, Khaslana’s body is ever-burning, crumbling from within. The days he can remain on this plane and protect Amphoreus are numbered, one of the reasons he chose to take on this task.
Putting down the napkin, Khaslana goes on to the next match.
By the time he defeats the last officer, a general, the sun has begun to sink below the horizon. The officiant respectfully calls an end to the contests for the day.
Completing the first ten trials evidently has a monetary reward. Khaslana doesn’t refuse, being somewhat short on funds.
After presenting him with the reward, the elderly officiant addresses the topic of the coming matches. “Aside from Lord Archforger and Lord Zephyro, the rest of the Imperial Consuls are present in the city,” the interpreter conveys the officiant’s words in heavily accented Amphorean. His proficiency is already impressive, considering how little contact their countries have, separated by the distance of two nations. “Have you decided who you would like to challenge?”
That selection is fine with Khaslana. He has no intentions of dragging a smith into this contest and Zephyro is out of the question since he needs to face Nanook after. Between Celenova and Luxbane… they seem equally dangerous in different ways.
Luxbane, the Sun Devourer. If that Consul is true to their name then Khaslana may be able to make use of them. It’s a risky choice, because that means Luxbane is also likely Khaslana’s natural enemy.
“Phantylia, Asat Pramad, and Luxbane. The first two can be in whichever order is most convenient.”
The interpreter exclaims loudly in Adlivunian, the officiant’s expression transforming into slack-jawed surprise as the man explains.
“Ah, I beg pardon, Sir Khaslana,” the interpreter says doubtfully. “Did you say…”
“I’m challenging all three. Amphoreus seeks an audience with God-King Nanook.”
Khaslana’s slight emphasis on Amphoreus seems to bring the officiant back to himself, closing his hanging mouth and clearing his throat. Having regained his composure, he speaks directly to Khaslana, the fluid interpretation expressed by the man at his side.
“We will inquire with the Lord Consuls. Their Lordships can’t always be pulled away from their tasks, so it may take more time, one match a day at most.”
“I understand.”
“As a supplicant who has completed the Initiation Rites, you are provided accommodations in the Palace guest quarters.”
“…the Imperial Palace?”
**
Whatever other beef Khaslana has with Adlivun, he has no complaints about their hospitality. After weeks of travel, sleeping in the wilds more often than not, the bath prepared for him is glorious.
The bed is just as wonderful, the perfect balance between firm and soft, covered with fine silk sheets. But the luxury is wasted on Khaslana, tossing and turning through the night. It’s not just his worries keeping him up, it’s also a side effect of the Coreflames, constantly scorched from within.
In the darkest of nights, Khaslana sometimes thinks these flames that engulf him are his penance, an atonement for failing his family and village, for the many who perished because of his inadequacy.
It’s why he must do this, bring the Coreflames back to Amphoreus.
Even if he has to burn himself to ash.
**
Phantylia isn’t too difficult, her overgrown regenerating plants and mind games more annoying than anything else. Khaslana burns through them without needing to call down fire from the sky.
When his victory is called, the crowd goes wild, a rush of cacophonous noise that startles Khaslana. Shouldn’t they be heckling the foreigner who defeated one of their Lords out of the Coliseum? Instead, they’re cheering “Anar Urúva” and “Demiurgus”, stomping the stands hard enough to shake the ground.
Demiurge? They must be misunderstanding something. Regardless, these people are battle crazy. Warmongers, like the king that leads them.
That thought cools Khaslana’s passion, sobering his mind.
Phantylia takes her defeat with grace, straight-backed despite her bleeding wounds.
Bleeding gold. Why is golden blood appearing here, in Adlivun? Golden blood is the divine blessing of the Titans upon the Eternal Land.
An imperious crook of her fingers brings the interpreter hurrying to her side as if his life depends on it. Maybe it does.
“Khaslana, was it? I’ll remember your name.” Phantylia’s painted lips curve into a vicious smile. “Have a care, little godling, ‘lest you be lost in absurdity.”
Phantylia’s warning, genuine or not, isn’t unwarranted. Asat Pramad is tricky with his illusions and deadly games of chance. Dangerous enough that Khaslana has to mobilize the Coreflames, igniting World to ground himself in reality, tearing apart the fantasy, then lighting up Sky to incinerate the traps that have closed on him, seizing another win.
With the raucous hollering of the crowd, Khaslana only faintly hears Asat Pramad’s voice from where he lies on the ground, gilded blood seeping into the sands as healers swiftly tend his injuries. Surreptitiously, Khaslana draws the translation tablet from his pocket. Asat’s mutterings appear on the tablet: I better get overtime for this.
Khaslana: “…”
Even the Lord Consuls care about overtime… just what kind of society is this, really?
A flung card knocks into the tablet, Khaslana instinctively catching the stiff-cut paper thrown by a purple hand.
Asat’s sardonic speech prints itself across the tablet surface: “What a farce of a show. You got the last laugh this time, kid.”
On the card back is a pair of theater masks on a carmine red background. One mask has a creepy smile, the other weeping. On the card’s front face is the Joker.
A wild card.
Khaslana barely sleeps that night, troubled by the golden blood of the Lord Consuls, but even more so by the Coreflames acting up, stirred up by the day’s events. His condition is getting worse. He’ll have to bet on the double-edged sword he chose tomorrow.
Luxbane is something else, a kind of creature he’s never encountered, a strangely indistinct and flowing form that disturbs his eyes, making them squint and sting, unable to focus.
Facing the endless void, Khaslana burns and burns, his power continuously devoured. But he can’t be stopped, not by this, blazing his way to victory.
At the end of the battle, Khaslana’s gamble pays out, the Coreflames quieted. The price for the assuagement is a day of recovery.
“Does the supplicant wish to continue?”
“Continue.”