Zedaris Whiteflame, First Prince of Pyrrhus, heir to its planetary Empire, sat atop the Molten Throne and brooded.

He didn’t do it often, mind you – both the sitting on the throne and the brooding – but today, he felt justified in his sulking, because come tomorrow, he might never get to sit on the glowing mound of metal again. Scratch that, he most likely wouldn't even get to see it. Along with the rest of his planet. Or his people.

His ash grey fingers dug into the armrests of the throne; the heat of the incandescent white flames burning at their tips reddening the metal and making it drip like wax. The blindingly bright flames covering his head and shoulders blazed hotter in response to his agitation, turning the molten metal in their proximity white. They cast deep shadows upon his face, featureless save for a pair of crystalline compound eyes.

Today was supposed to be the day of his Coronation. It was supposed to be the day when all of his efforts would bear fruit. When he would take his rightful place as the next Emperor of Pyrrhus. He even had his reign title picked out. Something unique. Something domineering!

Instead, it would be the day of his exile.

Come tomorrow, he would be stripped of all his titles and skills – a lifetime of effort, ashes on the wind – and thrust through a portal to one of the System’s newest conquests: an Edgeworld. He would be sent there as a Keeper of one of its Forbidden Zones, tasked to defend it against attacks from the other Keepers and the natives’ attempts to reclaim it; and afterwards, when the Initial Protections were withdrawn, against visitors from the other System dominated worlds.

If he succeeded, he would be granted the title of World Keeper. A title of immense power that was conferred upon those already immensely powerful. A title that would put him in the top one percent of the entire System.

But over the millions of years that the System had existed, across the tens of thousands of galaxies it was spread across, within the millions of worlds that fell under its jurisdiction, only nine individuals had managed to gain that title. Zed had few illusions about being the tenth.

Oh, he would try. After all, he was only one step away from becoming a planetary hierarch. One didn’t get to his position without an ample helping of grit and determination heaped on their character. But even though he would try his best, he would likely fail anyway. The statistics had spoken.

‘Just one more day…’

Unclenching his fists, he sank back into the throne. The molten metal moulding itself to the contours of his back, flowing over his shoulders and chest, encasing him in warm liquid comfort. He let his mind connect with the synaptic interface that was wired into the throne. And through it, he tapped into the local sub-routine of the System.

A three-dimensional holo-map of Pyrrhus expanded in his mind; a rocky planet so close to their red dwarf sun that its surface was in a constant state of flux from day to night. Sometimes hard, sometimes soft. There were no landforms on Pyrrhus, the constant hardening and softening having long since smoothed them out. The planet wasn’t a perfect sphere either, the gravitational pull of the sun along with its rotation had caused its equator to bulge out while flattening its poles.

Vast rivers of molten rock originated from the perpetual ocean of lava at the equator, reaching branching tendrils out towards the poles. A thick layer of smoke covered the planet and reflected the crimson light of the sun during the day and the ruddy glow of the lava bubbling beneath at night.

Most of the rivers never made it all the way to the poles, draining instead into the large lava lakes scattered across the plains in between. And it was around these lakes that Pyrrhean civilization had first risen.

As it always did when looking at a map, Zed’s attention shifted to the Hearth, the largest of the lakes. It had been the capital of the largest pre-System Empire on the planet and even after the large-scale restructuring post apocalypse, it had remained central to Pyrrhean society.

It was where Zed had been born.

A set of mental commands had the map zooming in upon the Hearth, giving him a real-time feed of the lake as well as the thousands of people milling around its banks, there to view the stepping down of the previous Emperor and to watch the Coronation of the next.

Qena Copperflame stood tall and proud on the ceremonial platform with her bluish-green flames framing her face and cascading down her back. Her body was the colour of the night after the seasonal storms had blown the perpetual canopy of smoke away, revealing the darkness beyond. And veins of copper ran across the surface of her body, lending her flames their characteristic colour.

At her side, and one step behind her, stood Uzrohal Scarletflame, the former Emperor. Rich red flames burnt on his head and shoulders and at the tips of his fingers. His complexion was the reddish-black of cooling rock shot through with silvery veins of lithium.

Neither of them wore any clothes. To cover oneself with anything but one’s flames was frowned upon in Pyrrhean society. Though, trends had been changing recently, with many young Pyrrhean warriors donning flamesteel bandoliers to better carry their weapons along. But that wouldn't be a problem for the two royals with the dimensional storage they had access to.

Several image drones floated around the platform; the tiny metallic spheres generating an omnidirectional recording of the scene which they relayed to the holoprojectors arrayed around the lake. With a deep rumble of the stone drums that marked the beginning of the Coronation ceremony, the crowd quieted as a hundred-metre-tall projection of their rulers – both old and new – was cast at the very centre of the body of molten rock.

Stepping forward, Qena spoke, her crystal eyes sweeping across the audience. And her projection in the centre of the lake spoke with her, amplifying her words so they reached every ear, transmitting them so they reached every System-integrated world. Her voice was the crackle and hiss of a blazing fire, it was the roaring of a firestorm, it was the quiet pop of a bubble bursting in the lava. Her flames flickered and danced in time with her speech, adding context and emotions to the words, bringing them to life.

Zed had to admit, that when it came to Pyretongue, the language of his people, no one spoke it better than Qena. She had bested him in oration and matched his performance in all other disciplines. The only reason she had been the runner-up in the contest for the throne, and he the winner, was because of his exceptional prowess in battle.

The silvery veins of magnesium winding across the surface of his body, nearly blending into his ash grey complexion, made his fire the most destructive kind a Pyrrhean could possess. His fire had always been a source of pride for him. But now, he couldn't help but wish he had been born with flames a different colour.

In her speech, Qena spoke of him. She spoke of a cunning diplomat who could sway the minds of all he met to his favour. She spoke of an intrepid warrior who knew no rival. She spoke of a man who would gladly sacrifice his chance to sit upon the highest throne Pyrrhus had to offer, just so he could venture into the unknown and struggle against the rest of the universe for more resources for their people. She made him out to be the selfless hero he wasn’t.

“I am but the guardian of the throne,” she concluded. “It is his to take when he returns.”

Seated atop the very throne he was supposed to have no attachment to, Zed scoffed. ‘When, she says. When, not if. Either she is just that optimistic about my chances. Or, she’s just laughing at me inside.’ Of the two possibilities, Zed strongly suspected it was the latter.

Uzrohal’s speech was shorter, less elaborate. More of an explanation, really.

“Every hundred circuits of our planet around our sun, we select a new Emperor to replace the old. A century ago, that was me. But now, I am at the end of my life and my embers burn cold. It is time for me to step aside as well.

“Just as it happened during my time, a thousand youths at the cusp of adulthood were selected to compete for the throne in a contest that lasted a year. And two weeks ago, we finally found our winner. Today was supposed to be his Coronation.

“Yet fate likes to play strange tricks upon its children. Just this morning, the System announced that our world would contribute a Keeper to guard a Forbidden Zone upon its newest conquest – a planet known as Earth.”

Although Uzrohal had the suspicion of being deliberately obtuse, his fate argument still held some merit. There were over a million worlds that fell under the aegis of the System, but a new world with sentient life was only discovered once every hundred years. The number of Forbidden Zones varied from world to world, but there were never more than a hundred. For the System to choose Pyrrhus among all the others, and at just the right time to disrupt his Coronation…maybe it was fate. Or just plain bad luck.

‘Just one more day…’

“Just one more day,” Uzrohal continued, “and he would have been Emperor, allowed to designate someone to take his place as the Keeper candidate. Just a fortnight earlier and I wouldn't have stepped down from my post and would still be able to assign a replacement myself. But in the absence of an Emperor, the System has automatically nominated the holder of the First Prince title as the Keeper from our world.”

This mess was all a throwback to the Emergency Protocols set in place right after the System’s apocalyptic advent upon their world. The Pyrrheans had managed to defend their world against the Keepers and the invaders from other System-integrated worlds and had been slowly piecing together the shattered remnants of their society and forging a new, stronger one. The leaders of their race at that time had gathered together and cooked up the system of Emperors and Princes that had prevailed till date. They had also set up some strictures in the System itself that would help preserve a final hope for the planet should everything fall apart a few hundred years down the line. Now, a set of coincidences had exposed a loophole in these protocols.

“For all his abilities and accomplishments, Zedaris Whiteflame is but a child. The burden should have been shouldered by one of our veteran warriors, it shouldn't have been his.”

Although Keepers had all of their titles and skills reset before they were inducted into office, having a greater skill level prior to the whitewash would be a great boost while building themselves back up. Zed knew he would be at a great disadvantage, facing off against the best and the most experienced warriors of the other selected worlds. Hell, even the natives, with their ridiculously boosted rate of experience gain and easy access to rare and powerful titles would have a leg up on him.

There was a reason being selected as a Keeper was such a lucrative opportunity for both the individual and their homeworld. While the Keeper would have the opportunity to earn powerful titles that were exclusive to them, culminating in the legendary World Keeper designation, their homeworld would be rewarded with planetary titles depending on whether they managed to reach specific milestones. And each of those could bring drastic improvements to the entire world.

“We can only hope that the miracle that will take him away from us will return him to us safe and sound. All we can do is pray.”

The former Emperor sounded deeply unhappy at the situation. Zed supposed he would be too if a twist of fate reduced Pyrrhus’ chances of profiting from a once in a millennium opportunity. The thought that the old man might genuinely be concerned about him flashed past, but Zed dismissed it as unlikely. Between a planet and a youth, he knew which one was lighter and which one heavier.

Having said his piece, Uzrohal stepped forward, crossing Qena and walking down the stairs of the platform. The rhythm of the stone drums changed to match the frequency of his steps. His steps didn’t slow as he reached the edge of the lake and he walked right into it, his feet sinking further into the molten rock with each step forward. The drumbeats spiralled upwards in a heady crescendo. Waist, shoulders, neck, the lava swallowed more of his form with each passing moment, until at last, with the sudden cessation of the drums, his head sank below the surface.

In the silence, a ripple of scarlet fire expanded outwards centred on the point of his disappearance. Followed by another, then another. Until almost a quarter of the lake was blazing with bright red flames.

The drums resumed. Slow, heavy, mournful.

More figures stepped out from the crowded audience. They had hunched backs and dimmed flames. Their steps were slow and ponderous. They were the elderly. The drums beat a steady rhythm as they followed their Emperor into the lake.

Flowers of colourful flame bloomed across the lake, and from his top-down vantage Zed could see the breathtakingly beautiful pattern they formed on the surface. The elderly were painting a mural of fire upon the lake using the last of their lives as ink.

Despite agelessness being well within the System’s ability to grant, in the interest of maintaining balance it refused to grant it. Of all the races in the universe, perhaps it was the Pyrrheans who had accepted death the easiest. After all, fire was the most transient of elements. And with the ever-fluctuating nature of their landscape, they were used to impermanence. Instead of mourning death, they had chosen to celebrate the conclusion of a life well spent.

Each year, thousands of the aged would set out on a pilgrimage to the lake nearest to them. There they would be received by dedicated priests known as pyre artists. And on the very last day of the year, they would all ritually submerge themselves in the lake alongside their fellow pilgrims – each of their positions calculated precisely by the artists based upon the colour and intensity of their flames to yield the most spectacular of results.

And in death lurked life.

As Zed watched, the rhythm of the drumbeats changed, from mournfully slow to joyfully frantic. And as though in response, the regions of flame fragmented into tiny clumps that tried to condense towards their centres. Most of them failed, dissipating in showers of colourful sparks, but a few succeeded.

Qena waved her hand, and connected to the local System sub-routine as he was, Zed could feel her using a skill. If he so wished, he could block her access, causing her skill to fail. That was the power of the throne. A power that was his till the end of this night.

He let the skill succeed and the successful clumps of flame flew up from the lake towards her like a swarm of colourful fireflies. Priests laden with heavy stone jars approached and setting down the jars, opened their lids.

Qena spread her fingers and the swarm scattered, each spark flying into a jar of its own. The priests shut the lids. Despite the impediment of the thick stone of the jars, by leveraging the capabilities of the System, Zed could see the scene within. Each jar contained a puppet made out of a compacted mix of ground glass and ash. As the sparks touched the puppets, the fire around them dimmed, revealing a nucleus of crystal and metal. They seemed to gain a life of their own, branching out thin tendrils of metal to slowly permeate the body of the puppet.

As time went on, some of these puppets would successfully develop into Pyrrhean infants, while the sparks would become their cores – the source of their life and fire. The rest would remain clumps of powdered glass and ash.

Mentally performing the Pyrrhean equivalent of a sigh, Zed withdrew his focus from the video feed and cut his connection to the Throne. His mind returned to his own body, and as he sat up, the red-hot metal of the Molten Throne sloughed off him.

Getting to his feet, he paced the broad empty space in front of the throne, his bare feet leaving burning footprints on the hard stone of the floor.

Watching the Ceremony of Pyrrhic Reincarnation from his unique vantage point had touched him. Especially the part where the sparks struggled to set root within the puppets. How many sparks had there been? And how many had succeeded? He was sure the ratio was scarily low. Yet none of them had given up, had they?

If a spark, with a level of sentience inferior to even an infant, could struggle so hard to survive, what was stopping him from doing the same?

Sure, the odds were against him, but they had been right from the moment he had been born. He was the First Prince, a man a single step away from becoming the sovereign of an entire planet. If anyone could surmount the odds, it would be him.

Coming to an abrupt halt in his pacing, his flames flaring hotter with his determination, he set firm resolve. Hadn’t Qena said that she was only holding his throne for him till he came back? Hadn’t Uzrohal asked the people to pray for a miracle so he could return safe and sound?

Then he would just have to live up to both their expectations. He would just have to become a World Keeper.

His flames hissing and crackling, their brilliant white tongues flickering in the air, he spoke a word in Pyretongue. A word that was among the first taught to children. The very first one he had learnt.

“Status.”