Jartor sat on the bench as a team of priests scraped the filth from his flesh with their strigils. Such was the size of his body that he had a difficult time of doing it himself. Though he could, no doubt, there was some religious significance in the daily ritual. These razor sharp mithril blades capable of removing his body hair and the layers of dust and grime courtesy of his training beneath the earth where no eyes were watching.

His wife watched him. That Charlotte... She often did this, with a look of amusement in his eyes at the idea that he was so bothered by the tedium that came from his position as primus. All of the rituals and decorum. She was a good girl. Young, unsullied. Devilishly talented at matters of state. A demon in the skin of a woman, and Jartor had considered leaving her for Tyr. Charlotte would be useful when his turn came. Hence why she'd been chosen.

Otherwise, he'd had no reason to remarry. He had a son, but an empire needed its empress and a kingdom needs its queen, for what it was. Jartor certainly could have done worse, though he worried for the future of the girl in his own way. He would never lay a hand on her. Refused to. As long as she did nothing to dishonor House Faeron and attended to her various duties, she was free to do as she pleased. He'd even sent her to the bedchamber of his son in a bid to make him a man. Multiple times, only to find that Tyr had absolutely no interest in her. Opting to play at a game or drink until they fell asleep on the floor. Not very royal of them, but he thought it might help. Their dynamic was not a negative one, and he spoke to her in a way he would not with his own wives nor Jartor himself.

The ringing of a communication amulet pulled at his stony mask. In this place, none were permitted to carry such devices. Before reprimanding the priests and Charlotte alike, he realized it was his own. Not an audible ringing, not to the common man, but a tickle of energy just at the back of the consciousness that would rouse even the deepest sleeper from their slumber. Curious things, magical artifacts, as ingenious and diverse as mankind themselves.

“Brother Astal?” Jartor stared his brother-in-law in the face as his visage winked into life above the ovoid disc, bemused at the unexpected call. Astal, on the other hand – had a look of clear concern in his eyes.

It had been decided that they would bide their time and not contact the primus just yet until proof could be furnished, but Astal was not bound to their decision. An oath brother of a primus was an incredible honor that few men would experience in their lifetimes. He owed him that much, and daily reports were required of him regardless. Why else would he find himself so far from home, sitting on his thumbs in that ridiculously wasteful and overly upholstered palace?

“Leave us.” Jartor commanded. “Wait beyond the fountain and we shall continue the cleansing later.”

Once the room was cleared, he nodded to his brother. Astal was a good man, even among a people that honored oaths and promises above their own lives. There was little in the way of preamble, they had no need for titles or customs when they spoke. Jartor honored their bond, and House Ebonfist had always done the same.

Astal had no horse in either side of the race, but he did as he was expected. He didn't want Tyr to kill his father, and he didn't want Tyr to die in the attempt. Preferring the third option of 'let the primus figure it out'. He trusted the primus of Haran more than his own blooded family. Jartor would know what to do.

It was hard to keep the look of shock and offense from his face as Jartor filled his ears with booming laughter. A laugh that few men living had ever heard, open and honest – full of humor. A deeply pleasant sound warm enough to flush the cheeks of grown men.

“I thank you, Astal, but there is no need for concern.” Jartor waved it all away.

“But the Book of Solomon is--”

“Is a book.” The primus shook his head. “Just a book, and one I gave to him. Forbidden? To who? To me? Do you think any of the eight pillars would dare approach me with accusations of using the forbidden arts? Not forbidden for us, old friend, comes with the big chair I suppose.” He smiled softly. There was the concept of forbidden and contraband, and then there were rights afforded to the primus. Not all primus' were rulers, they simply got away with things. Many things. Not all were good either, as was the case with the late Cortus that Jartor had 'killed with his own hands'. The stories they spun...

A book was just a book. Deeds were another thing entirely, and the primary duty of their fellow primus was to hold their peers and 'kin' to account. Doing that without knowing what they were judging was hard at the best of time. Still, he laughed, kept laughing after the call with Astal had been ended and the man had been properly thanked for his service to the empire. Jartor had no intention of mocking the man, he just found it funny.

In truth, he'd never once thought to give one of the black books to his son. Abaddon would have made that decision himself. But where his master acted, Jartor could easily claim responsibility. That was a man, a being, who deserved that kind of face. Abaddon had done a great deal for him in the past, and the debt wouldn't be repaid any time soon.

To think he'd be given that book, of all the tomes available. He understood the nature of the tome, though he was no scholar. Just like his son, Jartor preferred action over stuffy scrolls and the scratching of a quill. But he'd read them, some of them at least – those that his father that considered less damning.

Solomon had been a mage. As normal a human mage as they came, until he had made some unknown discovery and stumbled across incredible power. They called it the use of a forbidden art, or a gift from the dark gods that no church would dare worship. If they even existed at all, Jartor was doubtful.

Old Solomon had lived for near four centuries – mocking the mortality of 'common men', inventing the current system of magic a millennium ago and heralding the golden age of mankind. Without him, they might very well be trapped in their small kingdoms and beset by enemies, primus or not. Where he'd gone after, or if he yet remained alive, nobody knew. A civil war had erupted as a score of primus' yet living in the era had chased him down. Solomon had killed two before disappearing, another impossible act in the eyes of the public. Impossible. 'No primus has ever been killed at the hands of man' was such an obvious lie as to be absurd. They weren't invincible. Strong, yes. Perhaps close to it, but they could be wounded, and they could die.

His book that he'd left behind, a whole library of them, was. Invincible, that is, his 'final volume'. Black books were rare but they were all bound by powerful enchantments. Burn one, two more will take its place somewhere in the world to share their forbidden knowledge. The black library in Varia held thousands of the things, buried leagues beneath the earth in dusty vaults to protect the minds of men. Nothing they'd ever attempted to rid the world of the forbidden arcanum had worked.

Confessions of Ellemar, a mage who was truly mad, would imprint and burn itself into the minds of seemingly random individuals. Compelling them to record the knowledge in any way they knew how before taking their own lives. Thus, Haran's own vault was full of feces stained mosaics and masonry covered in blood and other fouler things. Even monster corpses, frozen in time with arcane runes carves into their skin.

A confusing thing, and a concerning one. Though given it's consideration as a black book, Solomon's own had not been so bad. Once upon a time, it had been called 'On The Primus'. Nothing more than a study of their kind and parallels to be drawn via bloodlines and other more enigmatic things. The issue taken with the tome was that it posited two things. Half finished, ancient rituals.

One was the artificial creation of a primus, of which Solomon may very well have managed to complete – if only on himself, hence his legendary power. The 'supreme mage' and most powerful human spellcaster of all time. Jartor's father had considered it very possible. He'd mastered world energy in a way that Jartor never had, learning a great many secrets about the world and the balance, it's purpose for existing. And it could do such tremendous things, though they wouldn't. It was well enough to know, but not to do. Twisting it to the whims of the individual was not natural, it wasn't made for that.

The second was a bit more complicated, and infinitely more terrifying. The ability to destroy anima. Anima was the balance between life and death that all living existence was predicated on. The meeting point of 'being alive', sort of a balancing act between mana and world energy. Without it, nothing could live. Even gods, according to Solomon, and he'd go far to prove his point. Developing a spell to do... Something, nobody really knew. Not even the book explained it, but it had been an act resulting in the destruction of a universal law.

Universal laws were supposed to be just that and in terms of significance, they even transcended the gods themselves. One of sufficient ability might be able to manipulate it in the smallest way, but not destroy or truly control it. No mage or god could travel through time, for example. It was impossible – or it was supposed to be. After this revelation, the world at the time had been sent into chaos. Some said that this 'act' of his was to kill – or rather 'erase' a primus. Jartor's father had said otherwise, that it was something else. That he'd managed to literally create life of his own in the form of the chimeric lifeforms on the planet. Either way, he was long gone, so it didn't truly matter.

And this was not seen as his greatest crime. The commons didn't care about 'universal law', they cared about other things. And so...

It wasn't even his ability to permanently kill a primus, and end the line forever. It was more the fact the Solomon had, purportedly, killed a god. The primus' at the time had been arrogant, and he'd killed a couple of them in his bid to avoid his own execution. Disappearing off to gods know where, and taking a literal divine entity with him. Now, all that was left was his book. The ravings of an eccentric.

Again, his book wasn't so bad. Just a grimoire, some controversial ideas, definitely not something Jartor would want in the hands of the colleges but it'd help Tyr. To learn of what it meant to be a primus, maybe. But the other books, to explain why they were feared so...

Cortus, the youngest primus at the time, had claimed he'd read the Tree of Helen. Said it had 'illuminated him to his true purpose', and tried to convince the others to do the same. Jartor had tolerated him, until the former had pushed a bit too far. Attempting Solomon's ritual on others. It hadn't been Jartor though. He's struck out to see it done, and arrived at a scene he'd given his Signe a blood oath to never share with any man. The beastkin came later, an unfortunate but necessary action. Cortus had done something, something odd and unnatural in that kingdom – and Jartor had burned the corruption out alongside the hallowed 2nd.

A primus, all primus' were the shepherd and shield of men. Genocide and war were awful things, but his duty to mankind came first. And it always would. Nothing else mattered.

With that being said, he still laughed at the idea that his son planned to kill him. Maybe he did, Abaddon would not have offered him that particular tome without good reason. After all, that thing had written one of its own black books. Not a tome, but an artifact of knowledge only one of his race was capable of creating. Jartor had never seen it, nor read it. He didn't want to, to be considered a 'black book', something feared by more races than just man, was enough. Wise enough to know better, where Cortus had not.

Jartor had tried with Tyr, perhaps a bit too little and a bit too late, but he'd never been a good teacher. Abaddon would do better, he knew that, and trusted it.

In the end, it truly did not matter. If Tyr managed to kill him, he'd have achieved the right to call himself primus and Jartor's great duty would be over, to return to the ark as his father had before him. Whether he wanted for vengeance was irrelevant. Vengeance was a poor goal, but a goal nonetheless, and he wanted that for his son. A purpose, to put it simply.

Of course, he'd never just give it up. He'd fight his son on even terms if ever they came a time where and when the challenge was made. In a way, it made him proud to know Tyr might be showing such ambition. Dark and light were irrelevant. Morality was irrelevant. All there was, was the goal. To crush and shape all before you into a form ensuring that the world moved on, and man along with it. If Jartor needed to die at the hands of his own son to do that, he would. With no hesitation. Tyr would have to do it first, though.

–

Elsewhere, Tyr was obsessed. He'd finished his books, black book included – though he had little idea of the significance behind those pages. There was so much information present, but he'd come to a conclusion that solved many of his initial questions. This mage, Solomon, was a peerless genius. A man of such incredible wisdom and intellect as to be nearer to a primus. He'd made himself equal to them, somehow, and become the primus of magic. The one and only. No birth, no born talent, no heritage, only effort and opportunity.

Solomon posited that humans were not natural born creatures. Spat on the theory of evolution and termed it hogwash as Jurak had not so long ago. He said that humans were, in a manner of speaking, a biological weapon of mass destruction seeded throughout the cosmos by the 'old gods' to... Well, mass destruction was pretty self evident. They were here to kill things and conquer worlds. Outlandish, surely, but there might be nuggets of truth hidden in the romantic exposition. Somewhere... If anything, it was an interesting read – if only a fantasy.

A vampiric soul of sorts. One that could absorb the fragments of those they killed to strengthen themselves. According to Solomon, all living things possessed this capability – but humans were capable of growing further beyond their base potential than any other known race. He was mad, though. If these writings were an accounting of fact, he'd slaughtered entire armies worth of men, monsters, and helpless animals in his study of this phenomena – growing incredibly powerful as a result. A monster in human skin, but he did share a brief note of regret at what he'd done. Even if it was all within legal bounds, as a mercenary, he'd still done it. And people had noticed.

They'd come for him, inquisitors and witch hunters noting his immense strength. Men at first, and they would naturally fail – feeding him further. Then the primus', and finally – a god called Noru or Nobu – it was unclear as Tyr had never heard of any god by this name. Languages changed over time, and while the letters were familiar to him, the prose and grammar were odd in some places and difficult to read. Finally, he'd managed to kill a god and brought the wrath of the world down upon himself, and even then... They still couldn't stop him. Back then there had been over twenty primus', and they'd failed to bring Solomon down. Two had even died by the mages hand.

There was some truth to it. To know that most of what Tyr had learned regarding the beings known as primus' was a lie came as a shock, but he was glad to know it. To think that even the average man could rise from the mud on his own two feet and strike fear into the hearts of these beings was incredible. There was great merit in this. A primus was not born right, and Solomon hadn't necessarily been wrong either. He'd been doing as he was ordered or paid to do in completely legal contracts, they only took exception to his irrational abilities. Abilities that, in the modern era, probably wouldn't have been looked at so critically. He might have even been sainted for them.

Of course, an artificial primus was impossible. Tyr knew this as fact. A primus was a primus, and no amount of spells or theory could create one. Otherwise, the laws that governed the 'rule of one' – one male son for each primus would not make sense. They were akin to a different race. Something Solomon had realized before abruptly moving on from his first category of study on to another – how to destroy their immortal souls and 'rid the world of a great evil'. Not primus', not directly – but the gods themselves. He had studied primus' to understand that which makes them divine, what connected them to the gods. And he found it, but in his book he basically only elaborated on the fact that primus' were 'chosen'. That was all, and Tyr didn't know what that meant beyond the obvious. Of course they were chosen, but so was everything else. The gods were supposed to rule over everything, so it wasn't much of a surprise. They put people where they needed to be, from birth... Right? They were fucking gods.

Solomon said the gods were evil, though. Insisting that they planned on purging all mankind – declaring them a failed experiment. That they wanted to destroy the world, too.

Too willful and difficult to control. The latest in a series of attempts to create a cosmos conquering army to harvest what Solomon termed 'spira'. Except in his example, spira was not world energy, but something else – eerily similar though. It was unclear, Tyr didn't understand enough to draw a complete conclusion. Humans though, kept too much of this stuff to themselves, carrying it with them even upon death – unlike normal creatures. Unless killed by another human, that is, with a part of their energy being stolen by their kin. Primus' above all took nearly all of the energy for themselves, another unique feature of their kind.

In essence, there were too many people on this planet and they were not supposed to be here. That's what he was saying in a roundabout sort of way. That they were hogging too much of the spira for themselves. The virus the 'old gods', which were markedly different than the gods men worshiped today, had seeded on the universe had been... Too effective? Out of control, in any case. They didn't like that very much.

It made sense. Every time Tyr killed something, he became stronger passively. As soon as he knew what to look for it all became very literal. His lust for it went beyond rational thought, it was like an addiction. It didn't explain his aspect, nor did it explain why he seemed to be immortal, but it was a path to power and this was what he needed to ensure his own survival. This concept of 'all life had meaning' was preposterous in the face of this, Varinn had been wrong.

Then again, maybe not. He instructed me to kill with a conscience and respect for life, and in the same breath indicated that criminals were not worthy of it. His personal code of honor. Although I sincerely doubt he said that understanding this, it's very unlikely that he'd ever read one of the black books. Still, it could be some sort of system designed to control our urges to harvest more of it... Maybe?

Furthermore, there was the concept of 'heroes' and knights and other things. Saints, even. Beings who could begin as a normal person, as weak and temporary as anyone else, to grow progressively in power through combat experience and death. It wasn't the only way to increase ones strength, but it was certainly the most direct. Refining via world energy was a slow and laborious process that did the same but not nearly as quickly. 'Cultivating', as Varinn had called it, had taken him near four decades to reach his level of strength. Slowly and patiently increasing both the capacity and density of his world energy until it resembled Tyr's own, only brighter. He was, in essence, no longer 'human'. Tyr considered this fact when measuring others, using Varinn as the standard for the strongest 'man' he'd ever seen. Since density of spira didn't always equal raw strength, it was still hard to say what was what though.

That was a lot... Uh... Lots of pointless thought vomit, Tyr supposed. Did any of it mean anything? He hoped so. But he knew that didn't have forty years. He had two. Two to achieve the power and balance within himself necessary to survive. If not his father's hammer, it'd be his own mana core rebelling against his world energy. And he knew what he needed to do.

“Abaddon.”

“Yes?” Despite being long past midnight, the professor answered immediately. Clear eyed and even in tone.

“I've finished and I have a request. Can you send me to the edge of the foglands?”

Abaddon nodded, understanding without need for further questions. An odd choice, but it worked as fine as any other. It was good that the boy seemed intent to take control of his own fate. “Call me when you're ready for collection.”

The first test.