"Curse this insolence! You allowed half of the rebels to escape?" snapped a rasping voice from the throne.

"Yes, sir," Allodil replied, in a trembling voice. "I apologise, but they were only children, so we didn't feel like it would be just to kill them. We took them prisoner, but they managed to find a hole in our encampment and escape."

"Did I not say to kill all of them? I don't care who they are! I don't care! Why would you think otherwise, am I merciful?"

"Sir," stammered Leroa from beside Allodil, "it would not have been practical, since our main forces had not yet arrived in the region, to have attempted a wide killing spree. We have tried to take prisoners whenever enemy armies were willing to surrender."

The shadowy figure on the high throne was silent for a moment, but then spoke with a deceptive calm. "Alright, there are three of you and one of me. Do you think this is a democracy, so you can just decide that you're in the right, and I'm wrong...? My way is wrong and yours right? You are clearly holy men, you are teaching me what is right, what is practical, everything. So tell me again. My way is wrong and yours is right?"

"No, sir, of course not," Allodil replied.

"No? Then why did you say otherwise? Answer!"

"Please forgive us if we spoke too unbecomingly," Leroa said. "But I simply meant to say that we were trying to act in the interests of the Empire, and of its Emperor."

Emperor Emwazi had little patience for this. He had spent much of his youth being constantly interrogated in occupied Arcorus, where natives were second-class citizens and were kept in place by constant scrutiny whenever they brought attention to themselves. This was a result of a policy named 'de-amplification,' by which the Arkan culture and people were scornfully sealed off from positive feedback, acknowledgement and attention by artificial means. So far as he was concerned, such interrogation had been purely a partisan, punitive measure, an attempt to nip Arkan potential in the bud, and he could not take the process seriously even when he was performing it. It was a game that his enemies had malevolently foisted upon him, almost bludgeoned him with, and in his hands it was a dangerous game.

"It's the ruler's privilege to defy his people's will, repress them, and then pretend he was doing it in their interests," the Emperor said. "So who appointed you as despots over me? You would defy me to my face, by claiming that - despite my protests - you can do whatever you determine to be 'in my interests.' Don't most people say that I am too mysterious? But to you, I'm too obvious, and you are an arbiter who decides what is right for me."

"Excuse me," said the third general, Lisari. "I am sorry if we have not communicated the correct message. We have attempted to follow your orders, and to deliver victory in the Southern provinces. It is sometimes difficult to make decisions on the ground, but we have managed to ensure victory over most of the region. If the children hadn't sabotaged the bridge -"

"Whose fault was that?" came a loud hiss.

"My apologies, sir!"

"Look, a repetition of this will not do. I know why you did it, you feel that it's unfair to kill children just because they were roped into this rebellion, you don't feel it's right. If the rebellions lasted for decades, you would still not truly regret the decision. Don't you realise the aim of the rebellion? It's not to fight off our whole Empire, and destroy us in a few days. Why do you think that people are still skirmishing on the East flank of Kruxol, do they expect to thus win the war which they lost? Nor do our rebels. They are trying to give birth to a new vision of statehood, a new hope, a vision that will inspire further resistance through the ages! Even small, symbolic victories will be enough to forge this hope, a flag which they can rally around. So you see your error. They will not come to Avara and storm the gates in a few days. And with our Empire still strong, they cannot have any meaningful independence. Instead, they try to create a long-term patriotic struggle that makes it impossible for us to have a secure hold on the region, patriotism for a nation which they seed in the present to be born in the future.

"And that is why this rebellion was not crushed in seconds. It is not that they have military might, it is that they have a culture of rebellion. It is not enough to defeat their military, because their military blends in seamlessly with their citizenry. Even if you manage to enter the city, you will have to fight on the streets, you will have to fight in the hospitals. So perhaps you are not appropriate for this war?"

"It is your decision, sir, but I have not attempted any treasonous action against you!" Allodil said.

"I daresay your actions leave a lot to be desired."

"Yes, sir! But I had no ill intention towards our nation or Emperor."

The Emperor laughed. "Well, who can know your soul?"

A long, purple-clad arm extended forwards from the throne, with its palm open and facing Allodil. It seemed almost peaceful, like a gesture of goodwill.

The Emperor cast [Soul Stealer], clenching the fist of his outstretched hand. Allodil collapsed to the ground, trying to screech but unable to muster the energy. One attack from the Emperor was enough to reduce him to 2% HP. As the Emperor's hand twisted harshly to the left, Allodil writhed in severe pain and died.

The other two generals looked at Allodil's corpse in shock, staring at it with wide eyes.

"But it would be a shame to lose three generals," the Emperor said, benignly. "So answer a question, please. That man clearly believed that your actions were in the best interests of the Empire. Did you also believe that? I will ask you each in turn. First, the one on the left."

Lisari hesitated, before stammering out an answer. "N-no, sir! I'm sorr-"

He cried out in pain as a dagger stabbed him from behind. Turning his head, he saw that Allodil's corpse had been raised by the Emperor's necromantic abilities, and was now assaulting his spine.

As Lisari tried desperately to wrestle away Allodil's corpse, the Emperor spoke matter-of-factly. "So you admit your treachery? Shameful."

The Emperor cast [To Another Abyss], and Lisari's heart seemed to sink towards the ground and started to beat numbly and weakly. It felt to Lisari as though he was being dragged into the Earth, and Allodil's attacks became more dangerous. A simple knife strike to Lisari's back was enough to tear a massive gash through his spine, and Allodil gleefully bit his neck right off. Looking up for the last moments of his life, Lisari was almost angered to see Allodil's ambitious, twisted face staring back at him, locked in a wild smile which he had occasionally seen when Allodil discussed his family's humble origins and their hopes that he would be remembered favourably by the ages.

As Lisari fell to the ground, Emperor Emwazi also let Allodil's corpse fall back to inanimate death.

Leroa was growing increasingly nervous, but stood with a practiced discipline and gave few signs of it.

The Emperor turned to him, and spoke in a measured voice. "Alright, now I will ask you. Did you believe that your actions were in the best interests of the Empire?"

It was clear now that there was no correct answer to this question. Leroa hesitated, his eyes darting around wildly, as he tried in vain to think of an answer. Instead, he said, "Nothing, sir."

"Nothing? But what is your answer?"

"N-nothing, sir!"

"Nothing comes from nothing. Why do you mock me? Answer the question."

"I cannot answer it, lord!"

"And yet I can ask it. But all is not lost. Though I personally believe it a mere fable, the poet movingly says that even the mute swan sings as beautifully as a songbird at death, though, 'as if its noise were but an echo from the outer dark.' So I ask you the question again."

Without waiting for a response, the Emperor cast [Soul Stealer] again. Leroa fell to the ground, and since he was weaker than Allodil he died almost immediately from this skill. He let out a brief, shrill scream before lapsing into silence.

After all became still once more, the Emperor dispelled the thick grey and black mist which hovered around his high throne. "A disappointing song," he sighed. Jumping lightly to the ground, he looked across the three corpses.

They were illuminated by the faint showers of starlight through the ceiling's small oculus.

He spoke softly, his voice like the sound of a bonfire, as he gazed across the large room. "Still these corpses burn like candles, and waft light like an offering of myrrh to the throne..."

He turned around coldly, and by the starlight read a short piece of poetry etched on the black, tall leg of the throne, which he remembered well as being from the necromancer-poet Miindol's description of the mountains overlooking Avara.

Yet at night, the mountains are an inchoate, black mass gathered there.

Anon a lurid glare cast on one's shadow-side reveals its grandeur,

And shows its pinnacle piercing through the darkness like a Babelian tower.

Huge and black, a dense shadow hangs across the mountains, its splendour

As of a sea-serpent towering, slow to roll from out the waves.

Round and red the moon rose that night, rising from the sea-like shadow, gleaming...

As he recalled, this part of the poem had built up to the appearance of the legendary [Shroud Dragon], a large ghost who took the form of a dragon, which spread a red mist which caused insanity and disorientation wherever it flew. It would wreak havoc on the towns and villages which it visited, and gather followers among the survivors to spread violence across the area. It is said that this is how Arcorus' ancient First Reign began, with the dragon decimating the surrounding region, and driving the people of Arcorus into a frenzy which brought rapid expansion and conquest. In spite of the destruction and loss of life attributed to the dragon, it was still Arcorus' national symbol and the centrepiece of its flag.

He thought about this poem as he walked back to his simple room.

It had been part of a larger epic about the whole region. Among poets, Miindol* was known for his atypical approach, with long lines of poetry filled with imagery borrowed from a long necromantic tradition of writing - poetry and grimoire - rather than the typical sources.

His poetry was often used to train automatons in Arcorus, with the reasoning being that his language was almost probabilistic and hence more easily learned by an automaton: rather than writing elaborate formats, like many other earlier poets, he simply wrote long lines suffused with a kind of imagery and diction that automatons could easily adapt to, and that formed the text's centre. Further, the use of long lines was easier for the automaton to adapt to, as any initial 'mis-step' in a line could be easily corrected by circling back to the main point later along the line. However, in Miindol's time, necromancers were still fairly rare and sometimes considered a myth, so his poetry was found atypical and often divisive.

Another aspect of Miindol that stood out was the strangeness of his epics. While his stories often displayed a similarity to the story of the traditional epic, such as in this one which featured the gallant heroes and villagers of Neikr uniting to fight off the dragon, the common tropes of epic tales were atypically placed in a setting where the heroes' struggles were portrayed as futile and human sentiment in general appeared dwarfed by more powerful, arcane forces of the cosmos.

This was a common trope of old necromantic and apocalyptic writings, on some level. The ancient texts were often by persecuted necromancers, who spoke of a power that pervaded the universe and was so great that most who considered it would go insane and lose that social compass which kept the people in awe at Kings and scornful of the outcast and criminal. Although bureaucrats and petty royals attempted, they said, to hem this power off with law, regulation and custom, yet even their power was a fiction and a vain, pale imitation of that first power. To grasp this power - though destructive and anarchic - was to grasp things at their heart, and anything else is weakness and folly.

This is why the Emperor still lived in humility, only putting on a show for others. He had a strong current of pride, but viewed the position of Emperor as almost an artificial mockery of his true power. So he did not take pride in his position. That would be like a shark in a wild ocean spending his days fantasising about whether he would look photogenic in an aquarium.

After a short walk, he had reached the hallway leading to his room, on the edge of the palace and through a few uncrowded halls guarded only by the undead. It was quiet here.

As he walked, he passed a chessboard to his left populated with with carvings of strange, fantastical creatures. Each represented one creature from the pantheon of animistic deities worshipped by the early people of these lands. Even after the decline of animism, the creatures were considered as representative of mythological archetypes. Many historical customs and buildings had been seemingly designed with reference to such figures, such as amphitheatres which were constructed to elevate speakers or performers to mythological proportions while they addressed the people. This was especially done through the 'game' of Arinos, constructed dialogues or scenarios involving these figures. This game was still commonly practiced today, though with less complexity than that which had once raised the land's great buildings.

It had also given rise to the famous adage that, 'A throne is a mountain, and a man reveres it more the more breathless he is after the ascent.' Miindol had expanded this saying into a series of lines about the throne, including the controversial, 'A throne is a spectacle, and a King only partakes of this. King, only play your part, and do not interfere with the display.' Emwazi had found the game of Arinos refreshing, since it presented the mythological and grandiose aspects of public life as a means to be manipulated for a given effect, without the ideology, hierarchy and moral framing which he found obfuscatory. But for now he was too tired for it, though he had used it to prepare for the preceding meeting.

The door to his room was plain and wooden, with the only decoration being a dark, magenta plate at around head-height, etched with the words to an old sequence of two poems by Miindol.

Dynasty

The thrones of Orimna's lost Kings stand in their unlighted halls,

Under moonless nights of a monstrous, inestimable length,

And on bent knees their children wait, to know their doom, and wait

For the slow footsteps of doom, and the Reaper's scythe, to come

And reap the harvest of their years of toil.

Lines Written Beside the Lake of Estria

Far away, the swan

Lies in langurous slumber upon the lake, over a drowned Kingdom,

Which now is a colossal, eroding ruin, where migrant moonlight fails

And cannot reach, where the once-great Alnaks' gloom is a rising canopy, and

Is deepened by the pallid glow of many a thousand dissipating lamps.

All of these Kingdoms are prey for the sea-like shadow, the Infinite,

Which flashes the blinding light of Godhood from the depths of darkness.

See the staring black eyes of the swan! Do you see? It stares at the next to die!

Miindol would often illustrate this 'Infinite' as a gulper eel or anglerfish, two deep-sea creatures who had only been recently discovered at the time.