East Ash-Soil Continent.Ashen-Remnant Mountains.Trorian Royal City, Upper District.Sanctum of the Sacred Fire.
The King gazed up at the Sacred Fire roaring before him.
That golden, searing blaze was so vast it swallowed most of the sanctum. A person standing before it was smaller than dust, hardly worthy of the word speck. The surging flames drowned every other sight; it felt as if the whole cosmos ought to burn like this—filled with fire and light.
But the truth was the opposite. Ice, darkness, barrenness, and death were the world's unchanging theme. Life's brief interludes came only from the miracle before him.
No matter how many times he looked, the King still marveled at it.
The Sacred Fire was the reason the Royal City existed, the reason the Trorian Kingdom endured, the reason tens of millions held on to hope.
And it was going out.
Only the King could sense it. The Fire's strength was irreversibly waning. Its source was leaking away—ever since three years ago.
The King stretched out a hand and touched the flame. It thundered and surged, giving no sign of dying. But that was only the surface. Without spirit continually fed into it, no amount of fuel or tinder would stop the black mist from seeping in, corrupting the city, turning every living thing into a living dead.
If the Royal City fell into darkness, then every town beyond it, every fortress and redoubt that clung to its protection, would gutter out like scattered sparks. On this land there would be no jarring note left—only silence, the same refrain for eons.
There was one way to save it. A single path. A single chance.
I will succeed.
He clenched his fist. Fire streamed through his fingers, warm against his skin, like an old friend—an elder brother—an elder.
"Your Majesty, everyone's assembled," said the High Archbishop Horus in white robes, bowing. "Council is waiting on you."
The King shook free of his thoughts and smiled. "Let's go, Little Horus."
"Little Horus"—who looked like a desiccated tree stump—twitched at the corner of his mouth, but wisely ignored the King's odd habit. In silence he followed the King out of the sanctum.
Outside, the city's finest Flame-Guard and Fire-Priests stood watch, a bulwark that could not be shaken. Even the King and High Archbishop drew no glance away. They had given up everything for this duty. The Fire was their life-light, their soul-flame, their all-in-all.
Whenever he saw these brave soldiers, the King's confidence swelled. He raised his right hand and called out, "My spirit will remain in the sanctum. Go rest—you return at night-bell."
A flicker of confusion touched their eyes—this wasn't the first time—but they bowed as one and withdrew.
"Take gifts and blessings home to your wives and children," the King added. "Only hearts full of love can keep the Sacred Fire burning."
When the last of them had gone, Horus murmured, displeased, "Majesty, the Fire's guardians don't need independent thought. That's how we guarantee absolute loyalty—and keep out the Doomsday cult's rot."
The King chuckled. "Little Horus, by that logic, I'm the one closest to the Fire. Shouldn't I be the first turned into a puppet? How will you ensure I won't be infected with their ideas?"
Horus choked. "B-but that's… not how the rules work."
"I am the King," he said lightly. "My rules are the rules."
Horus had no answer.
They walked east from the sanctum. The Royal District lay at the city's heart; the sanctum lay at the heart of the Royal District. And from the sanctum, four great institutions radiated like cardinal points:
To the east, the High Council, center of sovereign power.
To the west, the Royal Chancellery, apex of administration.
To the south, the Holy Church, highest authority in doctrine.
To the north, the Supreme War Ministry, master of all war.
The day's meeting was about war; because of its gravity and complexity, it had been moved to the Council chamber.
The King entered the central hall and immediately saw the Seven Children of Fire seated in the front. They were the city's strongest—humanity's peak force—second only to the King, and their voices carried farther than any but his.
Flanking them were the Four Knight-Commanders, equals in power and stature.
These eleven were Trorian's pillars—tens of millions leaned on them for hope and meaning; every flame-bearer measured themselves against them.
Behind them sat the legion commanders, the Church's bishops, and the guardians of every defense zone—beams supporting the pillars.
Beyond them, chiefs of major bureaus, district magistrates, and the Council elders—those who maintained the pillars.
And unseen beyond the hall: a hundred thousand fighters, millions of staff, and tens of millions of citizens—the foundation on which the kingdom stood.
The King took the central dais.
In an instant, all rose and bowed in unison. "We welcome the King. May the Fire be with you."
He raised a fist. "Night will break. Dawn will come."
"Night will break. Dawn will come," the hall thundered back.
That unity was what he loved—and the only thing he ever hoped for in any meeting.
Predictably, as soon as he sat, the fights began.
Cross, Commander of the City Defense Legion, stood with dozens of elders and magistrates. "With the Black Tide imminent, we must stop all expansion outside the walls at once—reduce our casualties and ease the strain on defense."
"Our lines are stretched too thin. Logistics and medical support can't keep up. In one month we lost more than the last ten months combined!"
"I say abandon Star City. It's too far—beyond our defensive ring. Holding it eats a third of our strength. It's unwise!"
But Lockhart, Commander of the Expeditionary Legion, backed by other elders and magistrates, pushed back.
"Star City is the most important ruin we've found in twenty years. We've pulled massive stores of resources and spirit-matter from it."
"And a trove of Third-Epoch relics. The Workshops have already found practical tools among them. We may yet discover more."
Cross, a man whose fury inflated him like a bellows, snapped, "A pile of toy junk and a sprinkle of specialty ore—worth sending men to die?"
Lockhart—scar-latticed giant with one black, ruined eye socket—answered coldly, "Don't preach sacrifice to the Expeditionary Legion." He pointed to the hall. "You think it's a dust-heap? A box of history's ashes?"
"It's not. Star City holds top-grade sunstone, pristine soul-crystal ore, and a high-grade true-silver lode. That's not 'cold material'. That's fuel for the Fire, life for our fighters, warmth for the light."
Quartermaster-General Harvey added, "Sunstones are exactly what we lack. The Sacred Fire's fuel must include sunstone. Our stock is running low."
That decided it. Cross's tone cooled a notch. "Then contract the lines. Fall back to the position of twelve years ago. Abandon Mushroom City, Mountain City, Beast City."
Most magistrates and elders nodded.
But the guardians and governors of those three cities objected.
"Mushroom and Beast produce a third of our food, plus critical materials. Mountain is our largest iron-copper base. Abandon them and people starve—supplies collapse!"
One of the three Chief Magistrates, Talinus, waved it off. "What's the problem? Those who never awakened the flame—the rabble—are worthless. Let them die."
The temperature in the hall dropped. Faces soured.
Talinus didn't care. He pitched his voice to carry. "We survive by any means. The mist won't spare us because we're compassionate, and monsters won't go easy because we're kind. We must be harsher than the world to defeat it. Mercy doesn't win wars; severity does."
High Justiciar Manolobana—iron mask gleaming—rose. "To be fair: Lord Talinus's words are unpleasant, but not wrong. Mercy doesn't slay the foe. In a brutal world, brutal laws are honest. Pity the common folk if you like, but don't waste resources on those without value. Protection has a price."
"Utter rot!" Gold-haired Mipor sprang to his feet. "No warrior fights for that creed! If home stops being home, why should they die for it?"
The iron mask sneered. "Then drown in your compassion."
"If that path ends in death, I'd rather die."
"Then die alone. Don't drag us with you."
As before, the hall devolved into endless bickering. Only the Seven Children of Fire and the Four Knight-Commanders sat unmoved, above the fray. They answered only to the King.
The King rubbed his chin and studied the great map of Trorian spread on the long table.
"Trorian Kingdom" was, in truth, habit and history. Its beating heart was the Royal City. When the human hero Trorian set the Sacred Fire in this city the giants had built, the City of Fire was born. At first, only the Upper District existed; the Lower grew over long ages.
As people multiplied, food and goods ran short. They had to leave the walls and the Fire's dome, building new towns and strongpoints. That was how Trorian's ring of settlements began. To protect them, more forts were raised, one defensive belt after another—today's lines.
Through the centuries, borders swelled and shrank—disaster, then boom—but humanity never left the Red-Soil Plain. The terrain favored them: to north and east the Ashen-Remnant Mountains blocked the mist; defend only west and south and you had a relatively safe pocket. Purify the soil, cleanse the water, plant holy white trees, and harvest followed. Mark defense zones, patrol, train war-bands and strike-groups to kill what broke through—and life could go on.
Push farther, though, and without the eastern mountains you defend three fronts instead of two. Contact with the mist multiplies. Monsters spike. Stir too hard and you wake what sleeps deep in the fog. Risk soars.
But if you don't expand, current resources won't feed demand.
Thus two camps: expanders vs. contractors—each with shades. The iron faction of Talinus and Manolobana urged a cold calculus: harden the system, discard some to save more. The softer line, with Mipor, preached inclusion.
Cracks abounded—but victory could fill them.
The King rose to end it.
"When I was little," he said, "we had very little to eat—especially treats. The white sugar cubes, the green ones…" The hall quieted at once.
He smiled, nostalgia in his eyes—and a fondness for the moment's silence. "Each child got only one. Parents would hide both hands behind their back and ask: 'Left or right?'"
"I loved the green's chew and the white's clean sweetness—but I always had to pick. Back then, my greatest wish was to taste both at once."
High Archbishop Horus blurted, "I understand! His Majesty bids us choose—either contract the lines or abandon Star City."
"Contract," Cross barked.
"Abandon Star City," Lockhart countered.
"I'll speak with a clear conscience—give up both," Manolobana said through steel.
"No." The King smiled. "Here's what I mean:
Children make either-or choices. I want both."