Lucina’s dream stretched out before her. Though Stormcast for centuries now, the Lord-Aquilor hadn’t been Reforged enough times to lose her need to sleep and to dream. While most of her other human needs had left her, the need for rest persisted. Perhaps, that was by design.
Within the dreamscape, she crept through an empty and ancient cathedral, led by her royal father and his trusted warriors and tacticians. She’d had this dream numerous times before—a vision of the past, revealing the genesis of the disasters which damned her kingdom in another life. This sequence she knew as the point where her father would be betrayed and killed, and the forces of The Fell Dragon left to rampage throughout the land. Heedless to her foreknowledge, however, the warriors continued forward, seeking to confront their promised enemy within the main chamber of a forgotten sanctuary.
Soon, the foe appeared, shrouded in purple robes and winged masks, in armor scaled like a reptilian beast. Swords were drawn in preparation for a charge towards the enemy, but instead of the order came a shocked gasp. Through the throng of soldiers, Lucina could see the disturbance. A lance of magical energy had gouged a giant hole through her father’s chest, and he now staggered, dark blood leaking from the wound. His hooded tactician, still with tendrils of magic clinging to their fingertips, stood over the dying king, but they failed to cackle triumphantly as she remembered. Instead, there was silence. The scene seemed to have frozen, save for its principle actors. The king still staggered, the tactician still loomed ominously, and Lucina still stood in shock. She bit her lip.
Something was going wrong; this dream was no longer hers.
The tactician turned to face her. Eyes as black as the aetheric void gazed out at her from an ashen gray face. They’d become entirely alien to Lucina, warped into a different manner of beast. A well of fear grew in the now-orphaned princess’s heart. She leveled her blade at the creature. “What is the meaning of this?” she shouted.
The creature’s face crackled and an expression like a smile formed upon it. That is for you to figure out, isn’t it? It’s voice hissed in a mixture of tones and other languages, comprehensible, yet foreign. You and yours are so fond of tracing lines back to the past, trying to create a more amiable future.
The creature spoke truthfully, but Lucina was unsure how it could ever know that information. Such a beast had never been sighted in all the history of the Free City of Drakheim. She merely tensed in response, revealing that she’d heard.
A noble goal, but a foolish one. The strands of fate are tied tightly to the destruction of the city, as was the kingdom before it. The creature exercised its fingers, seeming to play threads of living shadow between its hands. But all ties can be twisted.
“Whatever you intend to offer me, I have no interest in accepting, fiend.” Lucina defiantly declared.
I offer you nothing, Lord-Aquilor. Nothing, save for my pity. You delude yourself into believing this fate can be severed. You should be careful what you wish for. The creature grew into a large, enveloping shadow, smothering the dream and leaving Lucina to jolt awake, the chill of the creature’s words unable to leave her.
* * *
Propheter Anankos took their leave of the many warleaders of their cult to meditate amongst the gray waters of their namesake. Anankos, Dragon God of Silence, Secrets, and Song, had long ago revealed the fate of Drakengrad to the Propheter and since, it had been their task to manifest the god’s will, to usher in a new, great era for their land. The Fell Dragon would be the Hidden Peoples’ savior in these times, as ordained by Anankos. That was the dragon’s destiny—its fate.
The Propheter removed their outer layer of robes to enter the enchanted waters, sinking in up to their chin. Within this secreted part of the Mausoleum of the Gods, calcified portions of the ancient bones led the roof of the chamber to glitter like the droplets of a frozen rainstorm. The Propheter drew in a deep breath and dove beneath the water. Looking back up towards the surface, the crystalline motes of the ceiling began to dance with a familiar rhythm. The images which began to swim forth traced the path the Propheter had taken to reach their position: leaving behind their tribe, their family, and their name, communing with the Sentinel Bones of each slain dragon god, and traveling alone throughout Drakengrad to reach the Mausoleum and the gathering of tribal leaders which they announced themselves to.
Further into the performance, the course of the future was revealed. As was typical, the Propheter saw the Free City in flames and The Fell Dragon rising to blot out the sun. The rebirth of Drakengrad was inevitable; the river of fate, despite its winding route, would always end in the ocean. But, within this path, a new sort of tributary appeared and the Propheter couldn’t avert their gaze. Within the dark visions of Drakheim’s apocalypse, the Propheter swore he saw his daughter dance to a different rhythm—one not sung by the dragon gods.
The Propheter swam closer to investigate, when the illusory form seemed to notice them. Already, the Propheter was on edge. It was not typical that their visions of fate responded to their presence.
Oh, what brings you here? The vision indeed spoke with their daughter’s voice, but it was an approximation, perhaps sourced from the Propheter’s vague recollections or from some other unknown demesne.
“I could ask you much the same, Ashur.” The Propheter all but whispered.
The vision closed her eyes and smiled innocently at them. When her eyes opened again, all that remained were black voids, unfathomable like the depths of an ocean trench. The Propheter felt their own chasm of fear yawn within them. Ah yes, that’s my name. the vision, the shadow, the imitation intoned. I suppose I’m not up to much. Yet.
The Propheter pursed their lips. “You would do well to stay idle, hidden amongst the waves with the rest of your tribe. Remain there, and you will not be visited by the same destruction as the Free City. Am I understood?”
The image of Ashur inclined her head in feigned annoyance. Ah yes, always looking to keep the pieces in place. What are you so afraid of, Father? Scared that your vision of “fate” will be ruined by my intervention?
The Propheter was starting to understand this uncouth alteration. This was no longer their vision in the pool within the Mausoleum, but the manipulations of this inauthentic Ashur. It’d overplayed its hand, however, and revealed its want for his fear. “I couldn’t fear such a thing. ‘Fate’ is what we call something that is certain. Your ‘intervention’ is a tributary to the great river leading towards The Fell Dragon’s sea.”
Perhaps the river will flood, or dry up before it can reach its source. The false Ashur smiled pointedly. I’m sure we’ll just have to see, won’t we?
The Propheter couldn’t help but feel the slightest twinge of worry. This emergence was unanticipated, but the god, Anankos, still held many secrets to himself. Still, if this new entrant into the conflict could divert the flow of fate’s river, then Drakengrad stood to lose its only hope for salvation. For now, the Propheter had to retreat from this conversation, to continue to urge his followers onto the fulfillment of their goals. Teresly, they said, “I’m sure we will. Good day.”
Good day, indeed. For as long as those last.
The imposter’s voice followed the Propheter as they surfaced within the Mausoleum, the tides of fate already starting to shift.
* * *
Ashur—that was her name—walked amongst her people of the Hidden Tribe of Anankos, sequestered under the waves of Drakengrad’s lonely sea in the northwest. They bowed their heads and gave sparse words of condolence as she passed. Truly, a sad day. It was always sad when a child had to bury their mother. Previously abandoned by a maddened father in her youth, Ashur was now left alone as the sole heir to leadership of the Anankos with the sudden death of her mother. Truly, a fate so cruel shouldn’t befall a girl only just past her coming of age.
Let them see me cry. Surely, that is what needs to be seen.
Ashur cared little for these proceedings; all that mattered now is how she would come to rule the Anankos. And how soon the threads of fate within Drakengrad would be severed and left to oblivion.
*END
