Unbound-Chapter Nine Hundred And Eighty Six – 986

Northwestern Boundary Of The Shifting Sands

Unclaimed Territory

“I hate it.”

Sixth Imperator Dav Ar’Vahn stood at the edge of the Shifting Sands, astride his mighty Stonethew that knew only devotion to him. He was clad in orichalcum armor inscribed with the very best protective arrays, weapons that could level thousands of Untempered, and possessed an army thirty-thousand strong at his back—and yet he was jealous.

“So much green,” he said through a sneer. “Such…abundance.”

Beyond the boundaries of the Sacred Necropolis, where nothing grew that wasn’t poisonous, through the lifeless expanse of the Shifting Sands, where every breath was a jagged agony, lay the green line that demarcated their northernmost border. From uncrossable mountains to stormladen seas, the vivid jungles of Jaast hummed with endless bounty. A bastion of life only strides away from a valley of death.

It had taken them some time to navigate the mausoleums that stretched for leagues beneath the ever-shifting dunes, not to mention the cursed obelisks left by a war they could no longer name. A treacherous journey to be sure, but Imperator Ar'Vahn and his army had prevailed.

Pride filled Ar’Vahn, but it paled beside the hate within him. The pain of a childhood spent eating poisoned scraps, learning to endure through countless night spasms as he acclimated to Poison Resistance. Food was scarce in the Sacred Necropolis for even the most powerful Dwarves, and the Imperium did not make it any easier—they counted on it, in fact. Hardships made for hardened citizens, and only the powerful deserved to survive.

He breathed, his orichalcum armor expanding smoothly across his chest. Centuries had passed since Ar’Vahn had seen that little boy in the mirror, but the echoes were not so easily banished. It sang through him, hot and sour, even as he stood on the cusp of conquest.

First Corpus Hymark shuffled up the dune and saluted. "My Lord, the golden boundary has fallen.”

The voice retreated, stifled by the cascade that washed through Ar’Vahn. He smiled through his square-cut beard. “Has it now. Is there any trace of her light?”

“The Hierophant’s magic lingers in patches only. The Spiritus have confirmed that the array's central sigaldry has been eradicated.The only other spark of gold we can sense is that of the sun…and even that grows thin in this place.”

Ar’Vahn didn’t need to be reminded of their curse. “You do not seem as overjoyed as you should, First Corpus. Speak.”

The man twitched, as telling a sign of a Dwarf’s discomfort as a whimper would be in a pathetic Human. “There is nothing to prevent us from entering Jaast, but I hesitate. For all the life Mana beyond the border, there is a darkness here that I cannot pin down.”

“A darkness.” Ar’Vahn stroked his beard. “Is it the Fiend’s making?”

“I am unsure if it is tied to Territorial integrity or not. It hinges upon an Authority that slips through our awareness—it is too strong to seize details.”

The Fiend. Ar’Vahn had heard of him, of course. Emperor Felix Nevarre—he who toppled the Hierocracy. Godkiller.

"Investigate the darkness, captain. Leave no stone unturned. We will not step foot into the jungles until we know the lay of the land."

"Aye, sir." The First Corpus marched off, taking with him his small contingent of troops, each adorned with orichalcum breastplates emblazoned with the withered hand of the Khadan Imperium and the etchings of their empire’s motto.

Ka Tashana Fo Khadan.

From Dust We Rise.

Ar’Vahn nodded, proud of his people. Dwarves were a fractious Race, but the Imperium had long proven itself an exception to the rule. While the disparate Holds of the North warred between their cities, those of the Sacred Necropolis bound themselves under true purpose. They were high steel, forged in the heart of the bleeding earth, and his soldiers were among the best.

The magi in his army numbered three thousand—the Spiritus Medulla. A paltry sum compared to the warriors of blade and hammer. But they were all of them Master Tier, beyond powerful in their Skills and techniques. Trained in the heart of the Necropolis, they knew only loyalty and service to the Imperium, even as they wielded powers too fierce for Ar’Vahn to understand. A dozen Spiritus magi were enough to sway the fiercest of border clashes with the Empires of the Interior. The Necropolis survived on the glory of blood and magic. They would find the source of unease, and then his people would march into Jaast and take what was rightfully theirs.

Ar’Vahn drew the needles from his bracer. “Self-Mastery: Temperance Through Pain.”

His Skill flared, flushing through his core space even as he drove two needles into his palm. The sharp sting cut through the dross of his Spirit, clogged by rage and no little fear. Two points radiated outward, cleansing him, until nothing was left but dim embers.

Ar’Vahn was the Sixth Imperator of the Sacred Necropolis. Wrath was useful, fear a tool, but they were subservient to the Will. His hatred coiled cold and hard at his center, but he controlled its shape. To do less was to invite calamity upon himself.

He refocused on Jaast. The bounty of life swelled no more than three hundred paces away. Through the Imperator's skilled eyes, he saw waves of life rolling across the thick jungle atop breezes laden with deep water. None of it crossed the line of Territory that the System maintained, a detail that had not changed since the Hierophant’s boundary fell. The lifeless soil of the Shifting Sands were a fingersbreadth away from dark, fecund loam—the Mana would not spread. Try as they might, Ar’Vahn knew that they could not gather its power to fuel themselves or grow crops, no matter their personal strength. Before, the Hierophant's golden barrier had kept them from even getting this close. But even with it gone, the rules of the world could not be gainsaid.

What rules was Nevarre operating on? The man killed a goddess; an unthinkable act. An impossible act. No one can kill the Divine.

Yet he had. One could not second guess a System notification, let alone one that announced itself to the whole world. More than that, Siva’s moon was simply gone. Vanished from the sky for over a week, an unprecedented event in all the Ages.

Ar’Vahn pricked himself with his needles once more, and calm replaced the heat of rage. The Imperator closed his eyes, shutting it against the green bounty just beyond his reach. The Khadan Imperium was, as it always had been, stringent with resources. In the Sacred Necropolis, the city of the tombs that comprised the entirety of their empire, only the strongest and most clever could survive. It was what gave them strength. He could not speak ill of the forge that tempered his Mind, Body, and Spirit into the powerful weapon of the Imperium that he was today.

It was far harder to dim his anger when he thought of Siva, however. When the Goddess of Fortune was slain, the Oaths she preserved snapped alongside her lifeline. All around the Continent, that moment's import resounded like the snap of an arrow loosed into a crowd. A broadhead that buried itself up to the fletching in the Imperium’s chest.

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Lacking resources, the early Imperium could not easily produce food or many goods for that matter. Instead they were required to lean upon Domains, but even those were befouled by the poisoned land eventually, rendering them all but useless to the living. The resources within were still good, however, so the Imperium had a need for hardy, reliable servants. With an abundance of dead at their feet, necromancy became the tool of industry, and the most brutal, unskilled jobs were taken up by the undead. All the rest was handled by the true workhorse of their empire: the Elementals.

Leashed and trained by the magi of the Imperium—the Spiritus Alte–the Elementals ranged from Lesser to Superior, all of them bound by powerful arrays, sacred chains, and ancient Oaths that had never been broken. Never could be broken, unless, that is, one killed the source of the Oaths themselves.

Ar’Vahn stabbed himself again.

With Siva dead, their Elementals found treason within their foul hearts. Chains broken, arrays shattered, and Oaths sundered the Imperium was faced with the wrath of maddened monstrosities. Even the Lesser Elementals were a danger to tightly packed populations, but it was the rest that delivered calamity upon the Sacred Necropolis. Millions died as the traitorous servants rebelled. Storehouses were burned, reservoirs burst, and entire districts were erased from the poisoned soil—until the Empress herself put her foot down.

The Dead’s Reckoning.

The Empress’ Divine Skill had corralled the greatest of their Elementals, binding them beneath her uncontestable Will. The worst of the damages was contained, allowing the Spiritus to focus their magics upon Greater, Major, and Minor Elementals. Oaths sundered, the Spiritus was driven to invention, devising new arrays to bind their property back into rightful service. Yet for many in the Imperium, it was too late. Hundreds of thousands died of exposure, thirst, and hunger. Resources that were already scarce were now held for only the strongest and most promising—all the rest would be forced to wither and die. Generations would suffer all for the actions of one man.

So it was with a gleeful heart that he received the orders to head north through the treacherous Shifting Sands to investigate the edges of this newfound Empire of the Fiend. It was an opportune moment, one that had not come around for centuries. Less than a dozen empires coexisted upon the Continent, each as ancient as the next. They were built upon countless laws, treaties, and governances that held their people—and the people of other empires—in tight accord. There were border skirmishes, of course; plays for land and resources wherever they could manage it. The Path of Rule and the Continent itself was built upon dominance and power.

However, skirmishes and raids were not war. A true war would invite mutual destruction upon all the empires, thanks to a complicated network of treaties backed by ancient Authority. This is where the true opportunity lied: the Fiend’s empire was not the Hierocracy.

For all of her vile faults, Ocalla Marzul was a potent diplomat. Her negotiated treaties kept her empire off-limits entirely. There were no border skirmishes nor forays into the North—not from the Khadan Imperium or the Sightless Sage, or even the Obsidian Vault. The Hierophant’s

treaties, backed by the threat of her Three Orders and the potency of a living god, meant there was little any of them could do beyond their borders.

The Empire of the Fiend was silent.

It sought no treaties. It made no offerings and it displayed a disregard for the integrity of its borders. The golden boundary long held by the Hierophant meant the Imperium couldn’t invade Jaast even if they had wanted to risk true war.

Now, we might steal back what we are owed. Imperator Ar'Vahn breathed deep. His official orders were to investigate what occurred with the goddess Siva. The Betrayer was not mourned, as the Dwarven empire had little truck with the god of the sun; if rumors were true, the Empress herself celebrated his demise. Yet if Siva could be harmed, and their nation nearly brought low as a result, what then would happen when Noctis fell?

They did not miss the fact that a great collision occurred somewhere far to the north, and wiser Minds than his whispered omens of the heavens. Where was Noctis’ moon? The Empress was said to have descended from the Goddess of Night herself, tracing a lineage unbroken since the Lost Ages. If Noctis' moon had fallen, that meant that the goddess was free…yet there was no sign of her might.

Surely it could not mean— There had been no notification of her demise. Nevarre could not have achieved the impossible twice.

If the Goddess of Night truly perished, many of the greatest workings of the Imperium would unravel entirely. They would lose the last hold they had over their Elemental servants, for the Spiritus’ Skills were all built upon Noctis’ Divine power. It had been cultivated across long Ages, through war and famine and endless misery to provide the Khadan Imperium the edge to claim itself an empire.

Noctis dead—Ar’Vahn could not allow it.

The Hierophant was gone as was the god that backed her, leaving her borders undefended. The Empress was also a Paragon. But unlike the paltry Hierocracy, the Khadan Imperium was filled with might. Masters were in short supply in the north—south of the Shifting Sands such things were not true. The Imperium boasted Masters by the tens of thousands, and grandmasters by the thousands. The Senate itself was headed by Paragons, and the strongest was always crowned Empress. The weak did not survive in the Imperium, and even the strong, when wounded, were brought low.

The north was bleeding. There was opportunity here. Others would soon arrive in droves, but Imperator Ar'Vahn would seize it first.

The north would be his.

“My Lord Imperator, something approaches.”

Ar’Vahn tore himself from his reverie, his Stonethew shifting with its rider’s agitation. “What is it? An agent of the Fiend?”

“It bears no banner or Mark. We—we aren’t sure if it is a beast or mortal."

“Assume the worst.” Ar’Vahn grunted. “Ready for battle.”

His soldiers acted, moving with oiled precision as the Spiritus retreated behind shields of ensorcelled mithril and high steel. Ahead, a hundred span tract of land shook as if a great monstrosity shoved through its vine-strewn branches. Trees swayed, cracking with thunderous snaps as trunks sundered beneath the weight of a vast thing.

Ar’Vahn adjusted his handle on his reins, freeing a hand for the hammer at his side. This was no mere mortal.

Dirt tossed high into the air as birds and other strange fauna fled through the sky. The midday sun burned upon them, and yet there was the faintest darkening across the green’s thick embrace.

What is this? He could see strange magics moving through the normally sedate life Mana, but he could not understand it. It shifted in and out of his Perception, wafting beyond his Skill, which should not have been possible.

His First Corpus bellowed an order, and it echoed down the line before several massive earth Elementals rumbled forward. Their sigaldry adorned their stone shapes like golden chains across their limbs, linked to the red-gold collars latched to their necks. Each one was shaped like a great beast, quadrupedal and broad, like the burliest of monstrosities from the southern reaches. They approached the jungle but paused a hundred strides out, ready to attack or defend as needed.

“Hold!” First Corpus called. “Hold the line!”

Trees collapsed. Greenery withered. A deep darkness stained the earth, curling as it reached the edge of Jaast’s boundary—but each quaking stride sent the gloom forward in greater thrusts. The Territorial boundary flexed.

Something was coming through, and it was monstrous.

A foot broke through the green, pale and dirty, followed by a tattered gown upon an unkept and very amused woman.

“Ah,” she said, her voice cultured and unruffled. “Is that an Imperator of the Sacred Necropolis?”

“Identify yourself!” First Corpus demanded. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

Ar’Vahn did. She was a dead woman. “Ocalla Marzul.”

The woman smiled, and it was like the sun broke open through shadow.

It did not reach her eyes.