Fallen One (Book three of Alfireán age)

Prologue

The foot soldier dragged his feet as he made his way towards the Imperial throne room. An air of fear and sadness permeated the hallway; the smell of death lingered in the stagnant air, and the few staff, allowed to traverse the palace's grand floors, scurried about like frightened rats as they carried out their duties.

Not a smile could be seen, and only the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the cavernous corridors.

The man hunched his shoulders in fear as a group of purple-skinned soldiers passed him.

Once a place of happiness and warm light, the palace now felt like a darkened mausoleum. And even though he knew it had to be his imagination, the soldier swore a dark, icky blackness clung to every polished surface.

His skin shivered as invisible, sinister eyes watched his every move.

The soldiers disappeared down the corridor, and he paused at the throne room's imposing doorway, his heart thumping in his chest. The majestic mahogany doors carved with intricate spirals and reposing dragons had always been welcoming before, but now he dreaded walking through their gaping mall.

Placing his trembling hands against the ice-cold surface, the old soldier steeled himself for the bitter smell of blood and death that still lingered in the throne room's archaic depths. The man swore he could almost hear the cries of those who had been murdered in it mere days ago.

He breathed deeply.

Sickly, golden eyes appeared in his mind's eye, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he remembered who awaited him on the other side. Far worse than all the invisible gloom and shadow-filled halls was the man who now sat on the Imperial throne.

Vackzilian... the very man who was responsible for the Imperial Palace's degradation. The man who had single-handedly murdered every last member of the Imperial guard, turned the true Emperor into stone, and then massacred the House of Lirsdro, now sat on the Imperial throne as the one and only ruler of all Alfireá.

***

Vackzilian leaned back into his throne as he examined the three scryings depicting the inner workings of the Indonesian caverns.

He drummed his fingers on the pale stone.

With the loss of the Tokef, he now had to move up his timetable. Which was most irksome, the-

Suddenly, a dark power grabbed Vackzilian, ripped him out of the ancient dragon throne, and tossed him across the circular room. Dark curses in a long-forgotten language spewed from his mouth as he hit the marble floor and slid to a stop.

Streams of bluish-black energy erupted from the Emperor's skin and vanished through the domed ceiling as his boundless energy escaped into the ether.

As thunder echoed through the chamber, Vackzilian scrambled to his feet. His long black hair crackled in agitation. His narrowed eyes flashed in anger, and his right hand slashed out.

Water and light merged to form an image showing the shattered form of one of his blood oaths.

"Accursed fool," Vackzilian spat.

These magical backlashes had always been a calculated risk: one he had concluded wouldn't be a problem.

The Emperor had had people swear blood oaths to him in exchange for high positions in his new court. The oaths let them share a small portion of his immense magical power, but unbeknownst to any of them, he had altered the blood oath pack. Over time, all they were would slowly seep into him, giving him their power, skills, and knowledge and leaving them nothing but lifeless husks.