Page 91 of Of Empires and Dust

The Weight of It All

9thDay of the Blood Moon

Temple of Achyron – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

It seemedto Kallinvar that he spent every waking moment standing at the edge of the war table, staring down at that stone map. He blinked, his eyes raw and tired.

Hundreds of pulses of red light – convergences of the Taint – covered the continent, Efialtír’s bloody hand tearing into the world. More than the knights could ever hold back. But the blanket of red that had previously consumed the Burnt Lands had shattered and splintered into small flecks, dotted throughout the desert waste. When Tarron had charged the tear in the veil, he truly had closed it and broken the tether between the worlds.

If you had done nothing else, brother, that act alone was worthy of a bard’s tale. Kallinvar drew a long breath.Wherever you are, I will find you. I swear it.

Small green dots were scattered through the red – the Knights spread across the continent. And around many of these dots were tiny pulsing sparks of white: the beating hearts of potential Sigil Bearers. With the entire continent at war, new hearts called out every hour, thumping in Kallinvar’s mind. Some lasted hours, others minutes, and many no more than seconds. It never ended. Even then, the thumping of a hundred hearts in his mind drowned out the chattering voices in the chamber about him. As one faded and Kallinvar felt the death of a weeping soul, two more burst into life, followed by four dying and one more emerging. It was a relentless cycle, one that left most of his nights sleepless.

He had searched through Verathin’s journal entries earlier that morning and found that his old friend’s experience with the new Sigil Bearers had been dramatically different to his own. The journal sat open to Kallinvar’s right, resting over the stone depiction of the Stormwood. He’d marked the page with a silver ribbon.

9thmoon– Year 2943 After Doom

I have not feltthe beating of a new heart in over forty years. Not since Sister Vimia. There are twenty-four Sigils left. Twenty-four Sigils until the knighthood is once more at full strength.

Two hundred and sixty-one summers have come and gone since that night, and still it haunts my dreams. When I think back, I can feel the moment that each one of my brothers and sisters died. I can hear their last words, feel the fear in their hearts.

In one night, eighty-three of their souls were ripped from the world. That’s all it took. Just one night. And now, almostthree centuries later, we still have not recovered. Are there so few worthy of the Sigil? Is there any purpose to it all? Am I saving these souls, training them, all just to be slaughtered at the rise of the next moon? Is that the cycle we have fallen into now that we have failed? Are we destined to be the wardens of the breaking of time? Has the end already been sealed?

I look back, and I see the entries of the Grandmasters before me. None bear these worries, or at least none dare to bring them into inked existence. Perhaps I am simply the most honest, or the weakest. Not that it matters. I will do my duty either way. Achyron granted me this Sigil so that I may stand against the coming Shadow, not yield to it.

The duty of the strong is to protect the weak. Pain is the path to strength. Though, I have felt much pain and feel no stronger for it. The others look to me as though I am something more. Even Kallinvar. He is twice the man I am, and he does not see it. The truth is that my knights died because I was not strong enough to protect them. Not strong enough in body, nor in mind, nor in heart. I failed them thrice over.

We are flawed, all of us, but I suppose it is not the existence of flaws that destroys us but our willingness to bow to them.

Kallinvar tappedhis middle finger against the paper, clenching his jaw. Reading Verathin’s journals was like once more sitting with his old friend. Every word left his heart bleeding to the point that he often ignored them, preferring to read those of Telemanus, Uvrilin, and the other Grandmasters. Though none had ever served as long as Verathin. Most grew weary after a century or so and willingly passed on.

Kallinvar read back again.

And now, almost three centuries later, we still have not recovered. Are there so few worthy of the Sigil?

Why did he feel so many heartbeats now when Verathin had felt so few?

In that moment, he felt another heartbeat falter and die. Another soul lost. Another potential knight stricken from the world. Within a span of seconds, three more sounded in the back of his mind.

He wanted desperately to silence them, to give his mind even just a few minutes’ respite, but all he could do was clench his hands into fists and draw slow, calming breaths.

These are dying heartbeats of worthy souls. The least I can do is listen to them as they fade.

Valerian, Darmerian, Armites, Airdaine, and Olyria were all currently granting Sigils to potential bearers. Five granted the gift of Achyron’s strength while a hundred others faded into Heraya’s embrace. At the very least, of the Sigils granted since Brother Kevan had joined them, none had cost the life of a knight. Their number stood at eighty-six now. Had he more knights to grant Sigils, he would do so. But even if they had their full hundred, there would not be enough knights to do what needed to be done.

The Bloodspawn poured from every shadow, slithered from every crack and crevice in the world, and set fire to Epheria. Every village from Copperstille to Holm was gone. Nothing but ash, broken wood, and shattered bones remained. The same could be said of every settlement along the foothills of Lodhar and Kolmir. And with each passing day, the Bloodspawns’ attacks probed further and further from their holds.

There were only so many places he could send his knights at one time, only so thin he could spread them before they were overwhelmed. And amidst it all, they needed to find the Heart of Blood.

“What am I meant to do?” he whispered, looking down at the stone map. With every decision he made, thousandsdied regardless. The entire knighthood had stormed a large convergence north of Aonar not one day past. They’d emerged from the Rift into some form of Bloodspawn temple. The Heart had not been there, but hundreds of Bloodspawn had been, Bloodmarked and two shamans amongst them.

The knights had killed every last one of the creatures but lost five of their own. And while that battle had raged, more villages and towns had burned and more heartbeats had died in Kallinvar’s mind.

He had tried. He had done what no Grandmaster had done before: he had called out to all those across the continent, to all the new factions across the land, to Aeson and his new Draleid, to the elves… and for what? They all preferred to war amongst each other, to scrape and grab for every shred of power and land dropped amidst the chaos.

Aeson was so consumed with his rebellion that he couldn’t see how pointless it would all be if Efialtír crossed. What did freedom matter if it would be taken back in a heartbeat?

He had called out and nobody had answered. And with that he had come to the grimmest of realisations: the others would not fight until it was too late. They would not turn their gazes from crowns and vengeance until Efialtír stood before them and forced them to do so with his presence. And then, there would be nothing to be done except stand and watch the world burn.

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