Flashes of light arose around Aslakahm. A monumental dome formed, wrapping the kingdom in its vastness. Rahmanegol, like the other Lightstealers, was shaken by the occurrence. Circles of color convulsed on the dome’s surface, and the reason as to why was evident: Alghamior was charging it.

  From atop the Throne, his figure soared, his essence being consumed as the dome was completing its formation. What sort of foolishness is this? Is he even comprehending the choice he made and what the aftermath will be?

  Rahmanegol dashed forward but the dome’s convulsions kept him away. “Alghamior, what are you doing?! Cease this now!” he bellowed.

  The charge continued. Near him, Lightstealers cried from within the circle of fog. White lines tensed and jolted, a few of his kin smashing the dome, and being met with the same answer as Rahmanegol.

  “What sort of discussion had he and Alghamior engaged in?” Irarmajon asked behind Rahmanegol. “This will only hinder us further.”

  “It seems the concept of retribution subdued his words.” Rahmanegol answered. “And his mission.”

  He turned, the figure of Targhanion soaring against the surface of the dome. The smirk on his snout forced Rahmanegol’s eyes into a squint.

  “You’ve been instructed as to what words to deliver,” Rahmanegol chastised. “Have your wits been clouded by visions of war?”

  Targhanion halted, the smirk vanishing. “The king was already warned. His position seemed not burdening in the slightest. Therefore, I forced him into action. The Walls are mere desperation.”

  “You do not act for yourself, Lightstealer!” Rahmanegol snapped and Targhanion retreated instinctively.

  To employ such defenses means to deny yourself of massive resources. Wasting his mind away for frivolous tactics instead of honing it further to accomplish what he is meant to is utter foolishness. Perhaps he could’ve brought a solution. Now that idea is growing dangerously distant. “You’ve denied us the greatest knowledge within the Materium!”

  Rahmanegol seized Targhanion by the neck and smashed him against the dome. “This is on you! I am your lord. You respond to my commands!”

  Quivering eyes made him perk up and loosen his grip. Rahmanegol’s body trembled and he shut his eyes, fighting to regain control. Finally, he released Targhanion and wings fluttered away in agony.

  “Lord, forgive me!” Targhanion cried. “We’ve endured enough due to his inaction. Can you truly regard Alghamior with peace when eternity is failing so vividly?”

  “You’ve spoken plenty,” Rahmanegol said, then inhaled. “Join the fog and cease any further foolishness.”

  Silence told him the instructions were to be followed. Rahmanegol acknowledged Irarmajon and approached, thoughts arising. This could’ve happened without such trouble. Aslakahm should’ve simply given away control to the Lightstealers and then, after Rahmanegol would’ve had them under his watch, this situation could’ve progressed toward resolution. Alghamior surely would’ve, under such pressure, used his strength to its fullest extent. Now the Wall halts the invasion—if only briefly—but the consequences the king shall endure are the real concern.

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  “Are you alright, lord?” Irarmajon asked.

  Rahmanegol turned; his tail bounced sideways, as if wanting to puncture those behind.

  He nodded. “As alright as this disaster can help me be.”

  “Alghamior made his choice, lord. He knew the outcome of raising the Walls.”

  “His arms were forced, Lightstealer. When an army shows up, intent on conquering you, desperation strangles control. This leads nowhere.”

  “Lord?”

  Rahmanegol sighed, clenching one claw. “This invasion is futile. Why hasn’t he formed a plan until this point? Does the fool actually believe this disease will show remorse?”

  Irarmajon emerged to his right. “We should’ve given him the ability to explain. Not inform him to bring a solution or else.”

  Rahmanegol regarded him with a frown. “Have I asked for your suggestions?”

  Irarmajon smiled forcibly. “I was merely stating that the path we took could’ve been more… rewarding. Far more rewarding.”

  “Arrogance is Alghamior’s second power. Disdain his third. Engage him in discussions without pressure and you receive nothing.” Rahmanegol’s eyes latched onto his figure still charging the dome. “We are left to fend for ourselves. And I lack the abilities he has.”

  “After we conquer Aslakahm, your strength shall deliver us,” Irarmajon said. “The Starmakers will have no choice but to understand their places and what is required of them.”

  “We already see where my strength leads us, Lightstealer. We’re on the brink of unnecessary war.”

  “Lord, what other way is there? Obviously the Starmakers aren’t fulfilling their part in solving this. Who can ensure proper leadership if not you?”

  “The Tribunal,” Rahmanegol replied flatly. “Our great crafters.”

  Irarmajon bowed his head. “They abandoned us. Why shall we not?”

  “They would’ve never left us. Something happened, Lightstealer. We did something to force them out.”

  Irarmajon widened his eyes. “An explanation would’ve helped us. Instead, what did we receive, lord?”

  “What we deserve.”

  Alghamior finished the charge and his body fell limp on the Throne, his Starmakers fighting to reach him. Rahmanegol tensed upon seeing his body: one section of Alghamior depleted, what remained was now pale. His Starmakers scrambled upon the Throne, carrying him away. A bright mind lay faded, and whatever strength will remain within him, would not be enough.

  “Lord, shall we engage the Wall?” Irarmajon asked. “Consuming it won’t be fast.”

  Rahmanegol punched the dome. “You fool!” he said, eyes tracking Alghamior. He sighed and acknowledged Irarmajon. “Descend the fog.”

  “At once, my lord. Aslakahm will be ours.”

  Irarmajon departed, while Rahmanegol lingered. Aslakahm will fall, that much is an unquestionable truth. What then? What good will all of this do? Could he truly lead both sides of creation and destroy a curse? At least Alghamior could’ve been given a demise worthy of his status. One final confrontation. Now, the idea of such a thing is absurd. And unfulfilling.

  Rahmanegol shoved himself forward, his wings fluttering away his building rage. The circle of fog twisted and enclosed upon the Wall, his Lightstealers eager for the event to follow. Irarmajon’s voice pierced the Materium, giving the needed instructions, and worsening Rahmanegol’s spirit. Leading dragon against dragon is not what the title of lord means. Why is the burden so heavy and why are there no other apparent solutions? What would the glorious Tribunal say upon seeing how their trusted caretakers are mocking what they’ve built?

  Existence is dying. And those tasked with guiding it are trapped in a wasteful conflict. If only there was another path Rahmanegol could’ve taken. If only Alghamior would have done the job entrusted upon him.