Once, they had been paved in obsidian and ash, lined with banners bearing Kaelen’s sigil – a demon head holding a whip in its teeth. The Scourge. Back then, the very air was thick with the smell of steel, sweat, blood and fear.
Now, the city that had once been Doomgard smelled of baked bread, wet stone, and fresh grass. The banners were bright blues and whites, some gold, all fluttering cheerfully in a breeze that would once have carried the smoke of battle.
Kaelen drifted with the flow of people, cloak drawn close, hood up. No one flinched out of his way, nor bowed nor screamed. He could not decide whether the lack of recognition was an insult or a blessing. Like an explorer far off the coast of his homeland, he was navigating uncharted waters.
Buildings pressed in on either side, higher than before, but lighter too, glass and pale stone where there had once been black iron and basalt. The angles were wrong, too. Towers rose where barracks had stood. A fountain gurgled where there was once an execution square.
The city had been scrubbed of anything that reminded its citizens of the Dark Lord.
Without anything to guide him, Kaelen followed the current of the crowd until it spilled into a wide plaza. The press of bodies slowed, then broke, and he stepped out into open space. The plaza lay at the heart of what had once been his capital. The stones underfoot were different, yes, but the pattern of streets and the curve of the perimeter… that much remained, at least.
The crowd was gathered around a monument in the center. Kaelen’s jaw tightened as he drew closer.
It was a statue. Of course it was. A tall man in armor stood upon a rearing stone steed, cloak cast back in dramatic sweep, one arm raised high. In that hand, he held a sword pointed up, like a spear thrust into heaven.
Kaelen knew that it was Velen only because of the bold letters at the base of the statue:
The sculptor had given the boy of the prophecy an angular jaw, near-aquiline nose, and added a good stone or two of pure muscles. His armor was more polished and resplendent than Kaelen remembered, complete with an ornate sun symbol across the chest.
“He wasn’t this tall,” Kaelen complained, without thinking. That earned him a couple of curious looks from strangers. “And why am I… I mean, the kneeling before him?”
Around the hero’s feet, smaller figures were carved in relief, like an afterthought. One of them, cloaked and horned, was cast to his knees, hands raised in surrender as Velen’s sword hovered over his head.
Kaelen stared at the kneeling figure that was supposed to be him. He never felt more vindicated for hating fine arts. The artistic liberty, the disregard for facts, the naked bias. The only silver lining was that the statue’s lack of verisimilitude made it that much easier for him to remain unknown to the populace.
Kaelen was so absorbed in his thoughts that he was paying little attention to what was happening around him. A woman bumped his shoulder and made him lose his thread. “Watch it,” she muttered, then moved on.
Kaelen took a slow breath and made himself look away from the statue. There would be time to pick apart the lies later. For now, he needed information. Three hundred years’ worth of it.
He scanned the crowd for someone who looked like they might know the city. He settled on a young woman loitering near the statue’s base, chewing on a sweet roll and staring at nothing. Kaelen stepped toward her and raised his hand, palm out.
“Woman! I need someone who would answer my questions,” he told her, and once she failed to respond, he commanded in [Dark Voice], < S P E A K !>
The word struck the air like a bell note. The girl blinked at him. “Huh?” she said, taken aback, then frowned, rose and took a step away, her sweet roll still in hand. “Don’t come any closer, weirdo, or I’ll call the guards.”
She turned on her heel and walked off, taking small, quick bites of her food. Kaelen stared after her in disbelief, then looked at his hand, flexing and unflexing his fingers.
, Kaelen realized. He chastised himself for being so stupid.
But this was a new age. A new city. The world had seemingly evolved past Kaelen, and so his tactics would need to evolve, as well.
If his power no longer bent every neck, he would have to rely on older, simpler methods.
“You there! The peasant!” he called, pointing at the nearest man.
The man he’d chosen was middle-aged, hair going thin, carrying a basket of vegetables and a rolled-up length of something that looked like canvas. He stopped, blinked, and glanced over his shoulder.
“Yes?” he said cautiously.
“Answer me. Where does this city hold its source of knowledge?”
The man’s frown deepened. “You mean the library? Which one do you need?”
“The largest one,” Kaelen said. Anything less would be a waste of his time.
“Ah, the Royal Archives.” The man nodded. “You go down the Celestial Road for a few blocks, then turn right. You’ll know when. It’s hard to miss.”
Kaelen waited for more precise directions, but the man just stared back at him. A beat of silence stretched. The man’s expression tightened.
“You’re welcome,” he added, annoyed, and moved on.
Kaelen watched him go, not without satisfaction. , he thought. Once he learned about the missing part of this world’s history, he would be ready to challenge it anew.
He turned away from the statue of Velen and started down the road.
Celestial Road lived up to its name by having banners every ten paces depicting silver stars and constellations. Kaelen walked past shops with bright glass windows that displayed enchanted trinkets and printed books.
He passed a stall selling what looked like cheap talismans shaped like Velen’s sword. Children waved them at each other, shouting mock-heroic lines. He kept walking until the narrow street opened into a wide avenue. At its end, rising above the surrounding buildings, stood a structure that – true enough to the man’s words – he could not possibly miss.
The Royal Archives were built where his torture chambers had once stood.
The new building was all pale stone, wide steps, and columns carved with scenes of scholars reading under trees. A dome rose at the center, inlaid with glass panes that caught the light and sent it scattering in fragments. It looked more like a place of worship than knowledge.
Kaelen silently climbed the steps, parting the crowd of people in two with his mere presence. Inside, the murmur of hushed voices replaced the noise of the street. Shelves rose in orderly ranks across the hall, and above them, he could see a second and third level running along balconies, lined with yet more shelves.
, Kaelen thought. He was no stranger to libraries. Quite often, he found he preferred the company of books to his minions.
A desk stood just inside the entrance, barring further passage. At first, Kaelen thought it was empty. Then the thing behind it moved.
The automaton was roughly man-height, its frame made of polished brass and dark steel. Its chest was covered by a translucent panel, through which Kaelen could see gears turning in intricate patterns. There was a light-blue glow in its eye sockets, brightening as it focused on him. It matched the glow at each of the machine’s many joints.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
This one inclined its head with mechanical precision to face Kaelen.
Kaelen stiffened. The sound scraped across his ears. “I seek knowledge,” he said curtly. “World’s history.”
The automaton’s eye glow flared.
The Dark Lord stared at the machine. There was no life to push against, no fear to exploit. No usual leverage.
Kaelen’s temper flared. He had not come this far to be questioned by a mindless construct. “Step aside,” he said.
, the Dark Lord thought. He raised his hand. Heat gathered at his fingertips, a familiar pressure of [Moon Coil], ready to turn brass and stone into slag.
Before he could release it, a hand landed on his arm.
“Who–?” he demanded, turning his head. The destructive magic hovered inertly on his fingertips, straining.
Beside him stood a silver-haired elvish woman in a comfortable woolen shawl. Her face was lined with deep trenches, and her eyes held a patient, knowing gaze. Her ears were long, their tips peeking out from under her shawl.
“These automatons sure like getting on everyone’s nerves, don’t they, sweetie?” the old woman said, leaning in and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Helpful though they may be, I find they lack a certain, ah, touch.”
She smiled warmly at Kaelen, completely oblivious to the swirling, destructive power he had just been about to unleash. He closed his fingers, forcing the energy to dissipate.
“Helpful is not the word I would have used,” Kaelen countered.
“Oh, I know,” she said cheerfully. “If it were up to the Council, they’d let the machines run the whole place. But they still need us old relics to keep things from breaking down.”
The automaton turned its head slightly toward her.
“Yes, yes,” she said, patting its metal shoulder as if it were a stubborn child. “Mark this one as my guest, would you?”
There was a pause, a whir of gears.
“See?” She looked back at Kaelen. “Easier than shouting at it.”
“It asked why I was here,” Kaelen complained. “My business is of no concern to a machine.”
“Perhaps this old elf could help you, then?” the woman said.
Kaelen studied her. She looked soft and kind, the two qualities he despised the most. But these were also the two qualities he could use to his advantage at this moment.
“The history of this world,” Kaelen answered. “Or, at the very least, the last three hundred years.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Ambitious. Are you interested in the Battle for Doomgard, as well?”
“Yes. Very much so,” Kaelen answered coldly.
The old woman thought for a moment, then beamed at him. “Then I know just the book!”
She stepped around the desk with surprising agility and gestured for him to follow. He cast one last look at the automaton over his shoulder. It had already turned its attention to the next person in line, repeating the same questions.
They walked past shelves labeled with neat, glowing runes: NATURAL SCIENCES. ARCANE THEORY. REGIONAL HISTORIES. Elarin led him up a short flight of stairs to a mezzanine level, then along a row marked IMPERIAL ERA.
“So, are you a student? Preparing for an exam?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Not exactly.”
“A hobbyist, then,” she nodded knowingly. “That is quite rare for a young person such as yourself to take an interest in history.”
“I am older than I look,” Kaelen said before he could stop himself.
“Then that makes two of us,” the woman laughed, and her jowls shook. “But I will leave you to it, once you’ve got what you need.”
She stopped halfway down the aisle and ran her fingers along the spines, eyes scanning titles and lips moving silently. Her hand came to rest on a thick, leather-bound volume stamped with a crest Kaelen didn’t recognize.
“Here we are,” she said, tugging it free with both hands. “The Sevenfold Oath and the End of the Scourge. It covers the last days of the war and the three centuries after, give or take a few decades.”
The words “End of the Scourge” prickled Kaelen.
Elarin handed him the book. It was heavy, reassuringly solid. He carried it to a nearby table and sat down. The chair creaked under his weight in a way that no throne of his ever did. Kaelen wasn’t sure he liked it, but he supposed there was no helping it.
Elarin waited until he had opened the book before she spoke again.
“The first few chapters are a bit dry,” she warned. “Treaties, negotiations, that sort of thing. The Battle for Doomgard account starts around the middle. There are maps at the end of the book, too.”
Kaelen flipped forward. Dates marched past under headings. The script had changed slightly, but it was still legible. He found the section on Doomgard and began to read. The author’s tone was neutral, almost respectful. That made the inaccuracies worse.
The battle was described as a grand coalition of free nations marching under Velen’s banner, the “final stand of Light against encroaching darkness.” (For what reason the author capitalized one word but not the other, Kaelen could not say.)
The book spoke of the Dark Lord’s fortress, his armies, his demons, but the details blurred, replaced by speeches that had never been made and formations that had never been used. His own strategies were simplified into “brutal assaults” and “cunning traps”, as if the Dark Lord himself was nothing but an upjumped peasant who had lucked into ruling most of the continent.
He read of Velen’s charge through the central gate. That part, at least, had a kernel of truth, even if the number of slain enemies was doubled. The text claimed a duel between hero and Dark Lord at the heart of Doomgard, a “clash of Steel and Sorcery that shook the heavens” (whatever that might have looked like in the author's mind).
Kaelen leafed through a few pages and stopped. There, in neat letters, he saw a phrase that made his eye twitch: THE TREATY OF SEVEN FLAMES.
The text described a gathering of victors in what had once been his throne hall, now sanctified by Velen’s presence. Seven nations, seven signatures, binding themselves never to allow a new Dark Lord to rise. His empire, it said, had laid down arms and accepted the treaty, retreating to its “agreed-upon borders” in the north.
Kaelen’s fingers dug into the paper.
“The Scourge Empire does not recognize treaties,” he said aloud.
Elarin, who had been shelving books nearby, turned her head. “That is precisely what the Dark Lord’s representatives said at the time,” she remarked. “Thankfully, the sides reached a compromise and called their new treaty an oath instead. The Sevenfold Oath, which this book is named after.”
Kaelen looked up at her, then away.
“So the Empire lives, after all?” he asked instead, forcing his voice steady.
“In name, if not in spirit. I’m surprised you didn’t know.” Elarin walked over and tapped a page near the back of the book. “Here, at the end. There’s a map. It was made a decade or two ago, but it should still be accurate. The Empire has not acquired any new lands since then.”
He turned to the map. The world spread out in lines of ink and color. In the south and west, new entities had appeared, names he did not recognize. The continent was a patchwork of smaller states – or Judicates, as they took to calling themselves.
Valqora, Serratheon, Lythrane, Karsith. None of the four major Judicates meant anything to Kaelen. Together, they formed some kind of unitary government, the Great Concord.
And then, in the far north, squeezed between harsh seas and mountain ranges, there was a dark-shaded territory bearing the simple label of THE REMNANT EMPIRE OF THE SCOURGE.
he thought, staring.
“And who governs it?” Kaelen demanded. He had a few ideas, but he wanted to hear the answer from the old woman.
“Not much is known, I’m sorry to say,” she replied. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and leaned on the table, peering at the map. “Far as we ordinary folks can tell, there was a civil war after the Oath. Several, in fact. Factions among the demon princes, rival claimants, usurpers. Records are fragmentary. Who emerged victorious is hard to say.”
The room spun around Kaelen for a moment. He shut his eyes, letting the sensation pass.
But then, should he have even been surprised? The Dark Lord had always liked to give intentionally contradictory, vague commands to his subordinates, just so they would butt heads with each other. Zariel despised Makoro, Makoro couldn’t stand Kargoth, and Kargoth hated both – as well as a score of other Highprinces of Hell.
Their rivalry had kept them sharp. It had also kept them from ever uniting against him. But without him, it seemed, they couldn’t even unite against their common enemy. The central pillar holding everything together had given way. Perhaps this inner conflict was his fault as well?
Kaelen closed the tome with a thud. A few heads turned at the sound.
“Was there something in particular you hoped to learn that isn’t in there?” Elarin asked, noticing how distraught he was.
Kaelen hesitated, then opened the book again, flipping back to the depiction of Velen in the throne hall. The illustration showed the hero standing over a shadowy figure, sword raised. The weapon shone, rays etched in ink.
“Where is the Sun-Kissed Blade now?” Kaelen asked.
“Velen’s sword?” Elarin’s face brightened. “Why, it’s stored at the Hero’s Museum in Silvervale. The first time I saw it, it took my breath away.”
Kaelen recalled the simple, grade B quality sword he had seen three hundred years ago, though for him it was as though yesterday. How much things could change thanks to a historical context. Now it was a legendary sword, even if broken in two.
“The answer to my questions may lie there,” he said.
“Oh, it’s quite the pilgrimage for many,” Elarin said. “You can see the hero’s helmet, too. And a fragment of the Dark Lord’s cloak. At least, that’s what they claim. Exhibits do like their drama.”
He stared at the page. “Silvervale,” he repeated. The name meant nothing to him.
“A city of a godlike beauty, though I suppose every capital in history claimed to be such,” she said. “If you are truly interested in this period, I would recommend visiting it at least once.”
“It is… a possibility,” he said, having already decided to pay it a visit. There was nothing holding him in this city. Doomgard had fallen, but he would reclaim it.
Elarin patted the book. “You can read more about the museum in the appendix,” she said. “There’s a whole section on artifacts. But please don’t try to borrow this volume. It doesn’t leave the Archives.”
“Of course,” Kaelen said and offered the woman a labored smile. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“It was easier than talking to an automaton, wasn't it?” she said with a wink. “If you need help with anything else, just ask for poor old me.”
She shuffled away, back to her shelves.
Kaelen sat in silence for a moment longer, then opened the map section again. He traced the outline of the remnant empire with one finger, committing its borders to memory. Then he found the small mark labeled SILVERVALE, far from both his old capital and the fragment that remained of his domain.
He summoned the image of the map in his mind, building it into something sharper, adding paths and rivers, estimating distances. Routes from this city to Silvervale, then to the north. Ways that would allow him to move unseen.
, he thought.
He looked at the tome in his hands. He could feel a magical bind around it, invisible to the naked eye, that would prevent it from being taken outside. It wasn’t a complex spell, certainly not for Kaelen. He checked for any bystanders looking in his direction. There was no one.
[Sigil Break]
The book even felt lighter without the bind holding it down. Kaelen juggled it in his hand, looking for any other spell, and having found none, put the book in his [Inventory].
The world had moved on, rewritten his defeat, shrunk his empire, turned his enemies into saints. Somewhere in a museum, leagues away from here, Velen’s broken sword was displayed as the symbol of his downfall. If answers existed, they would be there.
The Dark Lord adjusted his cloak, glanced once more at the rows of shelves and the thrice-damned automaton at the entrance, then walked out of the Royal Archives into a city that had forgotten its own name.