Chapter 2: A Game of Bones. The capital of the Central Empire wept black tears. The weather in Avalon, as always at this time of year, was overcast; thick, impenetrable fog blanketed the narrow cobbled streets, and the heavy air distinctly smelled of burnt coal and cold rain. The endless drizzle mixed with the acrid smog rising from the hundreds of chimneys of the giant weapons manufactories on the outskirts. This poisonous, gray shroud enveloped the colossal Gothic spires, settled on the paving stones as greasy soot, and ran down the stone muzzles of the gargoyles adorning the gloomy castles and massive stone bridges spanning the wide, ever-restless river.
Avalon was at the peak of absolute, overwhelming power, and the city never slept. It was the heart of the world, beating to the rhythm of blacksmiths' hammers striking, golden sovereigns clinking, and the death rattles of those who did not fit into the Crown's cruel hierarchy. In the very center of this monumental splendor towered the Stronghold of Pendragon—a colossal castle complex that served as the Emperor's residence. Everywhere on its walls and banners fiercely grinned the Red Dragon—a coat of arms that instilled terror and awe throughout the continent.
Inside the Stronghold, in the closed Hall of the High Council, it was stifling from the heat of the huge fireplaces and the heavy smell of ambergris mixed with the aroma of expensive spiced wine. The windows here were narrowed, fitted with thick leaden frames with inserts of ruby glass, causing the light falling on the faces of the present lords to look like the color of spilled blood. In the middle of the hall stood a massive table carved from a single piece of ebony. On the tabletop, polished to a mirror shine, lay a giant, incredibly detailed map of the Continent of Terra. Arranged along its edges were intricately carved figures of ivory, gold, black iron, and jade, representing armies, fleets, and trade caravans. To the people gathered in this hall today, the lives of hundreds of thousands of mortals were nothing more than these silent, carved figures.
Lord Chancellor William Hastings, a man in whose dry, ink-stained fingers the entire treasury of the Empire was concentrated, grimaced in disgust after taking a sip of wine from a golden goblet. Hastings was as thin as a starving wolf and possessed a sharp, predatory profile. His black velvet camisole cost more than an entire northern village could earn in a decade.
"Valois is delaying the wine tax payments again," Hastings said in strict, weighty, and aristocratic "Avalonian," moving a golden falcon figure on the western border of the map. "Duke Philip Valerian sent me a letter extensively complaining about a poor harvest and some new sickness among the peasants. He is asking for a six-month extension".
"Duke Philip is a deceitful, effeminate whore," a thick, rumbling bass boomed in response. Lord Commander Henry Lancaster leaned heavily on the edge of the table with his gauntlet-clad hands. Unlike the refined Hastings, Lancaster was the embodiment of the Empire's brute military might; massive armor could be guessed beneath his scarlet surcoat. "My intelligence reports that last week this 'impoverished' duke hosted another tournament, the winner of which received a chest of pure gold," Lancaster spat contemptuously into the fireplace. Valois was famous for its knightly tournaments, courtliness, and endless political intrigues, remaining the richest kingdom after the Center. "Send two regiments of heavy cavalry from Eisenwald there; their knights are as unyielding as rocks. Let them burn a couple of his vineyards for non-payment; behind their velvet smiles, they always hide a poisoned stiletto, so let's knock their teeth out".
"Troops cost money, Lord Lancaster," Hastings grimaced, steepling his fingers. "Every day a heavy cavalry regiment is on the march means a bottomless pit of oats and wages. Threats work better and don't cost a single copper penny; I will send him a missive bearing the Dragon's seal".
At that moment, the heavy, bronze-bound oak doors opened silently, and the conversations in the Hall of the High Council instantly ceased. The air seemed to grow denser, settling onto the lords' shoulders as an invisible, crushing weight of absolute, primordial power. Emperor Alucard Pendragon entered the hall. The Lord of the Continent was no ordinary monarch; he was a living deity, the first of men who, at the dawn of time, mastered the aura, reached the highest level of swordsmanship, and became the first immortal. In his presence, even powerful men like Hastings and Lancaster felt like insignificant insects. Alucard's face, carved from pale marble, expressed not a single emotion. In his eyes, as deep and dark as an abyss, splashed the wisdom and weariness of millennia. The aura core in his chest suppressed the will of everyone within a hundred-foot radius. The lords synchronously dropped to one knee, bowing their heads; the Emperor walked to his chair and sat down.
"Continue," Alucard Pendragon said shortly, quietly, but in a way that made the crystal ring.
From the shadows behind Hastings, a figure wrapped in a dark gray cloak silently emerged—the Head of Imperial Intelligence. He approached the table and placed a crumpled piece of thick parchment, stained with dried mud and blood, on top of the magnificent map.
"Urgent reports, Your Imperial Majesty," the spymaster said in a rustling voice. "From the north. The Kingdom of Asgard".
Lancaster arched an eyebrow mockingly. "Have the Asgardians gotten drunk on strong ale and started a slaughter between clans again?".
"I'm afraid it's much worse, Lord Commander," the spymaster used a thin pale finger to move the figure of a White Wolf closer to the mountain ranges on the map. "Ancient Trinity is under threat of a horde attack".
Lord Hastings leaned forward sharply. "Trinity? That prosperous crossroads of worlds at the foothills of the mountains?. For decades, iron-bound wagons from Nidavellir have traveled along its tracts. Trade with the underground dwarven kingdom is critical to our treasury!".
"The trade is over, My Lord Chancellor," the spy replied impassively. "A shroud of smoke from burning forests has obscured the sky over the northern borders. The dwarves have halted their caravans. A horde is moving from the wasteland. Orcs. With them are armored mountain trolls. The northerners of Asgard fear they will not withstand the onslaught and are requesting reinforcements".
A heavy silence hung in the hall.
Lancaster frowned, his face turning purple. "These northerners consider their aura the 'Blood of the Gods,' which is on par with our aura, but they worry they can't hold back an attack by ordinary monsters!. Your Majesty," he turned to the Emperor. "We must react immediately. The constant raids by non-humans are causing problems for the Empire. Give the order, and I will throw the heavy cavalry of Eisenwald there. They are accustomed to being the first to meet threats from uncharted lands; their strict discipline will break the spine of the gray horde".
Emperor Alucard Pendragon slowly shifted his millennial gaze to the Lord Commander; a primal cold emanated from his stare.
"Send elite troops to the edge of the continent?" the immortal lord's voice was calm. "How much will that cost, Hastings?".
The Lord Chancellor instantly calculated the numbers in his head. "Enormous sums, Your Majesty. Moreover, the dwarves of Nidavellir are pragmatic engineers. The Empire maintains stable trade relations with them. They do not interfere in the wars of men, preferring to sell the best weapons at exorbitant prices. If the tracts are destroyed, they will stop shipments. The supply of rare metals and Mithril blades will cease for a long time, for the dwarves are the only ones capable of forging it. Spending the Crown's gold to protect northern ash is impractical if the threat is not significant. But if the threat is real, there will be complications".
"But we must demonstrate our presence!" Lancaster slammed his fist on the table. "Otherwise, the southern emirs from the Kingdom of Osmantis will see our weakness. They possess the strongest navy, and their elite mages and warriors with poisoned blades are just waiting for an excuse to stage a rebellion. And the Murim Alliance in the southeast? The Great Clans of Namgung and Tang wield enormous influence. We cannot show them that the Empire is powerless against a bunch of gray orcs!".
The Emperor leaned back in his chair. His fingers, accustomed to holding a sword for millennia, tapped lightly on the armrest.
"And what of the West? How are our neighbors from the Kingdom of Alfheim behaving?".
The spymaster swallowed hard. "The closed society of high elves remains silent, Your Majesty. Their Lord Illitian Evening Shadow ignores our messages. They despise humans for their greed, and still, not a single road leads deep into their Ancient Forest".
"They have what the Empire needs," Hastings said thoughtfully. "Rare herbs. Rumor has it that the right plants can bring someone back from the dead. We have long considered using force against Alfheim. If we get involved in a protracted war in the North with the orcs, we won't have the resources to pressure the elves".
Alucard Pendragon closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the decision had been made—a decision entirely devoid of human empathy.
"A formal presence," the Emperor stated. "A show of force that will cost the treasury nothing. The Academy of Aetheria in Avalon. What is the status of the conscription?".
Lancaster blinked in surprise. "The conscription has begun, Your Majesty. As you ordered, the doors were opened to everyone. A surplus of rabble will be gathered. Scum, commoners, and bastards who got lucky enough to form a core from scratch through sheer willpower alone, even though this is accessible to only one in millions. They dream of becoming squires, knights, hoping to break into the elite".
"Excellent," Emperor Alucard cut in coldly. "The path of the aura is walked through training and combat trials. Form expeditionary regiments out of these newly minted cadets. From both the nobility and the commoners. Issue them basic equipment and send them into the thick of it—to defend Ancient Trinity".
Lancaster turned pale. "Your Majesty... The arrogant heirs of the Great Houses are expecting an easy horseback hunt. If we throw these green youths against hardened gray orcs and trolls... It will be a slaughter. They will be torn to pieces in the very first seconds of the massacre".
"Exactly," the first immortal replied indifferently. "The weak will die. Those in power have always used the rabble as human shields. If any of them survive this meat grinder, it means they are worthy of the title of Aura Knight of the Empire. And to the rest of Terra, it will look as though Avalon immediately dispatched its reserves to aid Asgard".
A chilling silence hung in the Hall. The fate of thousands of youths, such as the northerner Kain, was crossed out for the sake of saving the budget and playing a political game.
"It will be done, Your Majesty," Hastings bowed his head.
Emperor Alucard Pendragon stood up, and his figure cast a long, distorted shadow across the map of Terra. The game of bones had just begun.