In the great capital of Gran Troc, where stone towers reached toward the heavens, the Imperial Guardians gathered in the throne hall. The hall was paved with white marble veined with gold, and along its sides stood statues of emperors long gone—faces silent, yet watchful over all who entered.
Upon his throne sat Emperor Alistar Gran, majestic despite his age. His long white beard flowed down his chest, and his eyes, calm on the surface, hid a fire that could never be extinguished.
The voices of the ministers rose, clashing over the matter of summoning men from the villages, but the emperor did not heed them. With a single heavy gesture of his hand, silence fell.
He spoke with a deep voice weighted with gravity:
— "I have sent forth the call… but the gates have not yet opened. When they do, neither the walls of your palaces nor the strength of your armies shall protect you."
The guardians shifted uneasily at his words, glancing at one another in confusion. The emperor remained silent for another moment, then rose from his throne. He stepped toward them slowly, holding in his hand a staff of black iron. Raising it before them, he declared:
— "Swear to me— that you will remain until your last breath. That you shall be swords unbroken, and hearts unbetrayed. Swear to me that your blood, and the blood of your children, shall be the sacrifice for the Empire."
The Guardians' Oath
The Guardians knelt, and the hall trembled with their voices as they chanted:
— "We swear to be the guardians of the crown, never sheathing our swords until the danger is gone—or until we are."
---
The Black Chamber
After they dispersed, the emperor withdrew from the throne hall into a narrow passage, guarded by iron doors interwoven with ancient engravings. None of his men knew what lay at its end, save for a very few—and even they dared not enter.
He reached an old black wooden door, marked with symbols no one could decipher. He opened it and stepped into the Black Chamber.
The room had no windows, no adornment. Its walls were clad in black stones that reflected faintly, like fractured mirrors. At its center stood a stone chair. The emperor sat upon it, shutting the door behind him.
Here, he began to speak to himself… yet his voice echoed in such a way that it seemed another presence was answering him.
He said:
— "The time is near…"
The echo replied, deeper, like a shadow of his own voice:
— "Near… but you are already too late."
The emperor gasped, his eyes glinting with unease:
— "I am the only one who knows the truth… the only one who has seen the seal with his own eyes."
The echo murmured back:
— "But others will know… others will come. The man from the north—the woodcutter… he is the sign of the beginning."
The emperor bowed his head, clutching it in his hands, whispering:
— "Why does the symbol return now? Why the broken sword? Is it written that my throne shall end as it began… in blood?"
The echo laughed, a sound like another voice dwelling within the black walls:
— "The throne will not end—you will. The gates shall open, the chosen raven will rise. And every oath sworn tonight… will not protect you."
The emperor raised his head, his expression torn between terror and wrath. He struck his staff against the stone floor, and the chamber quaked, yet the echo's laughter lingered.
At last, he left with heavy steps, his features outwardly composed once more. But behind that mask, he knew the Guardians' vow would never be enough… and that what awaited him in the shadows was greater than any army, or any empire.
{{When two times meet within a single hour,
And the steps of the living entwine with the steps of the dead,
The door that has no door shall open,
And from it shall rise the wind that never rests.
If the twelve moons gather in one night,
And the sky wears the shroud of blood,
No crown shall remain upon a throne,
And no wall shall hold back the flood.
The broken sword—half in the hand of the stranger,
Half in the hand of the betrayer.
Whoever unites the halves shall not reign… but be driven to his fate.
Beware the Chosen Raven,
For he is the herald of ruin and the herald of salvation alike.
His wings are shrouded in darkness,
Yet his voice rises above the silence of centuries.
In the north a man shall be born,
Neither prince nor slave,
Known among his people as the woodcutter,
Yet within his chest lies the call of the gates.
From the west shall come a woman,
Bearing a crown of flame.
Her eyes shall see what none else can,
Yet she shall not see her own end.
From the south shall rise a child,
Born in a forgotten village,
Unaware of his lineage,
Yet heir to the blood long lost.
Three shall meet,
Yet they shall not meet.
Each is a path,
And each path leads to the ruin of the others.
The White Emperor shall cry from his throne:
"I am the protector, I am the unifier!"
But his voice shall echo hollow,
For the Red Seal is not his…
It belongs to those who came before and to those yet to come.
When the unbreakable shield is broken,
And the unopenable shackle is undone,
The kingdoms of fire shall rise,
And the kingdoms of water shall be devoured.
And the greatest question shall be asked:
Is unity born of blood,
Or does blood spill only to bury the dream of unity?
On the night when no heart shall sleep,
And when the earth is cloaked in the ashes of hope,
The Chosen Raven shall emerge from his shadow,
Carrying an answer in his beak—
Yet an answer that satisfies no one.
Let he who reads these words know:
What is written is neither a promise of salvation,
Nor a curse of doom,
But a mirror reflecting what lies within human hearts.
If greed prevails…
Not one stone shall remain upon another.
If truth prevails…
Upon the ruins a new covenant shall be built.
But who, then, makes the choice?
Men or fate?
The Emperor or the Woodcutter?
The Sorceress or the Raven?
Or is the choice no one's at all…
But the Gate's itself, when it is opened?
When you read these words,
Know that the time has drawn near,
And that the shadows stand closer to your throne than your blood.
Beware, reader,
For you may be the very sign we have AWAITED}}