The obsidian gates of Fin Fang Doom groaned open as the courier staggered in, cloak torn, face pale with exhaustion. A sentinel of steel and sinew snatched the message tube from the courier's trembling hands. Without a word, it turned and ascended toward the inner sanctum. The Vizier awaited halfway up the spiral causeway, taking the treaty as though it were poison.
When he reached the Hall of Continuum—a place where even echoes seemed reluctant to linger—Lord Imperion sat upon his prism throne, motionless. The hall's mirrored pillars reflected a thousand versions of his face, each one older than the last.
"From Ashwin," murmured the Vizier, bowing low.
Imperion's fingers twitched. "Give it here."
The scroll floated into his palm, the seals breaking with a hiss like escaping steam. As his eyes traced the words, his breath caught.
Immediate dissolution of all Blood Phage contracts with the Clans.
Total withdrawal of Forgotten forces from the Beast Vein Continent.
Failure to comply shall bring the Wrath of Heaven's Eye—the frost flame banner and glacial soul descending upon your capital.
Imperion's throat tightened, he had seen as much as he wanted of that black flag, and his Capital was only recently recovering from the attack launched by the eye of heaven. His memory recoiled from the image of the Eye—how it had looked down from the clouds and frozen three legions where they stood.
From above the throne Frey-Jita descended, her silver body rippling like a living mirror. She floated through the air effortlessly, slowly circling his throne on her descent. She draped her hands on Imperions shoulders. "You tremble, my lord," she whispered, her voice like a thousand needles sliding beneath the skin. "We have survived worse."
Imperion looked up from the treaty. "No we haven't."
Frey-Jita leaned close, her metallic lips brushing his ear. "Release them, and I fade. Defy him, and perhaps we both burn."
Imperion's hand shook with rage as he lowered the treaty. Outside the palace, the heart of Fin Fang Doom pulsed—the city held millions of citizens. He felt cold. The kind of cold that seeped into bone and faith alike. Outside, the first whispers began. Servants speaking of visions—a swarm of locusts, black mist filled with the dead, eating at the city's edges. Then came the rumors of blight. Then plague.
By morning, the streets boiled with protest. Citizens bearing torches and banners demanded surrender. They shouted that the Lord of Doom had angered the Lord of Beasts, and the mountain itself would soon turn against him.
From his throne, Imperion listened to the chaos rise like a tide and murmured, almost to himself, "The empire I built on fear now trembles before another's shadow."
Frey-Jita coiled tighter around him, "Do you not see the beauty of it? The genius of it?" Fray-Jita smiled slyly at Imperion, a wicked grin pulling across her silver face. She pushed him toward the window. "Look how good you've been to them? and this is how they reward your leadership? But don't raise your hand against them, lest they rise totally up against you."
"Instead let the boy plague the ungrateful and fearful cowards, Fin Fang Doom is overcrowded any way, and we can actually absorb the damage the boy does. And then we can see who stays loyal to us."
Slowly the words of Frei-Jita sunk in and he saw the genius of her machinations, and soon her words had strengthened the king of Dooms heart. And his pride flared up again "Scribes!" Lord Imperion shouted, a short bald frier ran to his side, "Yes Mi'Lord!" Imperion cracked his neck, "Prepare a message to Lord Ashwin of Beat Vein Continent." The scribe removed a vellum roll from a tube and dabbed his quill in Indian ink. Imperion smiled coldly as he began his response, "I Imperion King of Doom Will not let your people go."