Magnificence has fallen. An inevitability, considering the might of those he leads. A tragedy, considering what was lost. An attempt of retaliation was made. Bravely so, yet futile. Alghamior and his councillors used the Lightstealer’s fog to their own advantage, disorienting Rahmanegol’s dragons with unprecedented speed and unrelenting will. The Rematerus garners intrigue with how quickly it brought Alghamior back from the consumption he endured. Did the beautiful Tribunal share secrets with the Starmakers, but kept them from Rahmanegol and his own kin?
Nevertheless, the invasion has now ended. Rahmanegol soared above Aslakahm, gazing upon the desolation beneath. Egg-nests have become wreckage, and the Throne of Infinity has sustained considerable damage, its glory dissipating through its missing fragments. Essence hovers over the surface of the quiet kingdom, much to the grief of the surviving Starmakers. Shackling the survivors was always going to occur, but the Lightstealers have been instructed as to not deal any more harshly with them. Targhanion’s ambitions and utter disregard of Rahmanegol’s commands shall never be tolerated again. The crafters of life have endured enough.
Closer to the Rematerus—a massive chunk of it missing, disintegrated amidst the devastation below—a tablet has been carved and brought for all to see. Alghamior’s name rests written on it, Rahmanegol’s claw incapable of ever losing that sensation. It shall always haunt him. ‘Wisdom shall dwell endlessly’ is not the way he believes the fallen king shall be remembered, yet Orequelon, Alghamior’s last surviving chancellor, demanded Rahmanegol fulfill that desire. Starmakers have gathered to commemorate their king. Fittingly so. This image can never be stolen from Rahmanegol and it never should. Why did Alghamior make such irrational choices? Why did knowledge choose to sacrifice itself for such frivolous matters? Rahmanegol’s snout crinkled. A brother lost, a kingdom in mourning and a demise that knows no boundary, no intent of halting. No answers are to be given to him. The source of responses has allowed arrogance to lead instead of reason.
Wings fluttered behind Rahmanegol. “Lord, existence still suffers,” Irarmajon whispered.
Rahmanegol sighed. “I am estranged from the idea of peace. A little mercy is something I can receive, at least.”
“Apologies, lord. Yet this sight brings no benefits. Action is required. We must craft a plan.”
He pointed forward. “There is the plan we had. The one we relied upon. What remains of it is a tablet.”
Irarmajon nodded. “There was no other way, my lord. Alghamior chose death instead of subjugation.”
“What would you have chosen, Lightstealer?”
Silence settled between them. “His attempts were foolish,” Irarmajon eventually said. “Ridiculous even. There was no indication of success in a confrontation against your might.”
Rahmanegol regarded his claws, a frown settling on his face. “Those claws have already dealt enough damage to existence. Stealing Materium’s wisdom is the gravest sin they could have ever committed.” He shut his eyes.
“Lord?”
“What has strength granted us, Lighstealer?”
Irarmajon frowned. “Domination. Control.”
“Desolation. Grief.”
“This is our nature,” Irarmajon said uncertainly. “We have been blessed with great power.”
Rahmanegol gestured forward with his head. “Witness your blessing. Feast upon what strength is capable of.”
Irarmajon acknowledged those traveling toward the stone. Then he shifted away, his eyes examining more of what has become of Aslakahm. “I understand, lord. But they knew what retaliation brings.”
“I tried to make him understand. I believed in his reasoning. I was disappointed. Does serenity even exist anymore?” Rahmanegol exhaled. “Gather the Company and join me on the Throne. Bring the last councillor of the fallen kingdom.”
Irarmajon lunged toward Rahmanegol. “What use is he to us now? The need for councillors has passed. His kingdom is no more.”
“I will not repeat myself.” Rahmanegol shoved himself forth, one of his wings shifting Irarmajon aside.
“Yes, my lord,” the Lightstealer replied hesitantly.
Rahmanegol began his ascent toward the Throne, yet his eyes could not move away from the damnation beneath. Few Starmakers lifted their gazes anymore, and those that did held voids in their six eyes. Hope has been extinguished, even their pulsating dots seemingly uncertain if they should continue their rhythmic movements. Fragments of the Wall still crumbled upon the kingdom, Lightstealers on guard to seize them and avoid further damages. Ruination is all Conception and Havoc can glimpse anymore. Havoc has brought the worst cosmic storm the Materium has ever felt. It shall be called the War of Life, and only those that still live shall remember it. A fitting title for a fitting end to creation as they came to know it.
~
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The Company gathered in a circle atop the Throne of Infinity. None sat on the seats Alghamior and his councillors were granted—an instruction Rahmanegol made sure shall be obeyed. There was barely any difficulty in respecting the order, considering the disdain they still show Orequelon. Most notably Targhanion. So much wrath, so foolishly used. What further victory is Targhanion trying to achieve? Ambition must understand there is an end to it also.
“Casualties are numerous,” Irarmajon began. “A handful of our kin has joined the Materium. Grievous, yet…” He eyed Orequelon, who kept his head bowed toward Rahmanegol. “I doubt there is reason to continue with the reports, lord.”
“Then why did you bother speaking?” Orequelon asked. “What good have your words done?”
Targhanion snapped his claw forward. “Silence, councillor. Hear the results of your king’s idleness!”
Rahmanegol shot him a glare and swooped one claw toward him. “One more word and you I will go through with my earlier words to you, Targhanion. Cease testing my patience!”
The Lightstealer lingered, but eventually moved his gaze away from Orequelon.
“My promise remains,” Rahmanegol asserted. “No more pain shall be inflicted upon the Starmakers, and no further punishments are to be brought. You, as a former councillor, will maintain that position in the new kingdom.”
“For what purpose?” Orequelon asked. “Salvation has perished.”
“Then enjoy your title for the remainder of your existence. Your insights are invaluable. Aslakahm has suffered enough.”
Orequelon snapped his gaze upward. Where do the Starmakers find the vitality for such quick motions? A curse is still hunting them. “Your acts are not fooling anyone, lord of Lightstealers. The king has fallen at the might of your claws. Only now did you deem it appropriate to care about Aslakahm and what it has suffered?!”
Rahmanegol inhaled, controlling his increasing rage. “A choice was given to you. My claws fought to abstain themselves.”
“Explain your supposed care to those lost to the Materium. Explain your care to those from whom a king was stolen. Explain your care to the Starmakers that find their kingdom a desolation at your hands!”
Words vanished from Rahmanegol’s mouth. There is no reason to continue, for otherwise the small amount of peace Rahmanegol now holds onto, will vanish. The councillor’s six eyes threatened to unleash, while his body barely sat straight. Rahmanegol shifted his gaze downward, the tablet beneath gathering more and more visitors. Starmakers bowed upon reaching it, showing their respect and love to the wreckage that represents Alghamior. A disgrace for the knowledge of the Materium to be replaced by a mere fragment of Glaritius, yet at least this way the Starmakers have something that reminds them of him. Alghamior found answers to the most mysterious aspects of life within existence, and still a disease defeated him. Where does the resolution to this situation reside? A way must exist.
“Lord,” Irarmajon interrupted his thoughts. “The decay is still proceeding. But I made some discoveries with the help of the Lightstealers. Something is happening to the Starmakers.”
Rahmanegol spun to regard him, the Company’s perplexed gazes searching for Irarmajon. Orequelon also gazed in his direction, despite his evident unconcern.
“The disease is somehow… being disrupted. Signs linger, but there is an unprecedented vitality within many Starmakers. The difference between how many acted and looked when we sent word to Alghamior and the present moment is immense.”
“Not to mention,” Sarsameon continued, “that some stars are living longer. We haven’t yet examined what occurs now when Starmakers morph, but a mission is being prepared for this specifically.”
A frown returned on Rahmanegol’s face. “The effects of the curse are receding?”
Irarmajon appeared to be pondering. “In some capacity, yes. Why or how is something no one knows for certain.”
“You are telling lies,” Orequelon accused. “Our mighty king battled with himself to find an explanation for the source of the curse and now you claim to already have the solution? How dare you?!”
Irarmajon shrugged, his distant eyes descending toward the surface of the Throne. “More observations ought to be made before we have a conclusive answer, my lord. But perhaps there is some hope.” He regarded Rahmanegol. “Creation could be saved.”
A storm erupted within Rahmanegol, the words echoing through his mind. If this can be proven, then everything can finally come to an end. This conflict. This disease. Order could once again dwell within the Materium. But what is the source of this resolution? Rahmanegol struggled to admit that Alghamior’s demise or the fall of his kingdom somehow repaired what had been broken within the dragons. No cure could be provided from death and desolation. Has the involvement of Khonameol into this entire situation brought an end to the death of creation? Dualities are strange and dangerous creatures. Are they the answer?
Orequelon grunted and thumped on the Throne. “You only worsened its demise, you stealers of life! How is creation meant to survive through this, Lightstealers?!” He gestured around. “Aslakahm has fallen and nothing can restore its glory. Especially not you!”
Fiercely, wrath burned within Rahmanegol’s essence, casting any thought aside. Is this dragon aware of his position, of what surrounds him and can easily break him at any moment?! Whatever source of boldness Orequelon is relying upon, must be taken away. Does he truly believe that Rahmanegol chose to cast Aslakahm into disarray out of his own arrogance? Is he even comprehending how much Rahmanegol sacrificed and what pain now resides within his essence? He closed one fist, exhaling to push away the anger, fighting his desire to destroy Orequelon. No matter the circumstance, rage must never be allowed to subdue Rahmanegol again. Peace must be his. For the remainder of eternity.
“Survey the Starmakers that are to morph,” Rahmanegol said. “Gather all the information in regards to these discoveries. Use as many Lightstealers as you need to find the source of this… cure you speak of.” He acknowledged Orequelon. “Remember your place, Starmaker. I allowed you not only your life, but also your role. Alghamior’s death is my burden to carry. A burden I will never forget, nor wish to.”
Orequelon’s eyes began losing their wrath, returning to the grief they displayed ever since the loss of Alghamior. “No matter what you accomplish, it will never erase what you did to us. No cure and no salvation. Nothing will make us forgive you.”
A truth Rahmanegol must carry upon his shoulders. Just like so many other burdens he has been given. A wound no victory may ever hope to close.
Rahmanegol spread his wings, preparing to depart. “There is someone I must rescue. None of you are to follow me.” He sighed. “I don’t want anyone to gaze upon the blasphemy that will be committed.”
