“Polus is an antiquated land. Tradition and homely values populate the quaint little hamlets and bustling cities dotted all about their territory. In comparison, the empire of Caelum is their stark opposite. The people are gruff, hearts hardy and curt as coal, and their minds are wholly fixated with personal advancement and unending progress. Perhaps their nature is a reflection of their leader, for Grand General Xeros desires nothing else than to conquer everything below the sky.”

  —Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

  ———

  Settled far south from the lands of Polus, there lies a ringed city of smoke and plume. Smog festers in the air, rising up into a billowing cloud and infecting the lungs of the people with its dense pollution; and dull grey buildings lay alongside the ash covered streets, swerving and winding in chaotic, yet purposely crafted, pathways. It is as if the layout is designed to be a convoluted maze, navigation unfeasible unless one has resided in the oily alleys all their life.

  But such conditions only apply to the ground stratum of the city. From up high, multiple layers of artificially erected levels shadow the citizens below in an all-encompassing darkness, with only lamplight and roaring forges to provide what meagre illumination. As one ascends the layers climbing up to the heavens, each one smaller in size than the last, the air becomes more tolerable. The grime, less apparent. Higher and higher still, until the very top reveals a sanctuary untouched by the byproducts of the factories plaguing the lower levels. It is another realm entirely, isolated in its paradise of glittering excess and sheen.

  Towering at the very center of the countless rings is a giant, pitch-black spire. It pierces through the clouds, serving as a constant reminder of the one who rules above them all — of the omnipresent eye monitoring their every action. It is a symbol of control.

  The summit’s peak of the spire houses a small, dimly lit room covered in red carpets and canvases of plated bronze. A desk lies at the end near a clear panel revealing the city, and a simple chair is kept to the side.

  The seat is abandoned, for a lone man gazes out to the sky. His feet plant firmly on the floor as sparks of red lightning crackle beneath. Long grey hair trails above his charcoal cloak, a perpetual scowl adorning his face grizzled with age and experience, while a deep gash lays scarred on his right eye: just above his frayed, scraggly beard. The air around him shivers, suffocated by his tempered ferocity.

  The man stands still. Waiting. Anticipating. Not a single step is taken. Not a single word is uttered. He simply awaits the passage of time, awaiting a future already foretold.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  The sound of the clock is the only refuge within the silence.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  There is no need to rush. For he is the Grand General of Nox Caelum. And all shall proceed as by his will.

  Tick-tock.

  A roar.

  A song.

  A tremor.

  The city below screams out in confusion as the sky fills with nonsensical spectrums of color, but the Grand General does not move. He remains unchanged in the spire’s haven, firm against the quakes of earth. All that graces his being is a small, knowing sneer.

  Now, it shall come. The beginning of everything.

  ———

  Xeros

  What a ghastly sight, the Grand General muses to himself. The Festival of Creation — such is the moniker for the display unfolding before him. The ancient records herald the event as a thing of beauty, a gift from the Mother Cosmos to her beloved children, but Xeros only views it as the ramblings of an incoherent child: messy, undisciplined. The fanfare for an age doomed to another, ruinous cycle.

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  He will not allow such fate to come. The Comet must be procured with haste if his stalemate with Polus is to come to an end. Those winged fools have stubbornly held on to their traditions of frailty, but no matter how much they attempt to struggle, there can be no change in their nature. It is only a matter of when they shall fall, not if, but Xeros does not have the time to engage in skirmishes for another few odd years. He is growing weaker with age, and there is still much to conquer if he is to see the end of this long plight.

  It is within his sight: the light that shall pave the way forward. All he needs now is to take it firmly within his grasp.

  A knock at the door interrupts his ruminations. There is only one who has the authority to enter his abode.

  “Enter, Praetor Luxanne,” he says with a gruff, husky voice.

  A woman in a midnight-black mechanical suit marches into the room with steady, methodical steps. Her armor is composed of an intricate assembly of sleek, angular plates interlocking into a tight exoskeleton, and a slab serves as her helm, featureless and barren of unnecessary design save for a singular socket that glows with a red light.

  She arrives at the center of the office and bows her head, greeting the man with a voice obscured in a metallic filter.

  “Reporting for duty, Grand General,” she says. “The forces stationed at the Polus encampments have all been withdrawn, as you ordered.”

  “I see,” he rasps. “And what of Commander Gravitas?”

  “He shall arrive from the Augurium borders within the week.”

  “Very good.” Gravitas is essential for Xeros’s plans, woe though it may be to rely upon that dolt’s cavernous head. At the very least, he is powerful—exceptionally so—and what better to use as a tool than one content with mere blood and flesh?

  The Grand General turns his gaze back to the sky. Unfortunately, Creation’s choir continues to belt out words of drivel. How amusing for a force that shall never be human to think itself knowing of our laments. But perhaps this shall provide an opportunity to peer into his protege’s thoughts.

  Xeros beckons for Luxanne to approach. She does so hesitantly, confusion etched within her movements.

  “Tell me, Luxanne,” he begins. “What do you think of the display before us?”

  “I do not care,” she replies. “If it does not concern my operations or the safety of the city, then I see no reason to pay attention to it.”

  But your eye tells a different story.

  “I see,” Xeros muses. “Are you not curious of the source?”

  “I am a soldier. I do as I am commanded, and nothing else.”

  Xeros grunts and slowly takes a seat at his desk. He courses his fingers through his pallid hair. “Very good. Order and discipline: There can be no progress without the two, for to allow defiance in one’s ranks is to allow chaos to be sewn in thy people. Complete obedience is a necessary evil if we are to build a proper world.”

  He beckons Luxanne to come even closer. She obeys without a word, closer and closer, until her knuckles are clenched against the cold desk.

  “Power triumphs above all else,” he says, placing his hand on her shoulder. “If you wish to make your desires true, then wrench it away with your hands. Everything in this world can be achieved with enough struggle; failure to do so speaks to a lack of desperation, of resolve, and of determination. Remember that, Luxanne.”

  Not a single word leaves her lips. She merely stands motionless, struggling to contain the fury, the disgust, the pure undiluted wrath leaking from her supposed passivity. The Grand General can feel her bloodlust on every pore of his body.

  But there is nothing Luxanne can do to him. That is the truth, and none know this more than she.

  The foolish girl never has been adept at hiding her true thoughts.

  She stares at him with poorly veiled loathing, before eventually forcing herself to muster a response.

  “I thank you for the valuable lesson, Grand General,” she says. “I will take your words to heart.”

  “Indeed you shall.”

  The last lines of melody from the heavenly nonsense outside begin to diminish. The trembling of the earth, the messy vandalism of the sky… the world reverts back to its hollowness, leaving man to be seduced by the promise of change.

  For the Comet has come, shining ever so bright.

  “It appears that infernal racket has finally ceased,” Xeros says. “Then now is the time for this brief idleness to come to an end.”

  The other nations will soon begin to move. They will scour the land, upheave every rock and grain of soil, to locate the Comet and claim its might as their own. But their efforts shall be in vain, for the Grand General already knows where the child of Cosmos shall be born. It is a land of death, the destruction of old, the resting ground of humanity’s most vile foe, and the setting for the tragedy known as The Night of Crimson Tears.

  “What are your orders, sir?” Luxanne asks.

  “Have Commander Gravitas prepare his division when he arrives at the capital,” Xeros replies. “Bolster the forces, prepare the war machines, and equip the soldiers for departure.”

  “Where shall he be sent?”

  Xeros rises up from his seat and gazes far out into the distance, into the horizon of the approaching dusk.

  “To the forest of miasma and rot, the Aeternum.”