King Baraga’s voice cut through the church, firm and unyielding. “So, it’s settled. The abbot’s divination aligns with the Weirding Witch’s visions. Mecia will not bow to the Kondunean Empire. We will fight. But our end will be a magnificent one, our deaths shrouded in glory."

  A thrill ignited in young Angar’s chest. He’d finally be able to war.

  Raised beyond the towering Ulimuns Mountains by his mother, Laka, the Weirding Witch, he’d been forged for strength. But, as King Baraga and a witch’s son, he’d always received unearned deference, a kindness that chafed. Now, he’d prove his worth.

  He scanned the church. His mother’s face was taut with anguish. His half-brothers, the abbot, and the privy council bore looks of stern determination. The old queen seemed as confused as always.

  “The plan holds,” the king declared. “We retreat slowly, the Ulimuns to our left. When the legions reach Mount Shirdis, the Weirding Witch will use her holy relic to cause an eruption."

  Laka’s scoff pierced the air. “We could slay them the same way without our army there. This is folly. Is our kingdom so weak that we plan for defeat instead of victory? To die instead of spitting on the corpses of our enemies? No. I refuse this plan. My own is wiser."

  Baraga’s eyes narrowed, his stare drilling into her. “Our doom is certain, witch. Your own omens decree it. Your scheme clings to chance and wishful thinking. It changes nothing. This way, our enemies die along with us.”

  “No,” she shot back, voice ironclad. “My visions were warnings, meant to alter our fate, not shackle ourselves to it and embrace it so tightly. You finally called me to stand by your side and recognize our son’s legitimacy. I’m finally happy now. I won’t let it end. I refuse this fate. If you must fight, you’ll fight to win and live. That is my final word.”

  The king’s laughter roared, echoed briefly by the others until he quelled it. “Your final word, woman? Three legions out of seven come. Tenfold our strength, but we can wound Kondune mortally, a strike they’ll never heal from.

  "The Great Lord demands blood and war. With our dying breath, we shall give Him plenty. Shirdis and your relic will allow us to ascend to Qitakai so resplendently, carried there by such a glorious tithe of slaughter.”

  Angar’s heart swelled with pride. His father’s fervor mirrored his own, and he silently thanked the Great Lord for such a ruthless and brutal king.

  “Amen,” intoned the abbot.

  “Amen,” the others chorused, save Laka, her expression dour.

  Angar stood steps behind his father as Mecia’s warriors faced the Kondunean legions’ advance, the earth quaking under their tread.

  Great Lord, he prayed, I am Angar, recognized son of Baraga, King of Mecia, and Laka, the Weirding Witch, descendant of Elaxada the Mighty, Mahtma the Conqueror, and the great Kondunean Emperor Xon Gheir the First.

  Today, I shall finally quench my thirst for blood and battle. Let those I kill, along with my own blood and last breath, serve as tithe and tribute.

  There was heavy fog moving in. That couldn't be avoided. Like the great heat, burning rain, lightning storms, and sudden small explosions in the atmosphere called skysparks, the burning fog was just part of life.

  His mother had told him that far to the south, where the great city of Kondune resided, it wasn't nearly as hot, the rain and fog didn't burn as much, and there were hardly any skysparks. She said life wasn't as difficult there.

  Angar had a hard time envisioning such a place. He thought his mother might be wrong about it all. The Weirding Witch had lived in Mecia since she was five or six years old, so her childhood memories could be faulty.

  But if it were true, he assumed such an easy life would make these legionnaires weak. He’d soon enough find out the truth of that.

  All metal turned to pyrrhotite, hematite, or magnetite, so armors were made of sturdy alternatives—gigan wood, mai shoots, grawlok or katal shell, or d'klar hide and scales.

  Daggers were made of obsidian or flint, as were the tips of spears, arrows, and darts. Axes and hammers, the main weapons warriors used in close combat, were made of basalt or chert.

  His new d’klar scale armor, a gift from the king, shimmered, paired with a hefty chert hammer. He swung it, feeling its weight. It was unfamiliar, but ripe with promise. Heavy too. He was sure he’d make good use of it before dying.

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  Baraga turned. “Angar, here.”

  Pulse quickening, Angar approached, dreaming of fighting beside his father.

  The king leaned in, voice low. “You have greatness in your blood through your mother, equal to that of your Mecian heritage. Xon Gheir was a filthy Kondunean, but even I must admit he was as great as Elaxada and Mahtma.

  “I trust your mettle, son, but not your mother’s. She’s ours now, yet her passion burns wild, and she’s stubborn. She loves too much, both you and me, and she would not see us act as men, staunch adherents of our Great Lord, whom all must bow before, even kings.

  "I fear she's plotting something. She has power, so who knows what she schemes in that witch mind? Maybe, when the time comes, she'll balk at throwing her holy relic into Mount Shirdis. What could be the grandest offering of blood and war to the Great Lord above, the worthiest end for our kingdom, will not come to be."

  Angar’s excitement faltered. He knew her willfulness, and the truth of his father’s words.

  “You yearn for war,” Baraga pressed, “and to die well, but I need more from you. Ensure we all ascend to Qitakai resplendently, instead of perishing ingloriously. Find her. Guard her until the moment. Then, that relic goes into Shirdis. That act is everything.”

  Duty smothered Angar’s zeal, but a flicker of hope stirred. If he cast the relic, he’d claim more lives than any warrior here, and die shrouded in glory.

  Honored by the charge, he stood tall. “It will be done, my king.”

  “You might need to wrest it from her,” Baraga cautioned. “If so, remember your duty. The Great Lord demands blood and battle. You may have to tithe Him your mother."

  Angar’s stomach twisted at the thought. His mother, the woman who had made him the man he was, who had sacrificed so much for him – he didn't even want to think about that.

  Still, he nodded his head and said, "If I must, I must. I will not fail," while knowing it’d never be necessary.

  King Baraga put his hand around the back of his son's neck and brought their foreheads together. "Die well, my son. I'll see you in Qitakai."

  "Die well, Father. I'll see you in Qitakai."

  His brothers nodded as he passed, their eyes understanding. He wished he knew them better. Others told him to die well, and the blessing was returned.

  His mother was at Mount Shirdis’s peak or headed there. Angar sprinted toward the cave leading up there, the ground rumbling with the legions’ march.

  After running eight or nine hundred paces, he heard screaming. This confused him, as the Kondunean legions hadn't been anywhere close enough for that. They had just begun taking the field. The leaders hadn't even parleyed yet.

  And the screams weren’t the war cries of battle. They sounded more like shrieks of the frightened, the horrified.

  He whipped his head around to see a giant half-circle that looked to be made of something like shiny bone. Strange beasts straight out of nightmare were pouring forth from both sides of it.

  Monstrous creatures dashed across the field, closing with and slaughtering both Mecians and Konduneans alike. And slaughtering them easily. Spear, axe, and hammer doing little harm to these horrors.

  These must be demons, he thought, his heart hammering. He froze in indecision on whether to turn back and battle or proceed with his orders.

  Strange symbols appeared in his eyes, not too unlike the ancient stone carvings in the caves all around Mecia, and every bit as unreadable.

  A split moment later, though virtually no time had passed, they snapped into meaning.

  Clear text begin-

  User: Angar of Sulfuron 9.

  Age: 14 imperial years (minor).

  Classification: Local high nobility of primitive feudal system without a nuanced ranking system. Not equivalent to imperial nobility.

  Planet: Sulfuron 9

  Environment: Hostile/extreme (tier 1) with advanced life and sapient inhabitants.

  Sapient Species: Inhabitants are of Terran stock, pre-Holy Joining, with marginal environmental adaptations, living in primitive societies and city-states.

  Hellspawn Status: Minor invasion underway.

  Religion: Ikimist. Monotheistic, pre-Heretical. Highly compatible with Trinitarianism.

  Imperial Dictate: Terran, pre-Heretical but highly compatible religion, Hellspawn present. Adjudicated. User is now an imperial citizen. Minor status lifted per local adulthood at 14. Assigned Laity. Lacking Catechisms and Imperial Law, Minor Gentry withheld. Parousia Protocols eased for New User Protocols.

  Clear text end-

  Hail, Angar, beleaguered denizen of Sulfuron 9, or Vefol as you name it. I am Theosis, the Holy System, the coming and the arrival, the sacred voice of God's will in this temporal realm, and the Divine overseer of the glorious Empire of the Holy Trinity.

  As your blood sings with the magnificence of Terra, the incursion of Hellspawn upon your world invokes the sanctity of Imperial Law, granting you compulsory citizenship within our blessed dominion.

  Your life, short though it may be, is now interwoven with the threads of our eternal Holy War. With citizenship comes duty – you are now bound to the edicts of the Empire and classified Layman.

  Behold, for the blessed Crusaders, the anointed warriors of our faith, our blades of Divine retribution, are being dispatched to purge this infernal blight from your lands. Their righteous wrath will shatter the gloom in 19 rotations of your besieged planet, as Sulfuron 9 drifts far from our sacred outposts.

  In this bleak time, prove your valor, slay the spawns of Hell with Holy fire and fury, and perhaps you shall ascend from the Laity to stand among our radiant Holy Knights, our Crusaders, wielding the light of faith and bathed in the blood of sacred slaughter.

  Steel yourself for the crucible of battle, faithful of the Laity. Cower not before the minions of the infernal abyss, shy not from your sacred duty, nor from the gaping maw of Hell that stains your world.

  Do not go easily. Stand firm, with chest bared to the storm, heart thundering with righteous zeal, mind ablaze with Holy fervor, and fight!

  For God and Empire!