The regents sat haughtily on their throne, as they gazed upon their dying civilization… the weight of their words crushing whatever spirit the people had left in them. The decay disguised by ornate buildings and sprawling statues that betrayed the sunken eyes and wretched complexions

  Thus the town wept “You who once made me, in your image, through your aspirational essence, what has become of you?” The people, seemingly aware of this… condemnation, scurried about hunched over, to avert themselves from the gaze of the statues and heights of the towers. The long lifespan of the empire had estranged them from its purpose.

  to the west of the city, a castle built into the base of the mountain was a bastion, the last whisper of nobility. Within that castle, there was a chamber, and in that chamber sat King Syphus.

  The chamber was lit with various colors, each contrasting against the marble floor. On that floor, before the king—who slumped on his throne with the most lackadaisical of dispositions—stood an arbiter, draped in robes decorated with golden accents.

  There the king the weight of the crown showed on his countenance through his weary eyebrows frowning lips and tired eyes.

  “I’ve allotted this time to the clergy and, by extension, to you, to voice grievances. You may speak,” the king said, waving his hand dismissively.

  “My king—or rather, our king—we come with a proposition, one on which the longevity of our nation hinges.”

  “In the deepest study of our highest members, we have discovered a blight within the human mind; nestled so deeply, it may even be considered primordial in nature.”

  “Go on,” spoke the king.

  “A proclivity toward decadence and hedonism with the surge in population.”

  “And what do you propose to solve this?” the king asked, deep in contemplation.

  “There is no solution, my king. This is predestined, based on the gods' blueprint. The people have grown fat and comfortable due to your noble rule. They no longer see a need for authority or a king. They’ve become used to order, to structure—”

  The king interrupted, “They have become blind to the role it plays in their lives.”

  “And so, the earth must rest, the soil must... the cycle of life must continue—”

  “Through our deaths,” the king finished.

  A deep melancholy possessed the king. “I’ve done everything in my power for the longevity of this empire. I conquered all their gods and made them bow before ours. But even in conquering their gods, I suppose we have to face ourselves in the end, don’t we?” Slouching further in his chair, the despair weighed heavily on him, almost as harsh as the crown he bore.

  “I’m sorry, my king. I’m afraid your reign will be the last. But that’s not to say you can’t make the fire burn bright, even for just a little bit longer…”

  The king glanced at his son, Julius, Aralius Marcellus, and lastly, his daughter Clementine.

  “When will I know this empire’s days are numbered?” the king asked.

  “When the people cry for freedom,” the arbiter said. “From the gods, they feel confined but don’t understand that they need to protect themselves from each other.”

  “But this rebellion can never be satiated. The desire for liberation will never end. One day, they will cry to be freed from even life itself—freed from the pain and suffering it entails. And then all will be lost to time. The human soul, in its desire to be liberated and freed, will stagnate and trap itself in vice.

  A short man walks in and eyes the arbiter with weary the arbiter ignores him and promptly exits

  "Atticus Aloncis," the king stated, his expression impassive, his cadence unshaken. "This is the third—no, fourth—time you have come to barter for merchant land rights and serfdom. And every time, I tell you no."

  Atticus dared not make eye contact with the king and instead chose to stare at the marble floor, which refracted into a myriad of colors from the painted windows that illuminated the chamber.

  The king took on an angry look. "I see your people's souls—their greed makes me sick. You think the human soul, a life, is something that can be bartered and traded with?

  "No amount of money will ever be enough to claim nobility. That's why it's noble—the child inherits the character of their father. Their father demonstrated exceptional qualities in their character, so they are trusted with a fragment of the crown's influence to do with as they please.

  "You may speak. What say you, thief?"

  "But my king, we have made significant contributions to the wealth of this country, and we would like—"

  The king cut him off. "You made contributions when you had everything to gain, yes, of course. But your heart is no less fickle. If you could sell your souls for coin, you would. Hell, you're here asking me to what—sell the souls of the common folk to you so you can make money off of them?

  "You should ask yourself what you could offer them that the nobility can't. And that is why I have denied your request on behalf of the merchant guild for the fifth time. Begone."

  “The human soul, in its desire to be liberated and freed, will stagnate and trap itself in vice.” Even as these words echoed through the king's chamber, their truth was already manifesting across the river, where the seeds of chaos had begun to sprout... denizens moped about with the most wretched of complexions, abetted by the squalid stone streets. But within their malformed hearts, a spark of rebellion began to fester.

  Within the gallows of the capital, a lord and his family kneeled. Across from them Kneeled the surviving peasants of a revolt. There they sat between Christopheles and a clergy administrator member, and around them stood a crowd. Christopheles would be both judge and judged today.

  “Chirstopheles explain why the respective parties should be spared or executed.” The crowd releases a hollowed gasp and begins muttering amongst each other.” chirstopheles looks to the nobles; who hope for the lord and his family to live, and Christopheless looks to the peasants; to those who wish for the common folk's lives. But Their compassion betrays itself after considering this, Chirstopheles looks at the emissary of the clergy dressed in hooded white robes decorated with gold embroidery and medallions.

  Christopheles sees one woman amongst them who looks familiar, but it is a vague aberration sitting on the edge of his consciousness. Christopheles states I Can’t Chirstopheles takes note of the clergy members' countenance, their faces unmoving except for one. She smiles pleasantly at it, its fullness becoming hollow as she looks down to the side. a tear falls on the ground.

  The highest-ranking clergy member, indicated by the seraph engraved on his

  Issue !

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  medallion, interrupts Christopheles's brief moment of contemplation. “We await your response.” “I can't,” Christophe's says. The arbiter nods at Christopheles and callously states, "Well then," before snapping his fingers. A column of Flame erupts, engulfing the peasants, the lord, and his family. Christopheles' eyes go wide, and he falls to his knees.

  "If you cannot take responsibility to save a life by taking another and save a life by taking another if you lack the will to act, then you lack the will to bear the burden that being a sentinel of the abyss entails," the arbiter says monotonously. The common folk and the nobles begin casting stones at Christopheles.

  Christopheles looks at the arbiters and the people in the crowd; scorn radiates from his eyes. Fire in his sternum fills him with frenzy, but his composure tempers his fury. He stands up tall before what these people revere as deities. "It is not the peasants or the lord that should have died; it is you," Christopheles utters, the weight of his words as heavy as the will of the people behind him.

  The arbiter responds callously, "How so?"

  Christopheles responds, "Is the heart of the people not a derivative of the ruler's deficits! You people hermitize yourselves, deprive yourselves of life, view it as the greatest evil to indulge in, and yet you dictate the lives of those who love and live. These people are deprived of life, so when you tax them and bring neither the nobles nor the peasants any solace in their security, they rebel and condemn each other, but not the people who set the foundation for them. You had everything, so you thought it fit not to want. They had nothing so they thought it fit to want. The people will always represent the deficits of the rulers, as a heart desires what it lacks. As for the nobles, they are a rope strung between polarities and priorities, preventing the flow of causality from falling apart. I believe you also played a role in this since this fief is under your protection. The responsibility falls on you as well."

  The light begins to warp around the arbiter; he grabs his dagger against hsi will and jams it in his throat…The crowd gasps.

  A guard shouted seize him

  Below the capital lie the dungeons where Chirstopheles has been delegated to wander within the confines of his mind The humid cellar groans and creaks as the foundation shifts with the earth. Christopheles, kneeling, prays to his angel for guidance, yet he hears no response—only footsteps. Shortly after those footsteps, the woman who had told the guards to seize him appears.

  “Christopheles Araliues, I presume? Bastard Son of the Western Duke and friend of she asks.A moment passes. The light begins to warp around The arbiter's; His hand reaches for his dagger against his will, thrusting it into his jugular. Blood rains down, splattering on the ground, a requiem for the lives that were taken. One arbiter steps forward, the sun gleaming off her gold beads into Christopheles' eyes. Her animosity and loss manifest as a single tear on the ground. She looks up at Christopheles and says, "In time, you will understand how and why... Seize him."

  Christopheles glares at the arbiter. The arbiter throws her hands up and then clutches her heart. “I am not your enemy; I’m actually quite fond of you,” she says, smiling and leaning in. “As a mutual friend, I do hope we get along.”

  Christopheles lets out a smile he was struggling to suppress. The arbiter straightens her posture. “My name is Saoirse, and you’re quite the looker, dear Chris.”

  Christopheles responds sternly, “We do not, and we will never, have that type of relationship, Saoirse. Don’t regard me in such a way again.”

  Saoirse looks to the side and begins fidgeting with her hands. “Just making this easier for you, Chrissy.”

  Chris looks at her, confused. “Making it easier? My execution?”

  Saoirse’s face turns serious. “No, your royal coronation. You’re the man who slayed an eldritch sovereign without lifting a finger.”

  Christopheles looks at her in confusion. “I thought the clergy liked the current king.”

  Saoirse pauses. The foundation of the dungeon shifts and groans once more. Saoirse leans with her back against the wall. “No, the clergy favors him, but necessity does not neither do the merchants..

  Christopheles realizes she is not here to harm him. “Enlighten me, Sister Saoirse.”

  She turns her head to the side. “The countries around us are divided into warring states so we can undergo great societal change without having to worry about being invaded. However, our diviners—or seers, as you call them—foresee that their societies will emerge drastically different from ours. In the end, they will be allies and we will be the other—the enemy, the alien. We have told the king, but he must not respect the opinion of those who set the foundation for the society.”

  Saoirse says sarcastically, in a mocking, dramatic tone.

  “I don’t sound like that,” Christopheles says brooding

  Saoirse remembers how she teased Christopheles when they were children at the castle and how her playful demeanor broke. ‘Julius—No, Prince Julius and his whole family ... .are in danger…..

  in the network of caverns that honeycombed the city's foundations, another piece of this unfolding tragedy waited in darkness... In a dank, decrepit cell with mildew lining the corners and rats scurrying about, a prisoner slouched against the corner of her cell. She was broken, betrayed, and anemic. The light slowly inched toward her chamber. She waited with anticipation so pungent it choked her. The footsteps echoed within the desolate expanse of her mind, so deprived of stimulation. The prisoner thought to herself, “Had they finally come to execute me?”

  The footsteps grew louder, and the doors screeched open. A man stood there, his posture radiating sternness. “Clotho Borales, your audience is demanded by the king.” Clotho squinted, trying to inquire why, but she couldn’t. Her throat was as coarse as sandpaper. The man looked down at Clotho. He raised his hood as her eyes adjusted to the light. “What has become of you, Clotho?” A tear came down the man’s face, and he carried Clotho out of the cellar. He gave her water and put her on his back, carrying her out of the cellar as she nodded off to sleep.

  Clotho woke up in a room with ornate curtains and carved gold, with elaborate engravings decorating the edges and corners of every item in the room. She thought to herself, "Somebody had wanted something from me." Again, she heard footsteps, this time with confidence. She noticed the time between the sounds of the steps and thought, "This person seemed to be walking with purpose—a sense of urgency, probably a servant or a high-ranking noble." The door opened, and a high-ranking noble with a silver-lined cloak and extravagant attire appeared, with almond-colored hair.

  The noble looked at Clotho. "You served King Raphael, correct?" Clotho nodded. "It had been brought to my attention by my sources within the court that there was a conspiracy against the crown by the clergy. This had weighed on my mind heavily because I knew what this empire, built upon the back of your deeds, had done to you. And yet, I dared ask this of you: If you would obligate yourself to the crown—no, the people—once more, I would give you my vessel. I was but a bastard and had no achievements to my name, nor strength or intelligence like my brothers."

  Clotho mustered a whisper. “Yet it seemed your soul had no less vitality, no less essence. I would not take your vessel, child. It was the Great Mother's gift to you and not yours to give.” Clotho smiled warmly. "My child, you needed not graft my soul to your body to bestow my divine spark upon you." The prince smiled pleasantly. “Good answer. It was never necessary to begin with,” the prince remarked. “There was a procedure that grafted a person's soul to a homunculus. You would have been freeing yourself and damning yourself to a seemingly eternal existence on the earthly plane. You would have never seen the weight of your deeds—not because you would not have been a witness, but because you would have been detached from the Mother and given yourself to the Father. You would have returned to her when you found your heart once more.” An uncharacteristic serious tone possessed the prince. “Alternatively, I would have allowed you to live out your days in peace in this very castle, but know that you damned us all.”

  Clotho finally mustered up the strength to speak despite her decrepit state. “I would aid you,” she stated, her resolve set.

  Below, the dank laboratory was dimly lit, with exotic creatures in vats and limbs hanging from chains in the ceiling, and the wailing of starved, malformed beasts in cages. A magus meticulously gathered the items needed for the procedure, and an emaciated old woman lay on the operating table among it all. The prince stood outside, impatient. The magus gave Clotho a look of reassurance

  “Lady Clotho, this operation consists of me chanting to achieve resonance within my mind, body, and heart to call upon Yargulash, the Lesser Great One of Death, to graft your soul to this vessel. The consequences entail stillness within the mind and heart for movement within the body. You are robbed of your divine spark for lives to come. You know no love, no pain, no joy, no suffering—only lust, only pleasure, only clarity, only logos, only principle. The union of the Mother and the Father is separated within you. Do you understand what you are sacrificing?”

  The beast in the laboratory continues pleading and wailing. A tear runs down Clotho’s face. “My humanity for lives to come, for the nations for centuries to pass. I understand that because of this, I will not be able to witness the weight of my deeds, but I will experience the weight of them for many lives to come.”

  The magus looks at Clotho and begins chanting. The light around the magus begins to bend and contort, and Clotho begins to feel her mind split, her heart break, as her soul is separated from her body and placed into the body of a creature with four arms, a tail, wiry legs with hocks, and feet shaped like those of a deer’s. However, no fur is present.

  Briefly, Clotho feels herself die, and then she opens her eyes. Her mind is empty. The fear she had before is there, but it no longer compels her to act, and her rationale is there, too, but it no longer stops her. Clotho looks at her hands and recites a verse from the Tabakha: