“Xeros is an enigmatic person. The war wrought by his desire has plagued our land since as long as I can remember, yet his appearances at the forefront are few and far between. None truly know the depths of his power, but what makes him truly terrifying is his all-encompassing sight. No corner of the land is spared from his gaze. From the green fields of plain and hill, to the very center of our capital… all we can do is warn thusly: Beware the shadow’s gathering. Destroy the Corvid’s Eye.”

—King Ascalon, Ruler of Polus

———

Xeros

Gravitas is late. Where is that buffoon?

Hidden at the very heart of Nox Caelum’s spire is a war room of charcoal and crimson. The space is small, narrow, and a dim flickering of torch above casts a foreboding, feeble light upon the shadowed interior.

There, an imposing man paces back and forth with weighty, rumbling stomps. The air cowers before his subdued rage. His glare frightens even the surrounding Creation.

The man feels a strange sense of unease. Did that fool fail his mission, or did Polus not succeed in locating the Comet?

He has planned this scheme for a very long time, vigilantly lying in wait for the moment Creation’s celebration would announce its nonsense throughout the world. Even when the Polus began to make their move, he did not stir. Even when the Aeternum proved far too obvious a sanctuary for Cosmos’s chosen, he concealed himself in shadow.

All of it is for this moment: the moment when he may cripple those flying insects once and for all. Everything should have been perfect, yet here he stands: bereft of any reports from the battle-crazed tyrant.

Something is afoul.

Gravitas has his eccentricities, but the man’s capacity for carnage is unparalleled. He has his use, and he would not fall easily even if his adversary is to be that infuriating worm: Lorelai.

He lets out a grumbling, husky sigh and seats himself at a crimson seat at the room’s end.

The Unbending Throne of Steel is still in defense at their far-most bastion.

The Untamed Throne of Nature was last seen departing to the Polus capital.

And the King… that whimpering craven will never leave his cage.

Only Lorelai is left to direct their expedition. I foresaw it all, yet this unease will not leave me. Could those fools have prepared a trump card?

Meager thoughts will only lead to more speculation. If he is to discern the truth, then he shall do so with his own eyes.

Soon, advisors and adjutants from around the empire begin to trickle into the obscured room—each one saluting the man with a rigid countenance before situating themselves around a lengthy steel table.

“Report,” he commands.

“Yes, Grand General,” the senior administrator replies. “In regards to the first matter of our agenda, the eastern front is holding strong. The Arch Magus is still unaware of the Commander’s absence, and no large assaults have been made at the border barring a few small skirmishes from the scattered tribes.”

“Mm. Proceeding as planned. What of our business talks with the President?”

“Unfortunately, our negotiations are at a standstill, sir. The President continues to refuse our request for more automated transports. However, we were able to quote a price for a number of their metal ingots and fuel, though the total cost is slightly above our designated budget.”

The man grumbles, nails scraping against the ends of his worn seat. The other attendants sit at edge, heads downcast and gaze trembling in avoidance, but he cares not for their disrespect. It will not do to become more irritated than he already is.

“That gold-blooded crone is as obstinate as ever, but not unexpected. Agree to the terms and continue to apply pressure onto their embassy.”

“Yes sir.”

Now, it is time for the true matter of importance.

“What of the expedition led by Gravitas?”

The senior administrator’s demeanor is swiftly enveloped in hesitation. Xeros prepares for the worst.

“The status of Commander Gravitas is currently unknown. Our scouts have reported sensing loud vibrations shifting through the earth, so it is assumed that the ambush succeeded in collapsing the Polus construct. For a few hours, traces of battle could be heard from the Aeternum’s border with the sounds stopping completely a period later. Our forces have diligently waiting to welcome the Commander back for the past week, but there has been no sign of him nor his division since then.”

A thunderous crash startles the room. Xeros has smashed the war table into two with a single slam of his fist, leaving the broken ends to collapse feebly atop the soles of the petrified attendants.

“… And what of the Polus,” he seethes.

“Y-Yes, it appears the Polus are in a similar state. No sign of the Heaven’s Throne or her expedition have been found, but our scouts did report seeing some of the Seraph flying near the border; however, none have entered the forest.”

“So Lorelai has failed as well.”

His expression softens for the first time this passing month. Perhaps not all is for naught.

“I apologize for my unsightly display,” he says with a dry indifference. It does not do much to fix the nervous air, but the other officials appear to relax their guard if only for a brief moment.

“…You are certain none of the Seraph are within the vicinity?”

“Yes sir.”

“Mm, then bring me the approximate coordinates of the battlefield. I shall judge the situation with mine own gaze.”

“Of course. We will bring forth the map at once.”

With the war table collapsed, two soldiers hastily grab at the sides of a long, aged scroll and hold it in place in front of the man.

“The battle is presumed to have taken place at the northeastern outskirts of the forest, thus the best location for your conjuration is… here.”

The administrator marks the location with a bright red X.

“I see. All of you, stand back.”

The atmosphere begins to clench as a faint crimson energy crackles from his body. Sparks of dark lightning sizzle the surroundings, and the malevolent force concentrates at the tip of his fingers.

Xeros brings his hand up and lets loose the thunderous aura straight into his scarred eye.

A gathering, obsidian fog seeps out of the discharge, forming a small cloud of darkness in front of his blinded socket. The aura condenses and thins until it covers the entirety of his iris—turning it an ominous pitch-black.

His vision is no longer confined to the war room. Now, far away from the city of smog and haze, a similar cloud forms above the withered treetops of the Aeternum. It begins as an opaque blur, but slowly it grows. Larger, solid, more ferocious, until eventually it gathers into a swirling nascent thundercloud.

The energy parts way, and a gigantic, corvantine eye is revealed—gazed directed to the scenery of destruction below.

It is as Xeros feared. There, laying pathetically in the filth, are the remains of Gravitas. A single slash has severed him in two, the bisection cauterized by extreme heat. Did Lorelai triumph against him? It appears that woman is stronger than I initially thought.

Hm? Well now, this is peculiar. Most peculiar, indeed.

In the distance, Lorelai’s corpse lays not too far from Gravitas’s own, her body sprawled out upon the earth—head disgracefully decapitated and tainted by the mud.

A great, euphoric joy burns in the bowels of Xeros’s gut. A creeping smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and a booming chuckle threatens to be released from the depths of his soul.

But something is amiss. A disquieting worry slithers into his mind.

…Who has slayed her? Not Gravitas, that is for certain. Another nation, perhaps? No, they are not close enough to deploy their elites without attracting my attention.

He looks closer, admiring the defiled visage of his long-loathed foe, before noticing a crucial oddity.

Lorelai’s blades are gone. The twin treasures of the sun and moon… they have belonged to the Polus Kingdom since its inception. Only another of the Seraph, or a being that can completely suppress the blades’ ego, are able to wield them. Those acknowledged shall be rejected, burning the veins and freezing the lungs. It is an experience the Grand General is personally familiar with.

So who could have stolen them? What being is more powerful than he whilst also remaining a secretive cur? Xeros sweeps his sight across the battlefield, attempting to locate any traces of the one who could have subdued two of the world’s strongest, but his scrutiny is met with nothing of worth. No tracks. No footsteps. All life has completely perished in this damned domain, and an eerie stillness corrupts the air. The forest is now truly a land of death.

However, there is an oddity about the bodies that blanket the area. Although many have been killed by natural causes such as dismemberment, some of them appear to have perished in rather bizarre manners—knight and legionnaire alike.

Some crumble on the floor without so much as a missing limb, as if an intangible force eroded their bodies from the inside.

Some are reduced to sundered, grotesque piles of flesh, but their wounds bare no gashes from steel, as if their transformation was wrought by their own hands.

Regardless of the method, they all bear a stark resemblance: faces, gaunt with unbridled terror. Blood pools from their eyes and scratches cover the faces of those who attempted to disquiet the maddening whispers of whatever force invaded their mind. 

Xeros knows of only one possibility that could have brought forth this ruin, but it is impossible. The miasma has yet to rise. Remnants of Gravitas’s power faintly remain, and although the dark mist shows signs of release, not enough time has passed for its malaise to have such a visceral effect.

No, there is something much more sinister afoot, but Xeros remains obscured to the truth. There is nothing that can be discovered in this necropolis.

How unfortunate, infuriatingly so. There is nothing more he despises in this world than the looming threat of the unknown, and he is desperate to pursue further into the mysterious being that caused the massacre, but the strain in his eye is reaching its breaking point. He must return.

The Corvid’s Eye fades into a scant wisp, the miasma swallowing all before the eye disappears into the emptiness. Gravitas’s influence remains no longer, and he is consumed along with the other wretches until there is nothing left but fractured earth and abandoned husks.

Xeros returns with a gasp, sweat dripping down his furled brow. 

“Gravitas is dead,” he states wearily. A wave of confusion submerges the members of the war room into a nervous murmur, but they are silenced with a wave of his hand.

“However, Lorelai of the Heaven’s Throne has also perished. With their core leader dead, Polus is unlikely to act for now.”

“How shall we go about the eastern front?” the administrator says. “It is only a matter of time before the Arch Magis grows suspicious of our lack of movement.”

How, indeed.

There is one available method, but the mere thought of considering it heralds an outpour of disgust from the Grand General. However, he would be a fool to let go of such an opportunity.

“Mm… organize it so: Relocate Commander Libevich from the central front lines to the east. We cannot risk exposing our rear to the Augurium Astrologians. Halt the main advance and order the legionnaires to take defensive positions.”

“L-Libevich, sir? But her gift is not suitable for defense—”

“Are you questioning me?”

Xeros’s query thunders as an oppressive challenge. The administrator sinks into their seat, breath wracked with sputtering chokes. Their eyes dart. Their hair rises from the increasing static discharge in the air.

“N-No, sir. Please forgive me. I-I don’t know what came over me, but I would never—”

“Cease your bootlicking. It revolts me, those words filled with groveling deceit. Speak your mind true, or remain a silent whelp. Am I clear?”

The Grand General is not in a tolerant mood. His patience has run out..

“…Yes sir.”

“Then get out. You are no longer needed here.”

“At your word.”

The terrified administrator bows his head before promptly exiting the room, his fleeting steps echoing amongst the ears of the room’s members. The others dare not speak, for they know what wrath awaits them if they are to break the silence.

“Who does that fool belong to?” Xeros mutters, rubbing his tired eyes.

“…Alchemist Regent Nokron, sir,” one of the advisors states.

He sighs. “I expected as much. That man has become far too complacent whilst locked away in that laboratory of his. A leader’s qualification is reflected in their men; I cannot allow his failures to run rampant.”

Perhaps a change of air shall serve to remind him of his duties. If not, well… there are many eager to take his place.

“Hm, yes. This shall serve as the perfect opportunity. Have Nokron relocate to the Magnus Murus. The isolation at the fortress will give him ample time to discipline his personnel. If he fails, banishment will be the least of his worries.”

“By your will shall it be done.”

“Very good.” Xeros rises up and massages his poor, stressed body. “Ah, and prepare an accompanying force of our legion’s best. Luxanne and I shall soon need depart.”

The administrator is partially correct; Matriarch Libevich is not suited for campaigns of defense. However, she needs not to. All the Grand General requires of her is to buy him time.

Time to seek out a fitting foe for the Arch Magus.

He will be too occupied to launch an invasion, and when the Caelum forces have gathered in stride, then shall this twenty-year blood war come to an end.

The Comet’s disappearance worries me, but for as long as no nation has control over their blessing, then it is no consequence whether I retrieve them now or after I have conquered Polus.

Yes, everything is still proceeding as planned.

“Where shall we set your course, sir?” the advisor asks.

“…To the arid land of tribe and barbarism: a territory ruled by the one known only as the Overlord.

“We shall depart to the Steppe.”