The Eternal Empire

MONTH 3 DAY 14

Immortrium had surprised Ruxian many times since he disembarked at the dock in the early hours. He had never seen a city built like a triple decker cake, with rapid waterways separating the layers. The towering architecture and well-lit streets had the familiar scent of modernity. Most importantly, there was a food stall that attracted a sizeable queue with the aroma of fried meat and sizzling oil.

“Two brams,” rasped the withered old man, handing over a dozen kebabs. “Thank you kindly, good sister.”

Having eaten little more than hard bread and cold potatoes, the intense burst of flavours transported Ruxian back home, to his very first excursion to the night market, the taste that made him yearn for the city life. And now, he was one step closer to home, assuming Lucius was right.

“Wonderful,” praised Ruxian. “Thank you.”

“High praises this pitiful creature,” the chef muttered, peering up at Ruxian with squinted eyes while counting his coins. “By the Goddess, would you happen to be an Otherworlder?”

“Is that what I am?” asked Ruxian. “I guess. The name’s Ruxian. you are?”

“Lord Ruxian,” he repeated the name, nodding. “The kind folks call me Malak. Hardly a name you need remember.”

Ruxian shook his hand, much to the elder’s surprise. This habitual gesture of friendship jolted his skull and left Ruxian clutching his head like a child who just took a bite of ice cream. Though the psychic clash was not as severe as the one he had with Lucius, it still left him dazed.

“I’m sorry,” he managed after a while. “I can’t control my magic.”

“It is quite alright,” replied Malak, shaking his head. “You meant no harm.”

As his ears ceased ringing, Ruxian got a better look at Malak. There was something resembling a short horn faintly glowing on his forehead.

“Mr. Malak,” ventured Ruxian. “Are you a…Dracon?”

“Ah…yes,” Malak conceded, brushing his smooth stub. “I…made my peace with the Empire.”

“But aren’t your people…” Ruxian trailed off, reprimanding his curiosity with a resounding slap to his forehead. “I’m sorry. Never mind.”

“Quite alright, my lord,” chuckled Malak. “Not all Dracons share Lady Blackmoon’s militant vision.”

It was neither the aftertaste nor Malak’s words, but his resigned eyes that stayed with Ruxian on his way back to the inn. Malak, just like the war veterans who visited his class school, was another man who lost something and never got it back.

Waking to a soft bed and a hot meal eased Ruxian from the long journey. Susie, who insisted on sharing his room, drank a glass of milk and left the other dishes untouched. Frowning, Ruxian shoved a slice of the oversized ham onto her plate. Something had the girl on edge. She twiddled her thumbs, fidgeted with her short skirt, and dropped her fork several times.

“Is something wrong?” asked Ruxian. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Susie replied quickly and shook her head. “I was just…” She fell silent for a time. “Did that demon – Dracon – say anything?”

“Susie, he’s a harmless old man,” said Ruxian. “What do you have against the Dracons?”

Susie hugged herself and stared down at her plate. “The Dracons razed my village,” she whispered. “We didn’t have a hero to defend us.”

Susie was not the only one out of sorts this morning. Joining them on the docks was a fully-suited Dramien, his chin smoothly shaven and his wild blond locks tied back. Ruxian wrinkled his nose and nearly laughed. The hardy warrior wore perfume!

“What’s this?” teased Ruxian. “You meeting your in-laws?”

Dramien tightened his jaw and shuddered. “Lord Ruxian, are you reading my mind?”

“Is that fear I sense,” Susie chimed in, equally amused, “from our famed spear of the south?”

“You too?” Dramien sighed. “Well. For the record, this in-law got famously drunk, wrestled a Targonian Grizzly naked, and offended the locals by surviving.”

“And he’d do it again!”

Ruxian jumped at the words that exploded like a mortar round. Turning, he found a grizzled man even taller than Dramien in shining breastplate and greaves, his golden epaulettes shimmering under the sun. His steely eyes, square jaw, and the long scar on his cheek reminded Ruxian of those medieval generals he’d seen in plays and movies.

Dramien spun around and brought a fist to his chest. The martial salute, however, made the stranger furrow his brows. Instead, the larger man smothered the young officer in a hug that left Dramien fighting for air, his face red as a lobster.

“Dramien, my boy!” the man boomed, unaware, or perhaps uncaring, of the attention he attracted. “Good to see you!”

“General Balethorn,” greeted Susie, bowing. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”

“Just an old man here to see his favourite son,” chuckled the general. “Is that the hero of Sothrend? Just the one?”

“Yes,” answered Dramien, still rubbing his throat. “Brother Lucius couldn’t summon more this year.”

“Lucius of Sothrend…” remarked the giant as he scratched his beard. “Why, that’s the grandson of the archbishop. Well, even the best trees can bear sour fruits.” He turned to Ruxian, still laughing at his own joke. “Pardon me, good hero. I am Kerroth Balethorn, commander of the Imperial Guards. Can you understand me?”

“I’m Ruxian,” replied Ruxian, craning his neck just to face Kerroth. “Hope I don’t disappoint you, general.”

“The Goddess brought you here for a reason,” said Kerroth, gesturing to a mammoth vessel. “Lord Ruxian, the Eternal Empire welcomes you.”

The paddle-wheel boat rumbled up steep waterways, leaving two long wakes behind it. The ride, smoother than Ruxian had expected, afforded him ample time to appreciate the Eternal Empire instead of puking over the side. The houses hugging the river consisted largely of old, discoloured masonry. Covered in moss, Ruxian could feel the mould that must permeate their corners. The fishermen lining either side filled the air with the stench of fish guts, bringing the city boy to tears.

As they climbed higher and higher, the small, decrepit architecture made way for cubic mansions. Exotic flowerbeds replaced the fishermen, finally allowing Ruxian to breathe freely. Arriving at a glistening lake after a long ascent, Ruxian found himself beneath the shadow of the looming palace, an elephantine agglomeration of high walls and spear-like spires that might as well have been an island.

Slowly, they drifted into a long line of vessels, and circled around until the front door, or rather, a granite wall adorned with the Goddess’s likeness, came into view. With a deafening groan, the blindfolded woman submerged, unleashing a thunderous clash of currents that rocked the boats. Almost stumbling overboard, Ruxian clung to a steadfast Susie. It was then that Ruxian realised he had never gotten another peek into her mind. Was it his lack of control? Or did she put up a defence?

Disembarking inside a cavern lit with the Targonian glyphs, Ruxian tightened his white – now considerably brown – lab coat around him to block out the cutting wind. Kerroth, offering Susie a coat, gave an impressed nod when the nun turned it down with a polite smile. Dramien, however, remained by the gangway with folded arms.

“It’s good to see you’re still in good health, General Balethorn,” said Dramien. “I must go –”

The general placed a firm arm on Dramien, an affectionate gesture that made the young man wince. “It’s Dad,” he corrected him. “And it wouldn’t hurt your prospects to show your face in high society for once.”

“I haven’t seen Vera in months,” replied Dramien, sighing. “She never complains, but sometimes I wish she did.”

“She’s a good girl,” agreed Kerroth, withdrawing his hand. “Well, why are you still here?” He gave Dramien a fatherly shove that almost toppled the young man. “I want grandsons but will settle for granddaughters.”

Ruxian tried his best not to laugh, having himself, too, experienced similar exchanges every time he travelled home during the Spring Festivals. His dad would be polluting the balcony with second-hand smoke, occasionally interjecting as his mother cycled through his marriage prospects like a commission-hungry private investigator. He vowed then that he would immediately board the first high-speed train to see his parents when he gets home.

Emerging from a winding marble staircase, sweating, Ruxian found himself in an antechamber larger than his entire apartment. The gilded furniture, priceless paintings, carpet thick as a dictionary, and the dangling chandeliers froze the hypnotist in place, fearing that even an errant brush of his coat would lead to instant bankruptcy.

A group of maids dressed in austere black swarmed Ruxian. Helpless, he looked to Susie for help, only for the nun to murmur something to the attendants before herding him through a marble doorway with firm hands. Undressing him without hesitation, Susie mapped his contours with a cold ruler and scuttled out with the women, leaving Ruxian to stare at himself in the mirror.

The reflection was foreign to Ruxian. Unshaven and several inches thinner around the waist, he barely resembled the man who marched into a TV studio just a few weeks ago. As curious fingers scratched the beard, he steadied himself and spotted two equally undressed men behind him. The tattooed one waved, studying him with feline sharpness.

“Who the hell are you?”