Chapter Text
There is power in a title. Or, rather, there are titles that hold power. That power is a fickle thing. It is not gifted, or taken, or even earned. At least, not quite. There is no true rhyme to those who find it sinking into their soul, dwelling in their bones. There is no reason to it, no why, no answer. Power bleeds. It leaks into the cracks of the world and finds residence in those who can hold it, in those who can use it, for better or worse. Power is a boon, and it is a burden, and those who bear titles, true titles, bear with it an eternal curse.
Never shall they walk their lands as a mortal once more.
They shall be doomed to live and watch, and die and live, forever… until the day their time runs out.
And with it their power.
Their title.
Their people.
This is a story of empires. A story of rulers. Rulers who stand apart with their power. Rulers who cannot fall… Until their empires crumble to ash at their feet.
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In the shadow of a lonely tower, there is a wizard who appears very young, her soft face unmarred by scars or time. She sits on the edge of the structure, among the clouds, with her legs dangling into open air. Her head is tilted back, and her long orange braid lays between two floating clusters of crystals that shine with purple light. Behind her sits a gnarled staff with a similar crystal caught in the crook at the top and, beyond that, a finely carved lectern holding a purple book that thrums softly with power.
The night is cold in the mountains. The air is clear and sharp, stinging at her cheeks, and the moon is bright. She pulls in a long, slow breath, and looks down.
Tucked away at the base of the cliff her tower is built on is a small village. Lights twinkle distantly out of windows and sparkle softly off white and purple stone. It seems… peaceful. The ominous red beam of light is starkly out of place, as are the winding red vines and pulsating red… something that cover the small tower it’s emerging from. A faint frown tugs at the wizard’s mouth.
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A king stands with his features cast harshly in candlelight, the furrow in his brow deep with shifting shadows. The light glints off his copper crown and flickers in the reflection in his eyes. Before him is a monument carved from the sand on which he stands, lit from all directions with tens of fragile flickering flames.
Behind him sits a grand structure that is merely one of many covered with greenish-blue and coppery-orange, colors vibrant against the simple sandstone. The towering buildings shine in the chilly darkness of the desert night, odd floating orbs keeping the area bright even as the heat is slowly leeched from the city’s sun-warmed stone.
The king slowly circles the monument, passing candles in a rainbow of colors before coming to a stop before several the color of sand. He reaches out for a cluster of four, letting the flames dance between his fingertips. He doesn’t flinch, his expression as blank as the wasteland of the desert beyond the safety of the city’s light.
-
The sound of waves and rushing water echo around a dim room, a queen’s bright pink hair shining in the light cast by a large sprawling map. She stands framed by the entrance, eyes fixed on the stars visible beyond her towers, which are pink and blue and as ancient as her. She tilts her head, light sparkling across the scales on her cheek.
Behind her, on the sprawling map, eleven colored markers sit. They are innocent and small, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the world depicted on shining enchanted paper. Two appear a great deal older than the others, beaten and scuffed and bent. One sits in the middle of the ocean, the other is nestled amongst the distant mountains, beyond the jungle.
With a soft sigh, the queen lifts a twelfth marker in her webbed hand and tilts it to catch the light that seems to shift and twist as though it’s being cast through water. Slowly, she brings it up to her lips and the thoughtful frown that sits there.
-
A fire crackles, warm and bright, in a little hearth. A tiny figure sits before it-- a lost traveler, a refugee, a queen of one. Her dark hair catches the firelight, and her red and white spotted mushroom hat sits at a precarious angle. At her back lays a wolf, a warm fuzzy presence that is currently serving as a back rest. Both of her hands are buried in its soft fur, clenched loosely and jerking slightly as she sobs.
The wolf lifts its head and nuzzles at her cheek, damp with glistening tears. The queen hiccups with a more forceful sob and turns to bury her face in her companion’s fur, wrapping her tiny arms around its neck. The wolf huffs and snuffles at her pointed ear before dropping its head onto its paws once more, watchful eyes fixed on the door.
The window beside the door is open, the curtain fluttering in a faint breeze. The cool night air carries with it the scent of something rotten, but neither the chill nor the smell are able to penetrate the warm bubble that surrounds the lost queen.