half-starved, their clothing threadbare. Little had changed in the ninth
tier. By design, the citadel’s lowest level held society’s dregs. Barely more
than slaves yet they clung to their positions with a rabid ferocity. Stewed in
their own misery, they fought to survive, fermenting the feral qualities the
Mordant prized in his assassins. He nodded in approval, pleased that nothing
had changed, all part of his grand dark design.
People cheered as he passed, reaching for the Mordant’s bounty. Dancing
in the street, they held loaves of bread aloft. A frenzied, festive feeling
prevailed. The Mordant smothered a smile. By beginning each reign with a veneer
of benevolence, he gave his people a leader to revere, a hope for a better
life, a grand delusion that ensnared their loyalty. And all the while they
blamed their misery on the priesthood, the ruthless administrators of the citadel’s
harsh laws, the cruel taskmasters who separated the people from their god-monarch.
The Mordant laughed, enjoying the beauty of the delusion. Mortals were so
easily deceived.
A young boy ducked between two solders, his gaze fixed on a fallen round
of bread. Oblivious to the Mordant’s warhorse, he darted toward the crusty loaf.
Startled, the warhorse reared, lashing out with ironshod hooves. The boy
tripped and fell, cowering beneath the rearing horse. The Mordant yanked on the
reins, forcing the stallion to settle, turning the horse away from the boy.
A guard grabbed the boy, slapping him across the face with a gauntleted
hand.
“No!” The Mordant stayed the guard. “Give him a loaf of bread and return
him to his mother. See that he is not harmed.”
Saluting, the guard leaped to obey.
A roar of approval echoed through the street.
The Mordant smiled, another delusion of benevolence.
The procession resumed its stately march, slowly spiraling toward the
upper tiers. Gatehouses divided each tier, but on this day, all the gates were
thrown wide open. As the street spiraled upward, the Mordant rode from poverty
into prosperity. Dirt and grime gave way to gleaming polish. Colors appeared in
the crowd, crimson and sapphire and malachite, bright silks and warm furs replacing
drab wools. Each tier had its purpose, from the lowly rabble, to the servants,
the craftsmen, the soldiers, the armorers, the acolytes, the officers, and the
priests, each according to their worth. B y its very nature, the tiered city enforced a soul-numbing stagnation
designed to feed the Dark Lord. Sons were condemned to the trade of their
fathers and daughters were raised to bear more sons. The rare few who advanced
beyond their birth station, did so by climbing on the backs of others. And
above all, everyone sought the intercession of the Mordant, seeking a chance to
vault above their station.
Shadows lengthened, cloaking the citadel in shade. The streets became
steep, slowly spiraling to the palace. With each passing tier, the Mordant’s
largess changed. By the time he reached the top, the four pages threw coins of
silver and gold. Even in the upper tiers, the people pushed and shoved,
scrambling for every coin. Greed remained pervasive in the citadel, a mortal
trait the Mordant encouraged.
Rounding the final bend, he found the way forward blocked by immense
doors clad in gold reliefs, the gatehouse to the first tier. A flurry of
trumpets announced his arrival. An honor guard snapped to attention, black
banners fluttering in the wind. The Mordant nudged his horse toward the final
gate.
Four times the height of a tall man, the golden doors displayed triumphs
from his past lives. The cataclysm of Azreal, the creation of the Pit, the
destruction of the Star Knights, the battle at Breanth, the raising of the Dark
Citadel, the completion of the Gargoyle Gates. Victories, betrayals, feats of
dark magic, the gates displayed the legacy of his past lives, all done for the
glory of the Dark Lord. The Mordant smiled, knowing this lifetime promised to
eclipse them all,
tier. By design, the citadel’s lowest level held society’s dregs. Barely more
than slaves yet they clung to their positions with a rabid ferocity. Stewed in
their own misery, they fought to survive, fermenting the feral qualities the
Mordant prized in his assassins. He nodded in approval, pleased that nothing
had changed, all part of his grand dark design.
People cheered as he passed, reaching for the Mordant’s bounty. Dancing
in the street, they held loaves of bread aloft. A frenzied, festive feeling
prevailed. The Mordant smothered a smile. By beginning each reign with a veneer
of benevolence, he gave his people a leader to revere, a hope for a better
life, a grand delusion that ensnared their loyalty. And all the while they
blamed their misery on the priesthood, the ruthless administrators of the citadel’s
harsh laws, the cruel taskmasters who separated the people from their god-monarch.
The Mordant laughed, enjoying the beauty of the delusion. Mortals were so
easily deceived.
A young boy ducked between two solders, his gaze fixed on a fallen round
of bread. Oblivious to the Mordant’s warhorse, he darted toward the crusty loaf.
Startled, the warhorse reared, lashing out with ironshod hooves. The boy
tripped and fell, cowering beneath the rearing horse. The Mordant yanked on the
reins, forcing the stallion to settle, turning the horse away from the boy.
A guard grabbed the boy, slapping him across the face with a gauntleted
hand.
“No!” The Mordant stayed the guard. “Give him a loaf of bread and return
him to his mother. See that he is not harmed.”
Saluting, the guard leaped to obey.
A roar of approval echoed through the street.
The Mordant smiled, another delusion of benevolence.
The procession resumed its stately march, slowly spiraling toward the
upper tiers. Gatehouses divided each tier, but on this day, all the gates were
thrown wide open. As the street spiraled upward, the Mordant rode from poverty
into prosperity. Dirt and grime gave way to gleaming polish. Colors appeared in
the crowd, crimson and sapphire and malachite, bright silks and warm furs replacing
drab wools. Each tier had its purpose, from the lowly rabble, to the servants,
the craftsmen, the soldiers, the armorers, the acolytes, the officers, and the
priests, each according to their worth. B y its very nature, the tiered city enforced a soul-numbing stagnation
designed to feed the Dark Lord. Sons were condemned to the trade of their
fathers and daughters were raised to bear more sons. The rare few who advanced
beyond their birth station, did so by climbing on the backs of others. And
above all, everyone sought the intercession of the Mordant, seeking a chance to
vault above their station.
Shadows lengthened, cloaking the citadel in shade. The streets became
steep, slowly spiraling to the palace. With each passing tier, the Mordant’s
largess changed. By the time he reached the top, the four pages threw coins of
silver and gold. Even in the upper tiers, the people pushed and shoved,
scrambling for every coin. Greed remained pervasive in the citadel, a mortal
trait the Mordant encouraged.
Rounding the final bend, he found the way forward blocked by immense
doors clad in gold reliefs, the gatehouse to the first tier. A flurry of
trumpets announced his arrival. An honor guard snapped to attention, black
banners fluttering in the wind. The Mordant nudged his horse toward the final
gate.
Four times the height of a tall man, the golden doors displayed triumphs
from his past lives. The cataclysm of Azreal, the creation of the Pit, the
destruction of the Star Knights, the battle at Breanth, the raising of the Dark
Citadel, the completion of the Gargoyle Gates. Victories, betrayals, feats of
dark magic, the gates displayed the legacy of his past lives, all done for the
glory of the Dark Lord. The Mordant smiled, knowing this lifetime promised to
eclipse them all,
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