Date: July 1, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
The morning dawned grey, like all mornings in the Dead Swamp. Low clouds hung over the bog, and the rare rays of sun that broke through stained the earth in sickly yellow tones. Kazai stood by the window in his chambers—formerly the council hall, which he had ordered converted into personal quarters. The walls, recently covered in soot and mold, were now whitewashed, and on them hung maps—not only of the surrounding lands, but of distant territories he planned to conquer one day.
He had not slept. The past days had been filled with reports, orders, and endless meetings. Hlis, his loyal aide, was working himself to exhaustion, and Kazai knew there was no point pitying him—the old warrior had chosen this burden himself. But today the morning had begun with unexpected news: the Seer was requesting an audience.
Kazai did not like the old man. Not that he felt hostility—he simply didn't trust him. These "visions," these vague prophecies, these hints about fate. He preferred cold calculation and iron logic. But the Seer was useful. His advice often proved correct, and his information was accurate.
"Enter," Kazai said without turning around.
The door creaked, and the Seer entered the room—stooped, wrapped in old hides, leaning on a staff. His face, carved with wrinkles, seemed even paler than usual. He stopped at the threshold, his white eyes fixed on Kazai's back.
"Your Majesty," the old man said, and his voice, creaky but still full of strange power, filled the room. "I have come to tell you what I should have told you long ago."
Kazai turned slowly. His face was calm, but tension was visible in his eyes.
"Speak."
The Seer came closer. His staff thumped dully on the stone floor, and that sound, measured and heavy, resembled the strikes of a funeral bell.
"There is a place," he began, "where the strongest of our people perished. Where the Root Church destroyed everything we had built over centuries. There, in the ruins, something is kept that will help you finish what you have started. Or ruin everything completely. Fate directs your path there."
Kazai was silent for a moment. His fingers, resting on the arm of his chair, twitched almost imperceptibly.
"A place," he repeated. "You speak in riddles, old man. Where exactly? What is there? And why should I go myself instead of sending a scouting party?"
"Because scouts will not return," the Seer answered calmly. "Because that place is not for ordinary warriors. It demands blood. The very blood that flows in your veins."
Kazai narrowed his eyes.
"You want me to venture into the unknown, relying on the words of an old shaman who can no longer distinguish visions from ravings?"
The Seer took no offense. He merely shook his head.
"I do not expect you to believe me right away, your majesty. I ask only one thing: think about it."
He bowed—not deeply, but respectfully—and headed for the exit. At the threshold, he paused.
"Time does not wait, your majesty. The longer you delay, the stronger the Root Church grows. They already know about you. They are already preparing. You must set out no later than two months from now. So fate commands."
The door closed.
Kazai was left alone. He stared into emptiness, his thoughts as heavy as swamp mire.
He disliked uncertainty. He disliked relying on the words of others. But the Seer had never been wrong. At least, not when it came to him, Kazai.
"Hlis," he called.
Silence. Then, from the shadows by the far wall, his faithful sword emerged. Hlis had been standing there all along, as unnoticeable as death itself.
"You called, my king?" he asked, and there was no surprise in his voice.
"You heard everything," Kazai stated.
"Yes."
"And what do you think?"
Hlis came closer. His face, usually unreadable, was now focused, almost grim.
"The Seer is not one to throw words to the wind," he replied. "If he says you must go, there is truth in it."
"Do you believe him?" Kazai asked.
Hlis paused. He remembered that night when he first saw the boy with eyes full of the abyss. He remembered how the Seer had foretold the coming of a King—and how that prophecy had come true.
"I believe," he said firmly. "Not blindly. Not unconditionally. But the Seer deserves trust."
Kazai looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Very well," he said. "I will think on it. But first I must settle the affairs of the Kingdom. I cannot leave with everything as it is."
He moved to the window again, gazing at the grey sky, at the silhouettes of buildings under construction, at the smoke rising from the chimneys of new forges.
"Right now we have more pressing tasks," he continued. "We need to consolidate power, raise an army, prepare the ground for future conquests. Without that, the Kingdom of the Rejected will remain nothing but a loud name."
Hlis nodded. He waited.
"Send out messengers," Kazai ordered. "Have them gather everyone. Those who have already proven their loyalty, and those who still doubt. I want to hear each one. I want to know what's happening in my Kingdom. And then… then I'll decide what to do next."
"It shall be done," Hlis replied and bowed.
He had already turned toward the exit when Kazai called after him:
"And Hlis… keep an eye on the Seer. I don't like it when someone knows more about my fate than I do myself."
"As you command," Hlis said and left.
Kazai remained alone. He looked at the maps hanging on the walls, and his thoughts were far away—beyond the swamps, beyond the forests, beyond the mountains, in that place the Seer had spoken of.
*Perhaps the old man is right,* he thought. *Perhaps I truly should go there. But not now. First I must be certain my Kingdom won't collapse without me.*
He went to the table, picked up a knife, and drew the blade across his finger. A round drop of blood welled up.
*You say blood is needed? Very well, you shall have it. But only when I myself decide the time has come.*
He licked the blood away and smirked.
There was no mirth in that smirk. Only cold, calm certainty.
---
The next day, the council hall was full.
There sat those who had already proven their loyalty. Those who had come with Kazai, who had shed blood for his name, who were not afraid to look him in the eye. And there were also those who still doubted—elders from distant clans who had agreed to submit but not to trust.
Kazai stood by a tall window, his back to those assembled. His black hair was neatly combed back, and he wore a new cloak—black, with the symbol of the Kingdom of the Rejected embroidered in gold. He waited for everyone to take their places.
Hlis stood at his right hand. His face was calm, but inside the old Adept, anxiety churned. He knew that today Kazai would not simply speak. He would decide.
Kazai turned around.
"We are gathered here to discuss the future," he said, and his voice, quiet but full of authority, carried through the hall. "The future of the Kingdom of the Rejected. Your future. My future."
"I want you to tell me yourselves the reason why you deserve to live." His voice rang out again, like a nail in the coffin of everyone present.
He swept his gaze over those assembled, lingering on each face.
"I will listen," he said. "You speak."
Silence was the answer. But it was not the silence that precedes a storm. It was the silence in which empires are born.
Kazai waited. He knew the first step had to be theirs. Because only the one bold enough to speak first is worthy of being heard.
And a moment later, the hall filled with voices.