Deus Necros

The Imperial Capital of Lufondal seemed to be brimming with what felt like a great sense of joy and pride. It was not the fleeting kind of celebration that came and went with festivals or victories, but something cultivated carefully over time, reinforced by ritual and spectacle. The air itself felt lighter, filled with layered sounds, laughter, distant music, the rhythmic clatter of boots against stone, and the low murmur of tens of thousands of voices gathered together.

Noble streets that were usually pristine and reserved now overflowed with color and movement. Banners and flags were draped from balconies, towers, and archways, their silks heavy and immaculate, fluttering just enough to catch the eye.

The phoenix and the dragon, the symbols of the Imperial family, dominated the cityscape, embroidered in gold thread, painted onto stone, carved into pillars and shields as if the capital itself wished to remind everyone who it belonged to.

The family that reigned for more than seven hundred years. The weight of that span was difficult to grasp, even for those born beneath its rule.

Empires elsewhere rose and fell within a fraction of that time, torn apart by succession disputes, rebellion, or simple decay. Lufondal endured. In all those centuries, the official histories claimed they brought nothing but prosperity and good for their people.

Roads were maintained, borders secured, granaries stocked, trade routes protected. Stability became synonymous with the imperial name, and for many citizens, stability alone was enough to inspire loyalty, even if it came at the cost of freedom.

It all began with the founding Emperor Eugene Lufondal. His name was taught to children before they learned their letters, spoken with reverence and inevitability. He spread the wings of the empire through conquest and politics alike, wielding armies when necessary and treaties when convenient.

Though an empire was usually all-encompassing in its lands, Eugene chose a subtler approach. Kingdoms were permitted to exist within imperial borders, allowed to keep their rulers, customs, and banners, so long as they acknowledged the throne. They were still part of the empire, bound by tribute and obligation, even if their sovereignty remained an illusion carefully preserved for appearances.

Unless a kingdom went against the throne. That condition was never hidden, never softened. Should defiance arise, mercy would vanish. The kingdom would be decimated, its lands absorbed directly into Lufondal as imperial territory. Its ruling family would be erased, its history rewritten into warning. This law had stood unchallenged for seven hundred years, enforced without hesitation whenever tested.

That was, until the Kingdom of Tulmud sought another path. Rather than prosper within the empire’s shadow, they reached outward, searching for alternatives. Alliances were whispered, trade rerouted, ambitions nurtured quietly until they grew bold enough to act. To seek aid with demons and go against both The Sword and the Holy book.

When they failed, the reigning family of Tulmud fled, abandoning their people and their crown. They were branded betrayers, cowards who sold out their nation and ran when consequences arrived.

That was what the populace knew. It was the version repeated in taverns, taught in schools, and recorded in official chronicles. It was not the full reality of things. Not even close. The true circumstances were buried beneath sealed archives and silent graves, and they would remain there. The empire understood that truth was not always a virtue worth preserving for the masses.

Truth isn’t always pretty, nor is it always helpful.

Lufondal had always ruled with an iron fist. Sometimes wrapped in velvet, sometimes bare and unyielding, but always iron. Many resented it quietly, nursing grievances they dared not voice aloud. Others accepted it as the price of order. Very few possessed either the power or the will to oppose it. If not for the unforgiving terrain and natural defenses of the Sand Kingdom, annexing it outright would have been trivial long ago.

Today, however, was a special day. A day deliberately shaped into celebration. The declaration of war had been rescinded, not with blood and fire, but with seals and signatures and the heroic deeds of a few young men and women.

The Emperor himself had invited all the young heroes who had managed to find a solution that avoided a full, drawn-out war with another kingdom. The empire did not fear war, never had, but war always consumed lives. Soldiers, civilians, families. And preserving life was a victory of its own.

The heroes of this tale were many. Among them were names hidden from public knowledge, erased from records and spoken only in classified chambers. Others were names that had been scorned, whispered with suspicion or outright hatred.

Today, all of them would stand as heroes, backs straight beneath the gaze of the empire. Their pasts would be explained, their deeds reframed, their sins expunged, if they had any, by imperial decree.

****

“Bunch of bullshit,” Ludwig muttered as the carriage moved forward. His voice was low, edged with irritation that refused to be fully suppressed.

The carriage that was carrying him was decorated with more gold than wood. It was less a vehicle and more a declaration, its surface layered with ornamental plating and filigree that caught the light at every angle.

The seams between panels glowed faintly with embedded sigils, old imperial runes stacked atop one another in redundant patterns. There was enough magical protection woven into its structure to rival a small fortress, wards against physical impact, elemental intrusion, curses, scrying, even hostile intent. Ludwig could feel them humming constantly, a low, irritating pressure that scraped against his senses and made his skin itch.

Next to him sat Kassandra, composed as ever, her posture relaxed as she watched the streets slide past through the crystal-clear window. Her eyes followed the crowds, the waving hands, the scattering petals, as if she were watching a play unfold exactly as rehearsed.

“You really need to at least wave at them, mr hero.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Ludwig said, his tone clipped. The word scraped against him worse than the wards. “Heroes suck, big time.”

“That’s strange coming from a young man,” Kassandra replied, finally turning away from the window to look at him directly. “Everyone would want to be a hero. You’re the only one refusing it.”

Ludwig let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw tightening as the carriage rolled onward. The cheers outside pressed in through the reinforced glass, muffled but relentless.

“Being a hero means that you have obligation to stick your neck for others when you can simply walk away,” he said. His fingers curled slightly against the armrest, the material creaking faintly under his grip.

“I’m no hero. Never was. Never will be. I’m here for my own personal gain, always have, always will.”

Kassandra didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on him, sharper now, searching beneath the words.

“You’re being a bit too irrational,” she said at last. “Something happened to you since you came back from the Kingdom of the sand… you okay?”

Ludwig’s dissatisfaction was obvious. He was doing a poor job hiding it, his presence heavier than usual, aura pressing against the enchanted interior of the carriage before he reined it in by force. The pressure receded, but the tension didn’t.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He didn’t sound like it.