The Storm King

Into the great palace the envoy led Leon’s group, though Leon set a more lackadaisical pace that clearly grated on the envoy’s nerves. She didn’t rush them, however, aside from a few dirty looks, so Leon took the time to observe their surroundings in more detail.

The atrium of the palace wasn’t nearly as large as he would’ve expected given Archelaus’ rank in the Nexus hierarchy—his palace on Aeterna was larger. A long hall, two rows of columns, a floor of polished stone, and a plush carpet running down the center of the hall. The columns were intricately carved with reliefs that spiraled upward, packed with so much detail that Leon’s eyes almost glazed over when he tried to examine them while walking.

The ceiling was entirely made of gleaming bronze, with cloud-like ripples flowing across the metal. Occasionally, an arc of golden lightning would travel across the ceiling’s surface, only to be drawn into large crystals that formed the capstone of every column. These crystals would then glow, providing most of the hall’s illumination, though Leon suspected they served other purposes too given how much magic power he could sense within them.

Half a dozen doors led out of the hall, but it was to the one in the very back, directly opposite the grand double doors that served as the palace’s main entrance. Every door had a pair of powerful-seeming golems guarding it, while Leon counted some two dozen people moving about while they made the short trek down the hall. It was a busy place, though Leon thought it should’ve been busier if it were to adequately administer such a large region as Archelaus apparently had.

Another chamber awaited them beyond the next set of doors, this one a large octagonal chamber with a grand dome above it held up by eight more sturdy columns. Benches lined the walls, while slabs of glowing crystal were set into the walls, providing light. Light projections of various animals swam through the air, illuminating everything they passed by. A dozen more golems stood guard in the room.

Several people were sitting on the benches upon Leon’s arrival, and he wouldn’t have paid them any mind had he not recognized after a short delay the aide that accompanied Djoser to Alhamachim—‘Miranda’, if Leon’s memory served him rightly.

His group’s entrance drew her attention, too, and she spared a moment to glare at him, and then pointedly ignored his presence afterward.

“Your companions will wait here,” the envoy instructed Leon. “The Eminent Archelaus will see you in private.”

The corners of Leon’s golden eyes tightened, but with a silent gesture, he ordered his people to stay behind.

“If anything happens,” he said over his shoulder as he followed the envoy toward the next door, “make a racket.”

“Easily done,” Cassandra replied with a vicious grin while Red hungrily stared at Miranda and the dozen people on the other side of the room.

Leon exchanged no more words with his people as the envoy swiftly escorted him through the enormous bronze doors that opened of their own accord upon their approach.

Immediately on passing over the room’s threshold, Leon found himself almost humming with delight, for the room was packed with lightning magic that danced across his body. It felt almost like hovering in the eye of a terrible storm, soaking wet from the rain, clothes charred from the lightning—or in a word, paradise.

The room was dark and moody, illuminated by blue crystals set in the walls. The room itself was terraced into five different sections by rows of four stairs each, culminating in a platform above them all where a massive throne made of cloudy crystal sat. The crystal emanated magic slowly into the air, which coalesced into clouds that covered the ceiling and occasionally flashed with lightning. The floor, walls, and presumably the ceiling hidden behind the clouds were all made of the same rough black stone that seemed to eat all the light within, contributing more than even the clouds above to the room’s atmosphere.

It was a throne room designed for petitioners, Leon thought, given how long and narrow it was, and not for holding great gatherings or meetings. Still, it was impressive in all the ways that mattered, and he did find the stark, black, stormy aesthetics appealing in ways that white marble and shining gold simply didn’t.

Lazily reclining upon the enormous crystal throne was a man who was about as far away from regal as Leon could imagine. He was dressed in soiled rags that looked like they hadn’t been changed in centuries. His hair was long, filthy, and greasy, and his equally long beard was straggly and matted. However, the man’s aura was immense, opaque even to Leon’s eyes, indicating his power.

This was Archelaus, of that Leon had no doubt. Cementing his assumption even further was Djoser standing off to the side, bent slightly at the waist with his hands folded in front of him, making it clear with his body language that he was in the presence of someone he considered superior to him.

“The jackal finally arrives,” Djoser spat quietly, though in the large, empty throne room, his voice carried from one end of the hall to the other.

Leon held his tongue despite the temptation to respond. He considered it a wise move when a moment later, Archelaus spoke.

“So this is the boy who claimed descent from the Thunderbird Clan?”

The man’s cold gray eyes swept over Leon’s form, making him feel naked beneath such a weighty gaze. It was almost encouraging when the man’s face remained solid and unchanging as stone in the seconds it took the envoy to escort Leon over to the crystal throne upon the highest terrace.

“As ordered, Eminence,” the envoy said, “I present Leon of House Raime before you, who claims the title of ‘Last Heir of the Thunderbird’.”

“Sheer arrogance,” Djoser claimed as Archelaus dismissed the envoy with a wave of his hand. “We are all descendants of the Thunderbird!”

[Keep telling yourself that, child,] the Thunderbird snapped from within Leon’s soul realm.

More diplomatically, Leon stated aloud, “Technically true—the Thunderbird Clan is an old Clan. But claimed family lineages mean little in the face of power.”

Djoser scoffed. “Your delusions of grandeur can be dealt with after you vacate Alhamachim. That city is mine, as decreed by Your Eminence not even three thousand years ago!” Djoser turned to Archelaus, appealing to the dirty Despot for restitution.

Archelaus, however, simply stared Leon down, his hard eyes practically piercing into Leon’s own.

For a long moment, Leon wondered if Archelaus had even heard Djoser, and it seemed the Strategos himself wondered the same as his expression turned concerned and he took a hesitant step toward the Despot. However, after Djoser took only a single step, Archelaus saw fit to speak.

“Bow to me,” he demanded, “and see your appointment as Strategos confirmed. I will allow you to keep Alhamachim, in return for your fealty.”

A dreadful smile spread across Leon’s face as his knees and waist remained unbent. “I did not come all this way to give myself to a new master. I am a King, and Kings do not bow to others.”

“You mad dog,” Djoser exclaimed more out of shock than anger. “Consider your surroundings, you pompous dunce!”

Leon’s eyes turned in Djoser’s direction slowly, contemptuously. “Take your own advice, Djoser; no Despot worth following has others speak for him.”

The Thunderbird laughed within him, and he could sense through their contract amusement from Xaphan, too.

[My blood… bows… to no one!] the Thunderbird elatedly screeched in between great guffaws.

Djoser looked scandalized, but Archelaus was unshaken. Instead, the Despot raised his hand and, in an instant, shot a lightning bolt from his finger toward Leon.

Reacting with all the speed he could call upon, Leon raised his defenses, evaluating the attack in a split second.

The bolt was small, more a probe than a true attack.

‘A test…?’ Leon thought as he reached out with his magic and ‘caught’ the bolt. The bolt slowed as it reached him until it stopped completely barely a millimeter from his outstretched palm.

With a grin, Leon closed his fist around the bolt, silver-blue lightning arcing between his fingers as he extinguished Archelaus’ power. It took a moment, but Leon succeeded.

Djoser’s glare turned even more derisive. “Proof that you are a mongrel, dog, nothing more. Colored lightning means nothing aside from proof that your ancestors lay with beasts.” He rolled his neck and shoulders a few times as a smile spread over his lips. “In the words of the Great Lord Khosrow, ‘Scorned are those who consort with the low creatures; suffer not their progeny to live.’”

He took a threatening step forward and Leon readied himself for a more serious threat, but with but a single glare, Archelaus froze Djoser in his place.

“If we followed Khosrow’s Law to the letter, the universe would be filled with the headless,” Archelaus stated. “The Divine and Ascended Beasts of the Primal Age interbred with humanity so long ago that we all have a little bit of beast within us. It is no coincidence that the Canticles of Hormizd are those most oft-ignored.”

Leon blinked a moment in confusion before the Thunderbird clicked her beak and quickly said, [One of Khosrow’s ill-begotten sons, Hormizd was killed before the man himself.]

To Leon, Archelaus said in a gentler tone, “I find you problematic, Leon Raime. I was… eh, what I was planning doesn’t matter. However, so close to the King’s Ocean, your chosen settlement invites the Ocean King’s ire. Perhaps it’s for the best that you do not bow to me, for I would not be the reason why the Ocean King marches upon the Storm Lands. I will allow you to keep Alhamachim and its hinterlands as a part of an acknowledged Theme, and in return, you will not move any farther east, whether at the behest of the people or not.”

With every word Archelaus spoke, Djoser’s eyes widened further in disbelief. Leon, too, was surprised, but when Archelaus finished, it was Djoser who jumped in to speak next.

“Your Eminence, you bestowed that land upon me! That city is mine!”

“It is my prerogative to edit Themata as I see fit,” Archelaus replied, once more silencing Djoser with no more than a look. “What say you, Leon Raime? Is this an equitable compromise?”

“I seek neither conflict nor conquest,” Leon replied. “As far as I’m concerned, so long as peace between us is maintained, then we have no reason to fight. I find this agreement to be quite reasonable.”

“Good. I will send you home, now.”

With a wave of Archelaus’ hand, a bell rang throughout the hall, though from where, Leon had no idea. The sound was soft to his ears, though he noticed Djoser sway slightly, his eyes narrowing slightly in apparent pain. Archelaus seemed unaffected, but he stared searchingly at Leon until the last echo of the bell died.

Leon stared right back, noticing but not turning to face the envoy when she returned, apparently summoned by the bell.

“Take Strategos Leon Raime back to Alhamachim,” Archelaus ordered her, his eyes not leaving Leon’s. “Do not tarry.”

“As Your Eminence wills,” the envoy replied before turning to Leon. “Follow me, Lord Raime.”

She began swiftly walking back the way she and Leon had come, but Leon paused a moment, staring back at Archelaus. The man wanted something from him, or was looking for something… but Leon couldn’t tell what. He was unwilling to ask, so feeling only slightly perturbed, he finally followed the envoy out of the hall.

He’d gotten essentially everything he wanted, but the whole thing left him feeling rather uneasy. If Archelaus had made him work harder for this acknowledgment, he’d have felt better, if he were to be honest.

‘Reinforcements from back home can’t come fast enough,’ he thought. He had a terrible feeling that if Archelaus was going to be this generous, then he was playing into something he couldn’t see, some grand game that he didn’t know enough about local politics to perceive just yet. Regardless, he needed to be stronger to not be used. At the very least, as he felt Djoser’s eyes bore holes into his back as he left, he didn’t think he was done with that particular problem, just yet.

He took comfort in the fact that Artorion was protected by four eleventh-tier mages. By themselves, they should pose enough of a threat to keep any direct challenges at bay until he could more greatly establish Artorion.

‘Emphasis on ‘should’.’

---

As the clang of the bronze doors closing resounded throughout the hall, Archelaus felt Djoser’s anger. It roiled off of him like heat from a fire. Yet Archelaus spared him not a single look, preferring instead to stare at the closed door and track Leon’s departure from his realm with his power.

A curious boy, to be sure, but he didn’t lie; he truly had the power of the Thunderbirds, a power that Archelaus had thought gone from the universe.

The corners of his lips twitched upward at the thought of that bloodline’s return. ‘Finally,’ he thought, ‘something to kill this boredom for a while. Good luck boy, you will need it once more ambitious men hear of you…’

As he grinned, he asked Djoser, “What are you planning, child?”

Through clenched teeth, Djoser responded, “I am not a child!”

Archelaus snorted in amusement. “To you, two thousand years is an entire lifetime. To me, it’s an afternoon nap. Now answer my question.”

Like a scolded child, Djoser turned away and folded his arms over his chest. In a sulking tone, he claimed, “Nothing.”

“Nothing, eh?” Archelaus responded. “Fine. I can always punish you after the fact.”

Turning back to the Despot, Djoser demanded, “Why? Why give that land away?! Land you gave me?! Will not Basileus Ramin be upset?”

Scoffing, Archelaus said, “You claim you are not a child, yet you allow your pride to get in the way. Think for a moment, and you may find your answer.”

Silence followed for nearly a whole minute. Djoser at least appeared to give the matter some thought, but when no response came, Archelaus rolled his eyes.

“Alhamachim is so inconsequential, Djoser, that I would bet you did not once think about the city until that outlander raid. Am I wrong?”

“I give all of my lands equal attention,” Djoser claimed.

“By the dripping anus of your Ancestors, child, why must you lie? Such a small city on the periphery of your Theme, you do not pay as much attention to it as you do Ishtorpor or the Golden Mire. Even the Third Castle of the Iron Order will demand more of your attention than an autonomous city buried in the mountains. You will not notice Alhamachim’s absence, let alone Basileus Ramin. Do you claim I’m wrong in this assessment, too?”

Djoser went silent again, so Archelaus continued.

“The land west of the Bolt Mountains was the most heavily raided of all the Storm Lands during this cycle until about twenty-thousand years ago. The only reason it changed is because people simply stopped living there. A few have tried to settle there since, but all attempts have ended sailing down the pale rivers of the Aesii. Now ask yourself, child, where those raids originated from.”

Fortunately, Djoser wasn’t so slow with his response this time. “The King’s Ocean.”

“By Khosrow’s swinging cock, you finally answer rightly! Yes, without a strong Storm King to shield us, even Basileus Ramin cannot stand against the forces of the Ocean King! I believe that this will be the state of affairs until Kamran and Halbast sort out who will finally don the Storm Crown. Only then will attention turn from east to west, and we can secure these frontiers. Until that happens, I would prefer a buffer zone, some kind of neutral Theme that can establish itself in that area. That way, we only need to worry about our southern flank. If the cities of the Westgate fall, then the Ocean King will run right into the heart of the Despotate.”

Though it seemed like Djoser was pulling his own teeth, he said, “I hear you, Your Eminence.”

“You hear me, yet you will not let this matter go, will you?” Archelaus’ eyes fell upon Djoser, the weight of his gaze causing the eleventh-tier mage to hunch over slightly and stare at the floor. A frown spread across Djoser’s face as he endured, while his already dark cheeks darkened further with anger and embarrassment.

“I will… not act against this upstart’s Theme,” Djoser claimed.

“Good,” Archelaus responded.

Silence stretched for a moment between them until Djoser straightened up and asked, “Was his power true? Is he truly of the Thunderbird Clan?”

Archelaus smiled. “He was certainly using inhuman powers. It’s been so long since the Thunderbird Clan ruled the Storm Lands that I don’t even know how many would remember their power.”

“All the universe knows of that white and blue lightning,” Djoser said.

“Aye. But that proves nothing. It’s the power contained within that matters, not the color it takes. I’ve seen far more charlatans and others who have similarly-colored lightning. Either way, it hardly matters. Let this little chick roost in the west. He’ll draw the Ocean King’s attention away from us. For a time, anyway…”