When he had first seen the thing as a child, Sorat had found himself utterly in awe of its size and majesty. It had spoken to him on a primal level as it listed the many wonders it could bestow upon him. True to his youthful foolishness, he had believed its lies and had based all of his plans around them.
As a worn-down man sitting atop the throne, Sorat was reminded of the things he had given up to attain his place upon it. Each day brought with it the increasing familiarity of humiliation and self-loathing. The obscene object that had once so captured his imagination now mocked him as he climbed its steps every morning and spent his days polishing its surfaces with his increasingly aged body. Without mercy, it constantly reminded him of the boy he had once been and would never be again.
From his raised position, Sorat looked out over his throne room. He was prepared to yet again pass judgment on those who were unfortunate enough to need such services in the lone city controlled by the man who ostensibly ruled all of Tyte. It was just another pointless day in what had become a completely pointless existence.
On either side of the throne were fifty brave men seemingly prepared for battle. They stood as still as statues with their spotless armor covering the vital portions of their bodies and their steel-tipped spears held beside their gleaming ovular shields. Collectively, the one hundred picturesque soldiers were half of the members of Sorat’s Imperial Guard. It was the only army he had ever commanded.
Despite being the most impressive aspect of Sorat’s surroundings, there was no doubt in his mind that the guards were completely useless. They had never been needed and would never be needed. Why, after all, would anyone ever want to kill him?
The only other creature in the throne room was an old and bent man named Klawdus. He was, unfortunately, the emperor’s primary advisor. Sorat was about to signal for the impish secretary to announce the start of the day’s schedule when he noticed that there was not a single person listed on his calendar. Not even a lowly Miz had come to seek the court’s aid. Sorat exhaled deeply as he imagined just a few of the better paths he could have taken during his life. Any one of them would have been a vast improvement over his current situation.
As Sorat was sitting on his throne and feeling sorry for himself, he felt a sensation. It was oddly familiar to him yet also completely terrifying. It started as a mild irritation deep in the pit of his stomach before moving upward to his head as it steadily intensified. It made him feel as if he would be sick at any moment. Bewildered by the suddenness of the discomfort, Sorat glanced down at Klawdus only to see a reflection of what his own face must have looked like.
Just as quickly as the sensation had arrived, it transformed into something new. Sorat no longer felt like he would be sick, but he could still feel something. It hung in the air around him and seemed to be tangibly thickening the space around his body. Finally, he was able to recognize the feeling. It was the same one that he had always felt on those rare occasions when someone was using magic near him. But, he realized with growing unease, it was stronger. It was so much stronger than anything he had ever felt.
Before Sorat could make any sense of the situation, the doors that led into the great hall directly across from his dais flew open apparently of their own accord. The event only served to further stun the emperor. It was no secret that all Tytans could use magic. Sorat himself could move small objects with nothing more than his own mind and will. But it took at least two strong men to open just one of those doors with physical force. No one could perform such a feat with magic alone.
From his throne, Sorat could see a figure approaching the suddenly opened entrance. The man did not appear to be in a hurry, but he was not hesitating either. He was simply walking steadily toward the doorway. Nothing about him seemed unusual to Sorat from that distance. He was wearing dark clothing and appeared to be roughly the size of an average Tytan man. Despite his nondescript appearance, Sorat had no doubt that the newcomer was the source of the powerful display.
As the disturbing man drew near, two of Sorat’s protectors moved to cut him off at the doors. It was the Imperial Guard’s official policy that anyone seeking to enter the throne room, or the emperor’s presence elsewhere, had to be checked thoroughly for weapons. It was important that appearances were always maintained after all. The two guards, apparently just as on edge as Sorat, approached the entrance with their spears lowered and their shields raised. The stranger seemed to either not notice or not care. He simply continued coming toward them at his deliberate pace. Step after step he came, as if he knew nothing could stand in his way.
The guards reached the doorway first and used their impressive size to block it. The man kept walking. They warned him to stop in the name of the emperor, but he came straight at them without breaking his stride. Just before he reached the throne room, the man swung his left hand in front of him as if he were merely swatting at an irritating fly, and the two guards went soaring through the air. They did not move from the spots on the floor where they landed with a pair of sickening crunches.
Sorat saw all of this happen with his own eyes, but he could not force himself to believe any of it. His body was frozen to the throne as he felt his fingernails painfully break through the skin of his palms. Perspiration was rolling down his sides, and he gently started rocking back and forth like a child. He silently told himself that none of it was possible. It had to simply be a bad dream. Yes, he would soon wake up in his bed and begin another monotonous day as the ruler of fiction.
As Sorat looked down from on high and attempted to wish the situation away, every present member of his Imperial Guard acted in unison. Those brave soldiers moved to charge at the man who had quickly become the enemy. In an instant, the sharp edges of their spears were pointed menacingly in his direction. They were ninety-eight machines of war who knew how to do this one deadly thing in a superior manner. If the situation had called for it, they would have fought a force twice their size with complete confidence in their own abilities.
None of them survived long enough to take a second step toward the man. They all fell down before him. The sound of their armor clanging against stone further jarred Sorat’s nerves. Seeing them lying on the floor, he had no doubt as to their fates. Each of them proudly displayed the still and peaceful grace that only the lifeless manage to possess. The grisly sight brought the taste of bile to Sorat’s throat.
Apparently unmoved by the sacrifice of the guards, the intruder passed a cowering Klawdus and continued to the base of the throne. Slowly, he made his way up the steps with his face turned downward. Sorat could only see the top of the man’s head as he made his way toward him. The uncontrollable shaking of his hands proclaimed him the coward he had never known himself to be.
Too soon, the man reached the seat of the throne and lifted his face to meet that of the emperor. The icy glare of his eyes seemed to penetrate into the very depths of Sorat’s soul. In that glare, he saw his distant past come back to haunt him. He saw the future of the world stretched out before him and knew it had no place for him. In short, he saw his doom. It was a doom he had never thought to fear. Sorat began to whimper as the doom spoke to him through an almost-forgotten smile. “Hello, Brother.”
Chapter Two of The Last Kinmark is available here!
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