Ascent & Descent

| Wilkson |

IT WAS PURE MADNESS.
Terror and fear filled the stone streets of the High City, but alongside it came shouts of glee and exhilaration. Wilkson kept to the ever-moving crowd, everyone huddled in dark cloaks, pushing and shoving. He looked to the distance—the beautiful stained-glass walls that lined the front of the Vitrail Palace were now shattered. Its tall dark walls loomed above them, the spires even sharper in this bloodstained darkness. A thick, long wooden post stood in the centre, reaching past the shattered window frames; some- thing covered in black was bound to it. Though not a small man, Wilkson was shoved back and forth, a tangle of people pushing their way forward or trying to run away.
Fires burned around them and in the far distance. Homes and shops alike lined the path of destruction from their people, the Néosan that now marched their way along the sides. He knew he’d have to leave soon. The Néosan would start rounding everyone up within the fallen High City and sort through who was worthy and who was not.
Forced closer, he stumbled towards to the rainbow of shattered glass, the pole coming closer in view. Dawn was almost near, the sky brightening as if showering the spot in light.
People started to slow, unmoving, and Wilkson looked closer to see why. A man and a woman both stepped out from the broken walls and

atop the shards of glass. The light from the rising sun illuminated them, making their presence that much more terrifying or elating, depending on whose side you were on.
“Finally!” roared the man before them. Thousands cheered, but people somewhere behind him started to push and cry in terror, and Wilkson finally saw why. The man had turned around and slid the large black sheet off what was revealed to be the now dead king of the fallen High City. His long black hair was matted with blood, covering most of his face. Deep cuts, black bruises, and ripped skin decorated his naked body. His arms were missing, and his legs bent oddly, wrapping behind the pole. Wilkson’s father and the last ruler of the Zalman clan, their last source of peace, hung dead before them.
Horror ran through him, paralyzing him at the sight.
Raghnall could continue gallivanting like the hero he was, but that wouldn’t be enough. It had been six days since the man and woman before them had left the burning house to complete their coup. Six days since he last saw Raghnall. He hoped the bastard had managed to save the baby and get out of the house in time. The peace that Raghnall and the High City had maintained was shattered like the coloured glass crushed beneath these murderers’ feet.
As if reading his mind, the man continued, answering the yells. “Peace? What peace do you cry for? The Zalman clan and their descendants have been lying to you for years! Using their words and magic to influence you!” The man stepped forward, his dull green eyes sweeping the faces of excitement or terror. “Are you shocked? Are you surprised to hear my words? Devinal were born among them. They led us with their lies, using their power against us! But we! We broke free!” He pounded his chest, the roaring rising.
Wilkson’s heart dropped.
Devinal were rare to begin with, and to his knowledge, he was one of the few Devinal born into the Zalman. No one knew this fact, not even his

own family. And even though he was a powerful Devinal, he would not be able to stand against this. Nor would he want to, but it mattered not at this point. He watched as the Néosan began to capture and bind people around him. It was starting; he’d need to leave now. Slowly he stepped back just as the voice continued to ring over him.
“We have worked with all of you for many, many years. Showing you the way, the right way.” Thousands cheered louder as the man smiled wide- ly, his long black moustache and short beard moving with every word and every smile.
Wilkson could sense it. The people frozen in fear were now accepting their fate. Slowly they all started to listen to his words. They knew full well that if they didn’t obey, they would be next. Another piece of broken glass added to the pile they stepped on.
“This ends the reign of the Zalman and of the High City! From now on, WE, the people, shall rule! We shall create this empire and walk togeth- er into a new future!” He raised his arms wide, the deep burgundy cloak blowing around him. Finally, the woman next to him moved. She stepped in front of the man and the dead king to speak; her hair was just as red as the blood that dripped down the wooden post.
“Just like you, we have suffered at the hands of the High City, from their ideals and what they believed peace to be. But where were they when I was left alone? As a mere child, my parents pushed me aside to survive, blinded by the High City and what they offered to maintain their hold on us!” Her clear voice cut across the chaos.
“Where were they when they stole Artaxiad’s father from him, his mother from him?! They were here, building peace atop our sacrifices, pushing us to the side, pushing you all out! We were nobody to the Zalman clan! All of us were pawns for their idea of peace! Subjects to use their filthy powers on!” she yelled, her light grey eyes piercing through everyone around her. Even Wilkson stopped again to listen to her.
“We are here to be your voice! We are here for you, the ones who have

been tossed away for not meeting their ideals! And anyone who stands in our way stands against us. Just like my parents.” The woman gestured to the side. Four Néosan brought forward an older man and woman, forcing them to kneel before the red woman. Both were taut with fear, their dark steel eyes full of tears and horror—eyes that were pleading for forgiveness, for mercy, for anything as they yelled into the cloth that silenced them.
Silently the man gave the woman a blade. She stared at her parents for just a moment, an expression of hatred etched in her face before she slashed their throats. She nudged them to the side with the hilt of the blade, watching their bodies fall over and tremble their last breaths.
Ice flowed through Wilkson, watching the blood seep over the shattered glass. What madness had come before them? How were they any better than what they claimed the High City to be?
Someone fell near him, and a Néosan came forward, dragging the person away. He needed to leave, but his body didn’t want to move. Dread enveloped him, keeping him in place. They were doomed anyway; what did it matter if they fought back? Even if he ran and hid, even if he faked his own death, they would find him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped against hope that Raghnall would still be alive to fight. To do something, somehow.
The woman tossed the blade to the side, wiping her hands on a handkerchief and moving next to the expressionless man. The sounds of cheers reached Wilkson’s ears, drowning out the yells of terror and fear.
The man took a deep breath, smiling wider still. “From this day forward, we will be the Empire that carries us into a stronger, better future.” He opened his arms widely. “I, Artaxiad, as your king, and Pandora as your queen, will lead you all into the right direction—the best direction—are you with me?!” he yelled with power and might as even more cheered than before.
Artaxiad turned to Pandora, looking at her with triumph.
Pandora smiled, looking into the crowd of their followers.