The Priesthood

It is said that Kalma’s rule was born out of revenge.

In the ashes of the Empire of the Sharan, at the gates of Urul, Kahsro’On pronounced the execution of the final rebel, Kalma Ishkil Ar’akan Orcun, who was escorted before the Kernen, the army of Kashro’On. He had no fear in his soul, no words of surrender as he walked, chained and bloodied to a makeshift platform that stood above them all. On that platform, a hooded figure stood with their backs against the crowds. They held a large sword, which rested on their shoulders. One could only see their eyes, bright and shocked with red as if they had just woken or cried moments before.

With each step he took toward the figure, he could hear how the crowd became louder, how their cries filled the air and echoed from the gates of Urul back toward the crowds, creating a constant noise that one could not escape.

And when he took his final step and reached the block that he was supposed to lay his head on, he was brought to his knees by the hands of his escorts, the two Kernen soldiers who wore their battle-worn armor, and on their sides the kukri that they carried in war.

The crowd slowly went silent, as he now was on his knees, facing the crowd, the many faceless Kernen who held their weapons tightly, their spears and their shields, their kukri and their axes, all the tools they had brought to the last empire of the Sharan, that now lay in ashes for they had come and they had won, and he was the last man who had stood in their way, the last of their enemies.

The hooded figure turned toward the crowd; he faced them holding the sword of an executioner—the sword that had ritually started the war and then would bring an end to it.

Kalma could perhaps feel it; the end was near; the war that had lasted a decade would come to an end; finally, there’d be peace. But at the cost of millions, and just for how long? He wondered as he smiled ever so slightly. These barbarians… They would not know how this would all end. They knew not who they were against.

The hooded figure placed his foot on Kalma’s back and forced his head on top of the block. The silence, you could almost touch it. The smell of blood was all around. The sweet smell—oh, how it yearned for his touch. They whispered; they yearned; they wished to be released. They wished to be set free. The blood that was in his veins pumped, it screamed, and it moved. Oh, how it longs to be free...

The figure raised his sword with both of his hands and looked down at the man that he would execute. One could almost imagine a smirk on their face as they brought the sword down in a violent gesture, a downward motion that bit into the bones of the man; it dug deep, releasing blood as it paved its way.

Only to stop... Halfway there.

The crowd roared, for the last rebel was dead. The war was over. They had won. They had brought their weapons up in celebration, but the man who had brought his sword to the neck he wished to sever could feel how wrong it was. He tried to lift his sword but to no avail. He pressed his foot on top of the corpse of the dead man and tried pulling as hard as he could. But the sword would not move; only the blood would flow out, slowly dripping and spoiling the wooden block that held his head.

If those who were in front of him could observe the eyes of the dead, the dull eyes that weren’t there, how sharp they were now, and the smile, the smirk, that was not subdued, how it slowly widened, how his lips curled and came apart, and the red, bloodied teeth showcased themselves.

If they could hear the slow inhale that went through his teeth, how it stopped, got cut off, and was soon released, as if it had only been a sigh, as if all this was a bore.

The executioner still tried to remove his sword from the neck of the dead man, but it would not budge. Soon he gave up and took the kukri of one of the escorts that were with him on the stage and began to violently hack at the neck. Blood would fly in an arc, but he could not hack through the midway. He could not release his sword; he could not separate the bone that held the integrity of the dead.

Instead, the man began to slowly stand up. He pushed with his hands and soon stood before them all, looking down on them. Judging them all, all of those who took part in the festivities of this execution and the death of his kin. They had come to his land. They had burned houses, villages, and cities. They had sunk boats and burned fields; they had laid salt so that nothing could grow there again.

There was panic as the crowds began to realize that the man who was supposed to be dead was alive. A man like him was born of death, the very end of all life. He had studied this element. He had mastered it. And he stood before them all as someone who was dead before he had walked onto the stage, long before they had captured him.

Kalma Ar’akan slowly spread his hands to the sides and let out a scream so that he’d have the attention of everyone gathered. Even the crows had gathered; even they had his attention; perhaps they knew what was to come. So patient they could be when it came to food.

No one could move; only he could. His neck and the flesh that was around it began to grow back, and slowly the sword that was stuck to his flesh was pushed out, and it dropped to the ground, followed by a loud sound that echoed through the silence.

He stretched his neck and brought his hands up, and one could hear each and every single bone of his body snap one by one. Then he dropped his hands to the side and peered at the crowds. A smile was not there to populate his face anymore; instead, discontent was there. Finally, his eyes found first the sword and then the kukri that lay on the stage. He sneered as he picked the kukri up and walked up to the executioner.

He peered into the red eyes of the one who had tried to separate his body from his head so much. With a swift motion, he cut his throat open, and blood sprayed on the stage, and soon the executioner dropped dead.

And so he walked around the crowds, one by one, cutting the throats of all the men that had gathered here on this day. Such justice the world had never seen before.

An ascension to godhood, the apotheosis of man, of a singular Sharan, and all this just for revenge.

The Kernen and their leader, Kahsro'On, perished not long after. They were all set free by a man who knew nothing about things like mercy; all he knew was the perverse justice that he had served this world.

And now that he sat before him on a throne of obsidian, a man who was barely a man but a Sharan to each inch of his body, a man who had become more like a dragon than a man.

Ignar had his head down, his forehead against the marbled floor as he tried to still see him, and those eyes—those dead eyes that stared back at him and at Kalla—who refused to bow before his king, his god.

In the court, there remained a shocked silence, for only Kalla dared to stand up before a creature that could easily destroy all that would think of going against his will with ease. And even when Ignar knew the story of Kalma’s ascension, he still couldn’t quite understand what the fuss was about.

Why kneel before a man?

A smile is never left unnoticed, and the smile that was on Kalma’s face was a smile one could never forget; it was a toothy smile with long fangs, each sharp and white, as were the iris of his eyes.

“The way you hold yourself has not changed, not even after a century; but your body, your face, your hair, and even your scales... You’ve grown old." Kalma said suddenly, his voice hoarse and the pace of his speech slow and detailed; each syllable was pronounced to be clear and easily understood.

Kalla scoffed. “Oh yes, I am aware of the very natural concept that is called aging... You, on the other hand, have not changed at all. You must be pleased.”

One could imagine a shocked gasp running through the crowds that had gathered in the court; perhaps there should be something, just anything, that would break the tension of this gathering.

As if knowing this and feeling the nervous tension of his court, Kalma got up from his throne and said, “Behold, my most renowned general has returned to court; rejoice, for my son has found himself and returned. Rejoice, for he has returned to me, and he has brought with him a child of his own.”

His eyes scanned the hundreds present, but his eyes ended where they had first been placed: Ignar.

“You’re all dismissed.” He declared after a moment that perhaps should’ve been filled with joyous cheers and declarations of health for their returned prince, but instead, the shocked silence remained. No one dared say a word.

Soon after his request, everyone began to leave, even Kalla, who smiled knowingly, and even the ever-confused Ignar got up from his knees, lifting his forehead from the ground just in time to see the displeased expression that their god held on his face.

“Not you two.” He scoffed loudly, and Kalla stopped in his steps. Soon, he gave a glance at Ignar, who still remained on his knees.

“As you can see, you’re not the only one with a difficult father,” Kalla almost yelled to make sure that those who weren’t quite out of the great hall of Kalma’s court could hear him as they hurried out, not daring to glance behind themselves, lest they bear witness to the wrath of God.

Ignar dared not get up; instead, he slowly placed his head back on the floor. Perhaps this way he’d be ignored by the two seemingly powerful men. And perhaps this way, he’d be able to hide away the shock of the truth that he had learned on this day.

Kalla stared at the young man near his feet, “Get up; there is no use for pretense when there is none to see it.”

And so, with a long sigh, Ignar finally got up from the floor, yet still he tried to keep his own eyes from meeting the eyes of either of the men in his presence.

“And what is his name?” Kalma suddenly asked; his voice was much calmer than before, the tension was broken, it had gone with the people he commanded to leave. What was left was the truth: three men.

Kalla slapped his son on the back, as encouragement or to show that he was, in fact, his son or that he had control over him, instead of Kalma. “His name is Ignar; I named him based on his most admirable trait. You know, ignorance is bliss, and here, in this room, he is the luckiest boy in the whole damn world, for he has no idea who the hell we are or what the fuck we’ve done, isn’t it right, father?”

Kalma eyed his son and his presumed grandson, “Knowing you, you probably told him the whole damn history of the world, but conveniently leaving out your involvement in it and blaming it all on gods who are just men.”

“Right,” Kalla sighed dramatically. “Gods, they’re all just men in disguise; never trust them.” He exclaimed and carefully lifted Ignar's head so that he would be forced to look at the imposing man who stood above them both.

“Isn’t he just beautifully dreadful? You’ve no idea how many died for his skin routine. But alas, we have no time to reminisce; it’s not like we can change anything that has already happened, nor will we receive sudden forgiveness for our misdeeds. As you know, boy, there are no gods to forgive us, no redemption for our sins or whatnot.”

Ignar just stared at Kalma, who in turn stared at them and at times rolled his eyes at Kalla’s words, “I blame myself, for bad parenting; I should’ve been more strict with him or more loving; who even knows anymore?” Kalma muttered loudly, “But indeed, we have no time. Well, I have time until the end of eternity... And you don’t; thus, let me declare loud and clear what I want of you, and you can then figure out for yourself why I want what I want.”

“You are to retake control of the Knights of the Order of the Dragon, and with this given right, I want you to answer only to me as you go around this empire and hunt down the people that are like a thorn at my side.”

Kalla smiled. “The rebellion?”

Kalma raised his brows, perhaps feigning surprise: “You get news in your isolated cottage in the middle of a forest?”

“Well, who hasn’t heard of your wishes to build a new temple? You know, the one that demands sacrifice?”

“Of course you have, and now you can go figure out the reasons and the meanings behind my decisions as you conveniently hunt down and decapitate the beginning of a greater issue.”

Kalla’s smile deepened. “Are you saying that the death of a few hundred thousand people isn’t a great issue?”

Kalma scoffed, “A mere statistic, but all done for a greater cause... Perhaps you will one day come to appreciate the sacrifices I am willing to make for the greater good.”

Kalla’s joyless smile withered away. “Your wish is my command.” He said and turned around to leave.

“And, for the sake of the future, mostly his, I will place your son into the Cadet School; they’ll make him into a man there,” Kalma added as he studied the face of the boy, who had been silent the whole time.

If he were still facing his father, Kalma could see a twitch on Kalla’s face, one perhaps filled with disgust, but instead of protesting, he repeated his words, “Your wish is my command.” And stormed out of the royal hall, with Ignar soon following suit.

They walked down the lavish corridor, with Ignar confused and Kalla pondering about something; his silence was enough to tell of such. This gave Ignar time to observe his surroundings, the decorations that garnished the walls of the corridors, and the long carpets that were no less decorative than the walls.

There were many new and interesting things that he had seen and learned in just a few weeks as they traveled from the forests they called home on the road toward the east, where the capital of the great empire was located.

Once, before the times of Kalma and his image of the empire, it was all called the Empire of the Sharan, although it had become corrupt and almost nonexistent since the armies of Kahsro’On had conquered so much of it in a terrible power struggle for the throne of the Empire of the Sharan.

Of course, Kalma was the leader of one of those factions a few millennia ago, and he was a mage of considerable power, and with magic that was of his own creation, he managed to somehow defy all odds and slay the armies that had come for him that had murdered his kin, his family, and his most loyal followers.

Now, this empire that was the image of Kalma carried a name more suitable considering its current leader: the Empire of the Dragon.

And the city he took as his capital was built on the sands of the Gates of Urul, perhaps so that all could remember what had happened here and how his apotheosis had happened. On the sands soiled with blood, on the fields that had burned soon after he was done with all the killing.

He built a city as a monument to his own great deeds and as something beautiful to contrast with the horrible history that was now buried beneath the streets of this city.

Anavasii, the city that was the proof of his godhood, his tyranny, and somehow, his mercy.

For couldn’t he have enslaved the world to be his own? Couldn’t he have killed more than the hundreds of thousands that he ended up killing with his own magic?

And now that they were here, on the stairs that would lead out of his palace, past the many gardens, fountains, and walls that protected the palace, keeping the poor and the mortals out of God’s sight, Ignar wondered the words that he had heard—the desire to build another temple, perhaps like this one. Perhaps, for another apotheosis...