Wielder Of Time

Back in the Asterios Empire, in a chamber that was dimly lit, the flickering torches along the stone walls casting restless shadows that stretched and twisted across the floor. It was an ancient place, older than the empire itself, hidden beneath the grand halls of the imperial palace. Here, the empire's most powerful figures gathered—not in the war room, not in the council chambers, but in the sanctum of their gods.

At the head of the room sat Emperor Thalor Astera, his golden hair glinting faintly under the warm glow of the torches. His emerald eyes, sharp as a predator's, stared ahead with a quiet intensity that silenced the room without effort. Behind him, carved from flawless stone, stood three towering statues. Aurelion, the Radiant Sovereign; Ignis, the Eternal Flame; Nytheris, the Veiled Arbiter. The gods of the empire, the founders who had once walked as mortals before ascending to divinity.

Before the emperor, three men stood in silent reverence, their postures rigid, their faces solemn.

To the emperor's right was Duke Wyncall, his expression hardened like tempered steel. He had the proud bearing of a warrior, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his presence alone exuding an aura of command. His lineage was a direct line from Ignis Wyncall, and he carried that pride like a mantle.

In the center stood Valerian Draegor, the Imperial Blade—Asterios' most decorated general and its deadliest warrior. His features were sharp and unreadable, his body as still as a statue, but beneath the surface, he was always calculating, always ready. He had led countless campaigns in the name of the empire, and his presence here was a testament to the gravity of this meeting.

To the left stood Duke Lorian Briston, father of Khione, his silver eyes gleaming under the flickering light. Unlike Wyncall's visible impatience or Draegor's controlled silence, Briston was composed, his expression giving little away. He was a man who saw beyond the surface, who weighed every decision with the foresight of a chess master.

The four had just finished a prayer, their voices rising in solemn unison before fading into silence. The scent of incense lingered in the air, curling in ghostly tendrils toward the vaulted ceiling.

When the last echoes of their devotion faded, the emperor finally spoke.

"The Dorian Kingdom is either blinded by arrogance or emboldened by something unseen."

His voice was calm, measured, but beneath it was a quiet steel, a promise of inevitable consequences.

"To provoke the Asterios Empire at our borders…" His fingers tapped once against the armrest of his throne, the only sign of his inner irritation. "It is an insult we cannot ignore."

Duke Wyncall scoffed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "They need to be reminded of their place. The Asterios Empire does not tolerate defiance. A swift strike will send them cowering back into their frozen mountains."

Valerian Draegor, ever the voice of reason in times of war, did not immediately agree. Instead, he exhaled softly through his nose before speaking.

"A swift strike would be satisfying, but reckless. If we move too aggressively, the other nations will take it as justification to act against us. They have been waiting for an excuse, and we will not hand them one."

Duke Lorian Briston nodded. "The empire has endured for centuries because we do not act rashly. But," his silver gaze flickered toward Wyncall, "that does not mean we do nothing. They must be made to understand the cost of their defiance."

Wyncall scoffed. "So we let them think they can stand against us?"

The emperor raised a hand, and silence fell. He let it stretch for a moment, his piercing gaze sweeping over the three men.

"Do not mistake patience for hesitation."

The torches lining the chamber walls flickered violently, the shadows stretching and twisting, as if the very air responded to his words. His green eyes, gleaming with an almost otherworldly light, locked onto Wyncall first, then Draegor, then Briston.

"The Dorians are nothing. Their kingdom, their warriors, their so-called strength—none of it matters." He stood from his seat, his robes shifting around him like flowing gold. "They are nothing compared to the will of the gods. Nothing compared to the power of our founders. And nothing compared to the might of the Asterios Empire."

The flames flared brighter, revealing the full grandeur of the statues behind him. Aurelion Astera, standing tall with a scepter in one hand, the other raised in divine command. Ignis Wyncall, wreathed in sculpted flames, his blade forever poised for war. Nytheris Briston, her veiled gaze piercing through the veil of time itself, holding the celestial scales of fate.

These were not just idols. These were the founders. The ones who had shaped the empire, whose blessings still coursed through the veins of their descendants.

The emperor's voice dropped to a near whisper, but it carried through the chamber like thunder.

"No matter what the Dorians believe they have, no matter what gives them confidence, it will crumble before us."

A chilling stillness settled over the room.

Duke Wyncall exhaled through his nose, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Then it's only a matter of when."

Valerian Draegor inclined his head. "We will prepare. When the time comes, we will strike decisively. Without mercy."

Duke Lorian Briston nodded in agreement, though his mind was already working ahead, considering the broader implications.

The emperor turned his back to them, facing the statues of their gods. He traced a hand over the golden embroidery of his robe—the sigil of Aurelion Astera himself. His voice, now devoid of warmth, sealed the fate of the Dorian Kingdom.

"They will be crushed."

As the chamber doors swung open, the three men exited, each lost in their own thoughts.

Duke Wyncall's mind was ablaze with the promise of battle. He had never been one for patience, and the idea of letting the Dorians believe they had any power at all grated on him. 'They will burn,' he thought. 'Just as they always have.'

Valerian Draegor walked in measured strides, already planning the logistical side of the impending campaign. He did not care for needless bloodshed, but he understood necessity. If the empire deemed the Dorian Kingdom unfit to exist, then so be it. He would ensure that when the time came, their fall would be absolute.

Duke Lorian Briston, however, was more pensive. Unlike Wyncall, he did not crave war. Unlike Draegor, he did not simply see it as duty. He understood the nuances of power. The empire's strength did not only come from its military might but from the sheer belief that it was invincible. And belief was a fragile thing.

As he walked the halls of the palace, his thoughts briefly drifted to his youngest daughter. Khione.

She would soon learn what it meant to bear the weight of this empire.

And whether she was ready or not, the world would come to know the full might of Asterios.