Prologue

In the beginning of time there arose a mighty warrior named Kostimon, who used the power of his arm and the cunning of his mind to make himself a king. Favored by the gods, he drove his army against the provinces, using sheer force, trickery, or raids to subjugate them. At last the provinces were joined together, and he stood as emperor over a united land. One by one, through choice or coercion, the warlords swore oaths of eternal allegiance to him.

When it came time to marry, he chose a red-haired and untamed bride, a beauty with the blood of warriors in her veins. Together, Kostimon and Fauvina ruled well and wisely, creating laws both fair and just for government. Religion flourished and unified into two state cults—the Vindicants and the Penestricans—balancing each other in perfect harmony.

Thus did the fledgling empire prosper. Through diplomacy and alliance its borders spread. When war assailed it, the empire prevailed. Fauvina bore sons, and the gods willed they grow straight and strong.

But as the years lengthened, Kostimon’s ambitions soared ever higher. He saw his work unfinished and his dreams incomplete. His quarrelsome, impatient sons thought only of their own pleasures and never of the responsibilities of rule. Into Kostimon’s mind came a most unholy plan. He turned unto darkness and petitioned for immortality. A fearsome bargain was struck, and Kostimon was promised life for one thousand years. Fauvina would not share his bargain and died at the fated end of her time, her soul consigned to the fertile earth from which it had come.

Slaying each successive generation of sons so they could not challenge his throne, Kostimon lived on, feeding on power and glory, lusting for new achievements, building impressive monuments to himself. Under his obligation to the shadow gods, Kostimon turned against the light and built temples to darkness. No longer did he tolerate his enemies. Those who spoke against him were destroyed, and when the Penestricans dared to criticize the injustices of his reign, they were reviled and driven from their place of counsel. Greed walked the streets of his cities. Corruption swelled in the halls of justice. And it came to pass that men ceased to obey laws and followed only the capricious will of their emperor. He became a legend, more than a man but less than a god, greater than any other mortal.

But prophecies tell true, and the gods forget no reckoning. Kostimon has reached his last century. His final years are running out like the last few coins in a spendthrift’s purse. Kostimon has forgotten how to accept defeat; even now he struggles against his fate. Yet the shadow gods remain deaf to his entreaties. Again and again the Vindicant augurs have cast his future, but for the first time in a millennium his sign does not appear. Nor does the sign of his one living son. The heavens are silent; the gods send no answer. The lack of portents has made even the augurs afraid.

The empire waits with trepidation to see if the world will end with Kostimon. His enemies plot and circle, growing bolder as the sun of his empire sets. The shadow gods, released by the tolerance of his reign, wreak their own form of destruction on the hearts and souls of men. Yet Kostimon’s subjects still hope for a successor. Many lift prayers to the gods of light; others send their appeals to the gods of darkness. All seek clues that will reveal the founder of the next dynasty.

Who—or what—will come?