Unforeseen Divination

I, Renher Zarlanter, Emperor of Skairus, was once at the pinnacle of the world—wreathed in power, glory, and wealth beyond imagination. But it all came crashing down on the very day I was meant to relinquish my throne to a successor.

A Day Before the Battle of Bailus Forest

The night was calm yet heavy with an eerie silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The grand castle of Skairus stood imposingly under the silver moonlight, its towering spires piercing the heavens. 

The walls, adorned with intricate carvings of past glories and battles won, seemed to whisper forgotten stories in the cool midnight breeze. 

Torches flickered along the corridors, casting long, dancing shadows on the cold stone floors.

Inside, in the emperor's private chamber, Renher lay resting on his vast, luxurious bed, the silk sheets barely disturbed by his weight. His beloved wife, Kaileen, lay beside him, her golden hair cascading over the pillow like a river of molten gold, shimmering under the dim candlelight.

 The open balcony doors let in the crisp night air, carrying with it the distant hum of soldiers patrolling the castle grounds.

Renher was the kind of man every woman dreamed of—tall and powerful, his broad shoulders carved from years of battle, his muscles taut with strength.

 His dark hair was thick, almost absorbing the light around him like an abyss, and his warm mahogany skin was marred with countless scars—silent testaments to the wars he had fought. 

His piercing eyes, hardened by battle yet softened in the presence of Kaileen, held the weight of a ruler but the soul of a man who had endured much.

Kaileen, in contrast, was like a delicate moonflower—gentle and luminous. Her presence was a soothing balm to Renher's storm-ridden soul. Her pearl-like skin gleamed softly, and when she smiled, even the coldest hearts would thaw. 

Tonight, however, her usual warmth was accompanied by a faint glimmer of worry in her sapphire eyes.

Kaileen nestled closer to Renher, attempting to draw his attention. Her hands traced small, absent-minded patterns on his chest, trying to coax him into an embrace. 

Renher, ever aware of her intentions, tried his best to resist, knowing full well that if he let himself drown in those eyes, his resolve might waver.

Yet, with a small sigh, he surrendered, pulling her into his arms. He held her not as a warrior, not as an emperor, but simply as a man embracing the woman he loved. 

To an outsider, this sight would be impossible to believe—the ruthless emperor, feared across the continent, holding his wife like a lovesick youth. 

His enemies called him 'The Nightingale of Valhalla'—a man who delivered death as beautifully as a poet crafts verses, guiding fallen warriors to their eternal rest. But tonight, in the warmth of his chambers, he was merely Renher.

Despite the serenity between them, Kaileen's heart was troubled. She had spent the evening pleading with him, trying every trick in the book to dissuade him from marching to war the next morning.

 She even resorted to the childish threat of skipping breakfast, a tactic that had worked countless times before. But tonight, her words fell on deaf ears.

Renher, his voice gentle yet firm, reassured her, "Tomorrow marks the final battle against the orcs. With my reign ending, I will be remembered as the king who purged them from our lands."

Kaileen, sensing the unshakable resolve in his voice, grew frustrated. Something in her heart felt uneasy, as if the winds of fate were whispering a warning only, she could hear.

With a huff, she pulled away from his embrace and moved to her own chambers. As she left, a small surge of magic crackled around her, a testament to her abilities. Despite her delicate appearance, she was no mere noblewoman—Kaileen was an advanced mage, an 8th-circle wielder of powerful magic. 

Her talent was a rarity in this generation, and though she seldom used her abilities against her beloved, tonight, she let a small spark flicker in protest as she stormed away.

Renher watched her retreat, sighing. He knew she was upset, but duty demanded his presence on the battlefield. 

He consoled himself with the thought that he would make it up to her—perhaps with a trip to the scenic hills beyond the kingdom, where the sun set in an endless horizon of golden light.

Alone now, he turned his gaze to the ornate ceiling of his chambers. The candlelight wavered, casting shifting shadows across the room. 

Outside, the steady march of soldiers echoed through the corridors, a constant reminder of the world waiting for him beyond these walls. Sleep came to him slowly, an uneasy rest tainted by the heaviness in his chest.

Then came the dream. A ominous foreboding of what was to come . 

Renher jolted awake, a cold sweat clinging to his skin. His breath was heavy, his heart pounding like a war drum.

Beads of perspiration rolled down his rugged face as he tried to steady himself. The dream… it felt so real.

A sharp screech cut through the morning air, snapping him back to reality. His falcon, Horus, perched proudly on the balcony, his keen eyes locked onto Renher expectantly. 

The great bird ruffled his feathers and let out another cry, as if demanding his breakfast.

Renher exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. The weight of the dream still clung to him, but now was not the time for mysteries. For now, he had a more immediate task—feeding his ever-hungry companion. 

Horus was a companion and a carried bird , a small pouch was tied to its back which were used to carry letter for Renher.

Reaching for the small brass bell beside his bed, he rang it once. The sound barely faded before a voice called from outside his chambers, "How may I serve you, Your Majesty?"

"Bring meat for Horus," Renher commanded. Then, after a moment's thought, he added, "And some mana crystals."

At the mention of mana crystals, Horus snapped his head toward Renher, eyes gleaming with anticipation. 

The falcon's sharp gaze held an unspoken approval—it seemed even he recognized the value of such a rare treat.

Mana crystals were the essence of magical beasts, crystallized remnants of their power. Consuming them refined a creature's strength, enhancing their abilities. 

Even Horus, majestic as he was, could grow stronger with their consumption. 

A short while later, a servant arrived with a silver tray laden with fresh meat and a few gleaming crystals. 

Renher took the food and hand-fed Horus, watching as the bird savored each bite, a look of sheer satisfaction in his intelligent eyes.

It was a rare, quiet moment—one that momentarily eased the burden weighing on Renher's mind.

As Horus finished his meal and perched once more on the balcony, Renher stretched, letting out a slow breath. The time had come.

He strode toward the adjoining bath chamber, steam already rising from the heated water.

Today was the day he would lead his army into battle. The day he would end the war against the orcs once and for all.

He stepped into the bath, allowing the warm water to envelop him, washing away the sweat and tension of the night.

Today, history would be written in blood.

Renher emerged from the cold bath, steam rising from his body as the chill water dripped from his hair. 

As he stepped forward, his attendants awaited him, their hands moving with practiced precision as they dressed him.

 Despite being clad in his war Armor, a full suite of intricately forged steel, his demeanour remained unmistakably regal—an emperor through and through.

The Armor encased Renher's entire body, from head to toe, an unyielding bastion of protection forged for war. 

Its surface bore countless scars, the metal bearing testament to the battles he had fought. The helmet, with its menacing visor, concealed his face, lending him an air of intimidation that sent shivers through both allies and enemies alike. 

Draped over his broad shoulders was a flowing crimson cape, emblazoned with the symbol of Skairus—a three-headed hydra, its serpentine necks entwined in eternal dominance.

That very emblem carried deep history. The founding emperor of Skairus had once slain a monstrous hydra, yet, after its defeat, the emperor had mysteriously vanished.

As a tradition, each emperor of Skairus was not merely chosen by birthright but by strength. The next ruler had to best the reigning king in a one-on-one duel, devoid of magical artifacts or enhancements.

If multiple warriors managed to defeat the emperor—a rare occurrence—those victors would then battle among themselves until only one remained, ascending to the throne by the sole virtue of conquest.

Yet, even after claiming victory, a new emperor was merely a king in name alone. True authority would not pass to him until the previous ruler took his last breath. 

Until then, he could only oversee the administration, wielding influence rather than absolute command.

Renher's armour bore the weight of history, its battered form telling stories of conquest. Deep grooves and dents marked the chest plate, each one a relic of the many wars he had waged. This suit had been his most trusted companion—second only to Kaileen.

His sword, Excalibur, however, remained absent from his hip. It was not yet time. The weapon would only be strapped to his side once all preparations were complete.

(///***Valhalla is a hall in Norse mythology where the souls of warriors who died in battle are taken to spend the afterlife***///)