The Palace of the First Scar, Capital of the Onyx Imperium
Outside the cathedral walls, beyond the red-glowing sprawl of the sanctified city, the palace of the Imperator rose like an obsidian wound against the dusk. Its towers were carved directly from the basalt heart of the mountain, fused with veins of living glass that pulsed faintly with the same crimson light as the eternal Sun. From a distance, it looked less like a fortress than a colossal reliquary—an artifact grown rather than built, the living monument of an empire whose god still bled in its stones.
Within its highest hall, where light bent through walls of translucent onyx, sat Imperator Valerius Scaevitus, Emperor of the Onyx Imperium, Keeper of the First Scar, and last bearer of the ancient bloodline that claimed descent from the solar progenitors themselves.
The throne upon which he sat was known as the Cicatrix Throne—a mass of black and white marble shaped like the sutured edges of a wound. Its surface shimmered with veins of silver, moving as if alive, mirroring the pulse of the Imperator's own breath. At its apex burned a single eye of pale fire—the mark that crowned his authority and bound his lineage to the god.
Upon Valerius's brow glimmered the Cicatrix Oculus, the marble-white imitation of the Sun-Born's Trislit Mark. Unlike the radiant symbols that crowned the Arch-Thrones, his was cold to the touch, etched into the flesh like a scar that had never healed. When he closed his human eyes, the third one remained open, gazing not upon the world but into something older—the faint reflection of the First Wound in creation. From time to time, a single tear of silver ichor traced down his temple, freezing halfway to his cheek before vanishing into air.
The hall around him stretched endlessly, flanked by twelve vast pillars engraved with the history of the Imperium: the founding under the first red dawn, the wars of ascension, the sealing of the northern wastes, and the forging of the Solar Legions. Between the pillars knelt the Lex Marches, the black-armored guard of the Emperor—motionless, faceless, each helm marked by the sigil of the eclipsed sun.
And before the throne stood the twelve ministers—his Council of the Sol Consistory, the empire's inner circle of governance. Together they were called the Dodeca Solaris, the Twelve Suns of State. Each represented a facet of the empire's dominion: Faith, Trade, War, Knowledge, the Outer Colonies, the Solar Treasury, the Arcane Sciences, the Harvest Guilds, the Maritime Reach, the Civic Houses, the Imperial Lineage, and the Quiet Office—the ministry of secrets.
At their head stood Lord Malachi Kaine, scion of the venerable Sun-Family Kaine, and First Luminary of the Consistory. His hair was white as powdered bone; his eyes burned with a steady amber light, the sign of a Sol XIII Awakened. Though his frame was lean, power radiated from him in waves, bending the air like heat over stone.
Each minister was formidable: none beneath the tenth level of awakening, one other reaching the twelfth. To serve in the Consistory was to stand near the sun and not be burned.
They alone, besides the Triumvirate Suprema, were permitted direct audience with the Imperator.
---
The court was in session.
Malachi Kaine stood a few paces before the throne, scrolls and tablets of black glass arrayed before him. The other ministers formed a semicircle behind him, each awaiting their turn to speak. Between them shimmered faint golden runes, binding their words to silence beyond these walls.
Valerius sat unmoving, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond them all. The faint sound of the palace's breathing—its living stone inhaling and exhaling—filled the spaces between words.
"Proceed," he said, voice low, resonant, carrying the gravity of command.
Malachi inclined his head. "As you will, my lord."
---
The Reports of the Dodeca Solaris
One by one, the ministers spoke.
The Minister of the Outer Colonies reported first: sightings of Sun-Beasts along the borders of the western deserts, near the broken dunes of Aesh Karun. Isolated incidents, but troubling—creatures of molten flesh and bone that should not have stirred since the containment after the Beast-Rage. Villages gone silent, trade caravans found turned to ash. The Imperial wardens had dispatched legions of purifiers, but the contagion of mutation was spreading.
Next came the Minister of Trade, whose voice trembled slightly beneath the weight of the hall. "The caravans from the Amaranthine Haemosphere have slowed, my lord. The blood-silk merchants refuse to cross the Veiled Bridge. They speak of omens—red rains, broken stars, beasts seen circling the skies above their ports."
The Minister of War added that garrisons along the eastern frontier had doubled their watch, yet no incursions had been recorded. "Only silence, my lord. A silence too complete."
The Minister of Nobility spoke last of lesser matters: disputes among aristocratic houses, rumors of illicit awakenings, duels of honor fought beneath the gaze of the dying sun. Trivial politics compared to the unrest rising in the air itself.
Throughout, Valerius listened without motion. His third eye glowed faintly, its marble pupil reflecting every gesture, every flicker of breath. None could tell when he blinked; perhaps he never did.
At his feet, three tall figures stood a step below the throne—the Triumvirate Suprema.
They were as statues carved from shadow: androgynous, identical, draped in slick black gowns that reflected nothing. Around the place where their eyes should have been ran a seamless band of obsidian, fused into flesh and bone, encircling the head from temple to temple. From their bare throats rose faint vibrations, a shared breath that resonated in harmony. It was said they thought as one, dreamed as one, their minds forever entwined through psychic conduits woven from divine nerve-fibre harvested from the relics of the First Scar.
Their loyalty to the Imperator was absolute. Even the Arch-Throne herself could not command them, though Valerius had once ordered them to bow in her presence—and they had done so without hesitation.
When the ministers spoke, the Triumvirate listened, their heads turning in perfect unison. At times one of them would lean forward slightly, as if scenting deceit in the air. The gesture alone was enough to make a minister's voice falter.
---
The Emperor Speaks
When the final report ended, silence descended once more.
Valerius's fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne. The Cicatrix Oculus flared with faint silver light. "The reports are heard," he said. "The empire holds, yet the heart of faith trembles."
His gaze fixed on Malachi Kaine. "The Cathedral, Malachi. Tell me—has the Onyx Spire opened its doors?"
The air in the hall seemed to freeze.
Malachi bowed. "No, my lord. The Spire remains sealed. No word has been permitted beyond its gates. Even our appointed observers—those within the episcopal circles—are silent."
A flicker of irritation crossed the Imperator's marble-pale features. "Silent? Or silenced?"
"We cannot yet discern," Malachi replied. "But our spies in the east and south bring tidings: the Amaranthine Labyrinth and the Adamantine Altar are likewise closed. Their Arch-Thrones and Sun-Thrones have withdrawn from public view. It is whispered"—he hesitated—"that they prepare to journey here, to the Onyx Imperium itself."
A faint hum filled the chamber as the Triumvirate turned their heads in unison toward the Imperator.
Valerius leaned back, the light of the dying sun spilling across his features. "Three Thrones converging upon one Imperium…" His voice was almost thoughtful. "It has not happened since the Time of Alignment."
No one dared reply.
He rose slowly from the throne. Even that motion carried weight enough to make the ministers drop to one knee. The light from the Cicatrix Oculus bathed the hall in silver-white.
"Tell me, Lord Malachi," Valerius said softly, "what do the faithful whisper in the streets?"
"That the god has spoken," Malachi answered. "That the Dreamer stirs."
The Emperor's lips curved into something between a smile and a grimace. "Then rumor outruns decree, as always."
---
He descended the steps of the throne dais. The Lex Marches shifted slightly, their halberds clinking as they adjusted formation. Valerius passed them like a shadow moving through light. Every eye—every mind—followed his steps.
He halted beside the Triumvirate Suprema.
"Three Thrones may come to kneel beneath one sun," he murmured. "If they do, the balance of the Tri-Kingdoms will tremble. The people will look not to their crowns, but to the cathedrals for guidance." His voice hardened. "That cannot be allowed."
The Triumvirate inclined their heads as one. No words were needed; they understood.
Valerius returned to his throne and rested his hands upon the carved arms. "Continue," he said quietly. "What of our appointees within the Spire? The bishops who bear our favor?"
Malachi bowed again, this time lower. "None have answered, my lord. Communication ceases at the inner gates. The Spire is under total lockdown."
The Cicatrix Oculus dimmed, then flared anew, like the heartbeat of a dying star.
"I see," Valerius whispered.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The ministers stood frozen, unsure whether to speak or remain silent. The Triumvirate's banded heads tilted slightly, their mirrored surfaces reflecting the silver glow of the throne.
Then the Emperor's gaze drifted beyond them, past the pillars and the guards, toward the open expanse of the palace window where the Red Sun hung heavy upon the horizon.
No one could tell what he saw there.
Perhaps the same light that bathed the cathedral walls.
Perhaps something far more ancient—the faint shimmer of a dream not meant for mortal eyes.
Under his breath, barely audible, he spoke a name.
> "Ophanim… what do you play at?"
---
A ripple passed through the chamber like the echo of thunder. Even the Lex Marches, trained from birth to stillness, stiffened. The ministers froze in horrified reverence. To speak the name of the Arch-Throne without her title was unthinkable. Only the Imperator of the Onyx Imperium could dare such familiarity—and even then, the act bordered on sacrilege.
Valerius's expression remained unreadable.
He turned his head slightly, the light from his Cicatrix Oculus casting pale reflections on the polished floor. "If word comes from the Spire," he said, his voice calm but edged with something cold, "you will bring it to me immediately. No council, no delay."
The command hung in the air like a blade.
The ministers bowed deeply. "As you will, my lord."
"Go," Valerius said.
---
They withdrew in silence, their footsteps fading down the echoing corridors. The vast doors of the throne hall closed behind them with a slow, sonorous clang. Only the Triumvirate Suprema and the Lex Marches remained, motionless as carved idols.
Valerius sat alone upon his throne once more, surrounded by the breathing stone of the palace and the endless hum of the Red Sun beyond the glass. The silver tear at the corner of his Cicatrix Oculus trembled, fell, and vanished before it could reach his cheek.
He stared into the distance, through walls, through time, as though seeking the shape of the Arch-Throne's thoughts across the miles of burning air.
Outside, the crimson light dimmed to a deeper hue.
Within, the Emperor of the Onyx Imperium whispered to the silence:
> "Ophanim… what do you play at?"