When the sun sank below the horizon, the Empire of Light did not sink into darkness. Night came — stars kindled in the sky, the air grew cooler, and the wind brought the scent of distant seas and blossoming gardens. But the Empress herself remained a source of light. Her figure atop the highest tower of the Throne City shone like a beacon, and that light poured down the streets, reflected off the marble walls, peered into every window and every door. The citizens of the Empire had never known true darkness. To them it was a blessing: eternal light meant eternal life, eternal protection, the eternal presence of their lady. But to those who knew the true price of this light, it was also a reminder: darkness never retreats forever. It waits. Always.
The Empress stood on a balcony carved from pure white marble laced with gold veins that shimmered like living things in her radiance. The balustrade was adorned with carvings — scenes of ancient battles, where winged figures of Light fought against shapeless shadows. Crystal bells the size of a human palm hung along the edge; they chimed in the wind, and that chime, it was said, could ward off lesser spirits. Today the bells rang louder than usual — as if they sensed that their lady was troubled.
The Empress herself was clad in robes of white and gold, woven from purest light. The fabric flowed and rippled like liquid sunshine, and when she moved, a faint luminous trail lingered behind her. A mantle of feathers lay upon her shoulders — not of birds, but spun from the same magic. Each feather was translucent and pulsed in time with her breath. A crown rested on her head — not of metal, but as if carved from a clot of light, with three crystals hovering above it. The crystals rotated slowly, in a circle, and in each of them was reflected all that occurred in three parts of her Empire.
Behind her hovered wings — not physical, but woven from the pure magic of Light. They were enormous, the height of her body, and pulsed slowly in time with her breathing, scattering tiny sparks that faded before reaching the floor. When the Empress was angered, the wings grew brighter; when she sank into thought, they dimmed to a pale gold.
Now they were brighter than usual.
Her face — young, with fine features, high cheekbones, and lips the color of petals — was motionless as a marble statue. Her skin, the color of ivory, flawless, seemed lit from within. Her hair, long and silvery, streamed down her back and shoulders like a waterfall of liquid moonlight, bound at the temples by thin golden threads. But her eyes — her eyes betrayed her true age. They had seen civilizations born and die, thrones built and toppled, the magic of light again and again repelling the darkness. They were the color of molten gold, and in their depths, if one looked long enough, one could glimpse the afterglow of suns long dead.
Today those eyes beheld war.
She gazed to the east — to where, beyond the borders of her lands, in the grim Wastes, something dark was ripening. From there, even now, even at such a distance, came a faint, barely perceptible scent — sweetish-rotten, alien. The scent of the Crimson. It cut through the aromas of blossoming gardens and street incense, and made her wings pulse faster.
"Your Radiance."
The voice came from behind — low, calm, accustomed to giving orders and reporting deaths. She did not turn.
Ten paces from the balcony stood General Allar. A tall, broad-shouldered man in armor of white gold, engraved with the runes of Light. His helmet, crowned with a plume of feathers, was removed and tucked under his arm, revealing a stern face covered with scars. General Allar had served the Empress longer than some races had lived in the world and was one of the few permitted to speak to her without bowing. Behind him in the corridor stood two sentinels — light elementals embodied in humanoid forms, with eyes burning like coals and spears shimmering with enchantments.
"The armies are ready. Scouts report: the Crimson is massing its forces around the central Altar. Tens of thousands of them. Perhaps more."
"I know," the Empress replied. Her voice was melodious but devoid of warmth. "I feel their magic. It pulses like a rotten heart. They are preparing something grand. A ritual. Should it be completed…"
She did not finish. The general understood without words.
"We march tomorrow at dawn," she continued. "Contact the King of Men. Let them strike from the south at the same time as we. I will not allow the Crimson to finish what it has begun."
"It will be done."
The general withdrew. The Empress remained alone upon the balcony, watching the east. Her light, which drove the darkness from the Throne City, grew a little brighter.
I am coming, she thought. And woe to those who stand in my way.
---
In the Crimson Wastes the night was red.
Here there were no stars, no moon — only the crimson glow rising from the Altar, flooding the entire hollow with a trembling, pulsing light. The air was thick and hot, like the breath of a sick beast.
Mens stood at the Altar itself. Her palm lay upon the pulsing crimstone, and the rhythm of the Brain sounded within her louder than ever. It resonated with the Altar, with the sacrificial veins laid into the earth, with every creature that filled the hollow. She felt them all — thousands of lives, thousands of minds, bound to a single will. And at the center of this rhythm was she. His Bride. His Mouth.
"High Priestess."
One of the senior priests — the one with crimson cataracts in place of eyes — approached her almost soundlessly. His steps were quiet as a whisper, but Mens had heard him long before he spoke. She heard everything within a hundred paces — the Altar amplified her perception, made it almost divine.
"Speak."
"The scouts have returned. The Human Empire and the Light are massing troops at our borders. Two armies. Tens of thousands of swords, spears, and spells. They will strike tomorrow. From two sides."
Mens did not open her eyes.
"How many?"
"The exact number is unknown, but the scouts report infantry, cavalry, mages. The Light has aerial detachments on pegasi. The humans have siege engines. It is a full-scale invasion. We cannot hold the borders and defend the Altar at the same time."
"We do not need to hold the borders."
Mens turned at last. Her scarlet eyes met the cataracts of the priest. He did not flinch — he was old, experienced, and had witnessed enough rituals not to fear his own High Priestess. But something in her gaze made him freeze.
"Let them come. Let them waste their strength on empty lands. Let them burn our outposts and slaughter those we left on the borders. By the time they reach the hollow, the ritual will be complete. And then they will have to deal not with us. But with Him."
She nodded toward the Altar. The priest followed her gaze. The vast structure of crimstone pulsed like a living heart, and in its depths, beneath layers of stone and magic, something immense was sensed. Something awaiting its hour.
"And if they reach us sooner?" the priest asked quietly.
Mens looked at him. A long, cold stare, from which even the old servant of the Brain involuntarily stepped back.
"They will not. Speed the preparations. I want the Altar ready by tomorrow's dawn. We begin the ritual a day earlier."
"But, High Priestess, that is a risk. If the Altar does not hold, if the veins do not pump enough power…"
"It is a command."
Her voice cracked like a whip, and the priest fell silent.
"My husband has waited for centuries," she said, and for a moment passion broke through her voice — the passion that had driven her for all these seven years. "He has waited, trapped in a bodiless form, while mortals bred and died, while kingdoms rose and crumbled. I will not make Him wait longer because of an army of worms."
The priest bowed his head. The order was given. He dissolved into the darkness as soundlessly as he had appeared.
Mens turned back to the Altar. Her palm pressed against the cold stone, and the rhythm of the Brain filled her to the brim, erasing her unease, silencing her doubts. She closed her eyes and allowed herself, for a moment, to see what was to come.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow at dawn, her husband would take flesh.
She smiled.
And somewhere far away, on the border of the Wastes, the first detachments of men and Light were moving forward. The war had not yet begun — but its breath was already touching the earth, and the earth trembled in anticipation.