Vox imperitoris

The summoning

“When the twelve are called upon, six of blood, six of oath, the gates will open once more, and spill forth the winds of change.” -The book of the Covenant, Canticle XII

Over a thousand years had passed since the countless wars of dominance and succession had scarred the world. Great cities lay in ruins, plains were scorched into dust, and only small pockets of inhabitable land remained. From these fragments of life rose the noble Houses, each claiming dominion over their own sectors, each bending the land and its people to their will. Above them all sat the Emperor, the Timeless One, a mage whose power was said to rival the sun itself. Under his hand, the Houses were united, and the empire of Montari was born.

However, for the last three centuries, no voice of the Emperor had stirred the world. His Vassal Constructs, towering, solemn statues of stone and enchanted steel, had stood silent in the capitals of each sector, their eyes cold, their mouths sealed. No decree passed from their lips. No guidance. The people prayed in vain, and the Houses whispered of forgotten oaths and the fading of divine favor.

Until now.

Across the empire, the Vassal Constructs awoke. Their great forms moved with a grinding inevitability, shaking the ground beneath them as ancient gears hummed to life. From their thunderous voices, they bore missives to the citizens of Montari: “The academy opens once more.”

The Magnagorica Mallefactum, the Emperor’s academy, forged from stone, steel, and magic, lay at the heart of the empire, on an island carved from the wastes. Toxic rivers licked its shores, and the lands beyond were twisted and barren, haunted by spell-scarred earth and monsters born of unchecked sorcery. Three centuries of silence had shrouded it in mystery, but now it called again.

And the Houses answered.

In the morning light, the skies over Montari burned with the ascent of a dozen airships, each shaped by the pride and ambition of its House; fortress-cities crowned with spires and battlements, from the frozen cliffs of the north, the rust laden swamps of the south, emerald glassed laboratories, wind swept plains rife with mana-charged aqueducts and shifting pale deserts. The most elite of the bloodlines rose alongside the strongest of their Vassals, chosen as Knights. Engines of crystal and steel sang across the plains, thrumming like a living heartbeat. Cities knelt in reverence, spilling incense into the wind; others watched in wary silence, their banners half-mast in fear or defiance. Each House sought to prove its worth, to demonstrate that its heirs and champions were the most worthy of the Emperor’s favor, the most capable of shaping the future of Montari.

This was more than ceremony. More than rivalry. The opening of the academy was a summons, a reckoning, a promise of change — and no House, however proud, could claim dominion over what was to come.

No one knew why the Academy had been opened after three centuries of silence. No one knew what trials awaited. But one thing was certain: the events set in motion that day would ripple across the empire, altering the course of Montari forever.

Chapter 1:

The chosen few

Heights. She absolutely hated heights. Leaning over the railing she emptied the contents of her stomach into the air above the sprawling wastes, again. Groaning, she wiped her mouth off on the gray sleeve of her tunic. Glaring out into the barren wastes slipping past beneath their airship she spit off the side to try and clear the taste of vomit from her mouth.

“By the Emperors throne, why did we have to fly to the academy?” She grumbled bitterly, her stomach churning angrily as the grey decrepit landscape blurred far below.

“Valen moores. What have I told you about using your clothes as a handkerchief?” A sharp voice sliced through the air, chilling her more than the biting winds could ever hope to do.

Turning back toward the center deck she sighed silently. Matron Noctil, a tall and rail thin woman with cold eyes and a face so sharp it could cut glass. She was, unfortunately, also the sponsor and mentor for the Mournehild family. She stood as still as a statue in the middle of the deck, her pristine white robes whipping in the winds. She had a way of speaking in such a way that never failed to make Valen feel like a freakishly large roach she found in the shower.

Sighing tiredly, Valen ran her calloused fingers through short clipped blonde hair, her silver prayer beads wrapped tightly around her wrist.

“To not get caught? Or was it to make sure it didn’t leave stains?” She asked with a wry grin on her face.

The way Matron Noctil’s already thin lips thinned even more as she scowled gave Valen a warm fuzzy feeling in her chest. After years of disobeying and annoying the severe woman, it made her happy to know it was still as easy as ever to do so. She liked to think that during all those years of grueling combat training in the halls of Mournehild, she became good in a fight, but truly mastered the art of being a pain in the ass.

She sensed more than saw the strike before it landed, her head snapping forward as pain blossomed across the back of her skull. Valen didn’t need to look to know who had hit her, she remembered that hand all too well.

“Master Auran.” She bit out quietly, blinking away her blurry vision.

Master Auran, the Knight-Commander of the Mournehild family. Valen had spent every day since she was six training under the man, and had the scars to prove it.

“Bold words from one who has yet to lay a hand on me.” His voice was low and rumbling. The tone was a familiar one, his disappointed teaching voice.

Biting back her retort she turned to look at the man. She was one of the only people, let alone women, tall enough to look him in the eye. She snapped forward, fist swinging toward his face with a wide right hook. But before she could feel that familiar sting of her knuckles hitting a wall, her entire arm snapped to a jarring halt inches from Auran’s unimpressed face. Grunting in a futile anger she grimaced in pain, her muscles feeling like they were being stripped off the bones of her arm.

“That’s cheating, you old hag.” Valen snarled flicking her eyes over to Matron Noctil, who had her hand raised in her direction, her magic holding her painfully in place.

“If not for the limited time we have, I would have you flogged ragged for that little outburst. Now be silent and go prepare yourself, the shuttle from the academy will be here soon and I will not have you shame me.”

With a sharp flick of her wrist she released Valen from her magical grip. Rubbing her forearm, Valen nodded silently, stewing in her ire for the two of them she made her way below deck. Before stepping down fully she cast one last look over her shoulder at her two wardens.

Matron Noctil, her robes nearly melding with her pale skin and platinum hair done up in a plaited braid; something about the mages of House Mournehild had always unsettled her, they all looked as if death should have claimed them ages ago but clung to life out of sheer spite. Standing at her side like a chiseled gargoyle was the weapons master and bane number two of her existence, Master Auran. She had never seen the mountain of a man not dressed as if he could be called upon to defend the seat of the Emperor himself at a moments notice, his broad frame encased in a silver and gold suit of armor aside from his head. No, even if the man was as a paranoid psychopath, he was a vain paranoid psychopath. His short golden blonde hair shone in the rising light of dawn, and he even shaved his perfectly squared jaw for the occasion!

She fucking hated them both. Moving down the steps with the force of a drunken ox, her thick soled boots rattling the metal plates, she made her way to her tiny cabin. Making sure to slam the door behind her.

Stomping around the small room she collected her meager belongings; a worn out combat manual, prayer book. And a small palm sized charm coin made of tarnished silver, its edges worn smooth from years of handling, the original divine script scratched off with a knife’s edge and replaced by a shaky hand the words ‘TRY HARDER’ etched into its face. After wrapping the items in a spare tunic she shoved the whole thing into the thick canvas bag she had laid out on her bed -cot- before stuffing the rest of her clothes into the rucksack.

Turning to grab her weapon she caught her reflection in the tall mirror that was installed into every cabin, because emperor forbid a Mournehild go without looking at themselves, giving herself a quick once over she grimaced. Her straw blonde hair clipped close to her skull, crooked nose that had seen its fair share of breaks, sharp cheekbones and sleek angled features. And those horrible blue eyes.

Valen sighed and shook her head, she should probably change her tunic, this one did have vomit on it after all. Slipping out of the dirty tunic she glanced back at her reflection, she rarely cared about her appearance but she was supposed to be making a ‘good impression’ today. She’d always been much taller than the other girls her age, with broad shoulders and arms more suited for war rather than magic or soft work. Her arms and and torso were littered with scars, pink slashes all across her pale skin.

Grabbing a damp cloth she wiped herself off quickly and made sure her chest bindings were secure before grabbing a semi-clean tunic to replace her soiled one. Taking one last look around her room she sighed tiredly, she had always wanted to see more of Montari. To be freed from beneath the heel of her Sponsors polished boot. So why now, when she was so close to that freedom, did her chest feel so tight?

Shaking her head she tried not to think anymore on the subject, reaching down and picking up her mace. A sturdily crafted beast of a weapon, the steel head shaped like a quartet of wings in a cross pattern and the handle wrapped in sheets of prayers she had spent many a long night scribing herself.

“By the golden order, Moores, are you just now getting dressed?” The airy and crystalline voice made her jump and spin around, her mace lifted defensively. Leaning in the now open doorway of her cabin was a radiantly beautiful girl about Valens age. Her bright blonde hair falling in perfect curls down to her shoulders, her fox-like angular face stamped with light makeup meant to accentuate her already pretty features. She was dressed in the sterile white robes of a House mage.

Holding back the urge to break her pretty little nose, Valen took a steadying breath and turned to grab her heater shield, hooking her mace to her belt.

“Jessamine, how have I wronged the Emperor so badly that he deemed your presence necessary?” She growled, throwing her shield over her shoulder next to her rucksack.

Jessamine Mournehild; Heiress of the House, a beautiful woman, a brilliant mage, a massive bitch.

Jessamine rolled her eyes and swatted into the room like a leaf on the wind.

“Oh come now Moores, there’s no need to be so hostile! After all, there’s a high chance you’ll be my Knight-Protector before the day is done.”

Knight-protectors, warriors trained from childhood to safeguard their mage wards. They are given no choice in this however. The pact is made by the ruling houses, and in the past by the leaders of the Magnagorica Mallefactum. Seen as a divine duty by some, a prison sentence to others.

Leaning down to grab her armor, a breastplate and bracers, scuffed and dulled from countless skirmishes and training sessions. Nothing like the polished and gleaming plate of Auran or the other soldiers of Mournehild.

she scowled and gave Jessamine a cold look.

“Jessamine, I would rather swim naked in the charnel river than be chosen to be your Knight-Protector.

She watched with pleasure as Jessamine flushed red and scowled up at her venomously.

“One of these days, Valen Moores. I will be head of this House and you and the rest of the Vassal filth will remember their place.” She sneered and stormed out of the room. Valen didn’t get much time to savor pissing off the spoiled little brat before the klaxons rang throughout the ship. Swearing quietly she ran back up to the main deck, wear a small covered craft hovered in the center of the deck.

The transport looked ancient, the metal tarnished and aged, the thrusters sputtered and shook every once in a while. The emblem of the Empire, a golden eye with the six sigils of the six noble Houses evenly ringed around it, freshly painted on the bay door.

Matron Noctil stood next to the closed bay door, speaking softly to Jessamine with a proud look on her face.

She was pulled from her gawking as a heavily mailed hand gripped her shoulder. Master Auran gave her a terse look as Jessamine boarded the transport to a barrage of applause.

“Valen. You are about to be one of the chosen few to step foot upon the sacred grounds of the Magnagorica Mallefactum in over three centuries,” His golden eyes burned like a brand upon her skin, full of zealous fervor. “so allow me to impart one final piece of advice to you.” He leaned in close, his voice cold and sharp as his sword, lecturing and steely.

“Die quickly, in service to your ward. At least then your corpse will not be returned to us a failure.”