“Get out of these lands! The gates of Ulterian will always be closed to your kind.”
“You shouldn’t reject the Hierarchs so quickly, your highness.”
“And you shouldn’t disrespect the crown of Ulterian. The audacity! Knocking on my door, staying under my roof, wasting my time…”
Barkran listened patiently as the little man sitting on the throne spoke, agitated and nervous, each of his sentences placing a heavy emphasis on the word ‘my.’ He sighed and rolled his eyes, waiting for the king of Ulterian to finish his tantrum.
How old was he? Fifteen or sixteen? Maybe younger? His facial hair was thin and translucent, with patchy spots, like the down of a fledgling awkwardly transitioning to its plumage. His father had fallen in battle against the Norduri, and Ulterian had rushed to crown its next monarch.
The city had stood firm, defending itself against the Norduri advance, thanks to the support sent by the Actubrion Protectorate. And, by extension, thanks to the aid provided by the Summoners’ Coalition—so it was deeply ironic that the little kingling so loudly declared that practitioners of magic were not welcome in his palace.
The young monarch noticed his audience was not paying attention and began to shriek and spit with harmless fury. Still, Barkran didn’t listen. Something about respect, the law, maybe something about an execution. Nothing important or significant enough to distract the Hierarch from observing all the details and riches of the palace. Yes, it would make a fine tribute to the Norduri, sealing the alliance between the Hierarchs and Jarferun.
When at last silence fell—an awkward silence, of course—Barkran turned his attention back to the king.
“Thank you very much for your audience, your highness. You are very kind to cede the throne and power to the Hierarchs.”
“Are you mad, Summoner? Did you not hear a word I said?”
A flash of light answered him. Barkran’s arm was raised, pointing at the monarch.
“What have you done!” cried one of the courtiers, while everyone began to scream and flee as they realized what had just happened. With a single precise lightning bolt, Barkran had incinerated the young king.
“Magic,” the Hierarch said. “Air magic, to be precise. In other words, power—true power. A crown and a throne will never compare to this.”
The people scrambled for exits, but the other Hierarchs blocked their escape. The most desperate tried to leap through the windows—an impossible task, as they were quickly sealed by barriers of ice and stone.
“Murderer!” accused the man who had shouted earlier. It was his last word—or at least the last one anyone could hear. Barkran wrapped him in a concentrated whirlwind so powerful that it shattered every bone in his body, twisting him into a contorted, crushed sack of exposed fractures and torn flesh.
The rest of the court wept and begged for mercy. The Supreme Hierarch sighed in exasperation.
“Enough!” he finally bellowed; his voice thundered through the throne room. “As you can see, Ulterian has been blessed with an improvement to its system of government.”
“Please, don’t kill us,” pleaded a courtier, interrupting his speech.
This time, Barkran didn’t move a finger. His companions had strict and well-rehearsed orders. The woman burst into flames, her agonized screams echoing through the hall. Those who once again tried to flee or resumed their pitiful, terrified sobbing were systematically silenced. It wasn’t the cleanest method, but it was the most effective for Barkran’s purposes: sending a message and proving a point.
Stepping carefully to avoid the disgusting blood of those inferior and despicable courtiers, the Hierarch advanced toward the throne and, with his powers of air and wind, removed the previous monarch’s corpse. Amidst the screams and pleas, he took his seat and waited for the collective hysteria to subside.
“I want one thing to be clear: this government is not for the weak. Support the Hierarchs, and perhaps you’ll retain some of your current privileges—however fictional and invented they may be.”
One by one, the nobles of Ulterian swore loyalty to the Hierarchs. Barkran knew it wouldn’t be so easy; he could effortlessly read the looks of hatred, terror, and even satisfaction. He would have allies, yes, but he was sure there would also be those who would soon organize resistance—or some pathetic attempt at opposition. He didn’t care; he had the means to crush them, no matter how troublesome they proved.
When the procession ended, the courtiers were forced to clean the hall and tend to the bodies. Amidst retching and sobbing, they began their task—better for them to get used to kneeling and doing the dirty work from now on.
For all practical purposes, the nobility of Ulterian had come to an end. Barkran would bless the Ulterian people by freeing them from inequality and injustice. No more distinctions between rich and poor, noble and commoner—everyone was equal in the eyes of the Hierarchs.
“No one leaves, no one enters,” Barkran reminded his retinue. “Lonar, the same applies to the city limits,” he added to the Arcane Hierarch, whose enchantments could temporarily seal the city in a magical bubble until order was established. “Ludaire and Shuur, you stay with me. The rest of you, take care of the city. The news must spread before my official announcement.”
The Hierarchs moved at once. Everything had gone according to Barkran’s plans and predictions—from the regicide to the court’s hysteria. There was no reason to doubt or turn back; it was clear that Ulterian was without allies at the moment, and any call for help would take days to be answered. That was why he had asked Ludaire and Shuur to stay with him.
“I know you still hesitate and distrust our destiny. This is your chance. Your last chance.”
The two Summoners exchanged nervous glances.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I am the Supreme Hierarch, the Light before the Dawn,” he affirmed with authority. “There will be no other moment to speak. I suggest you take advantage of this gesture I offer you.”
A few moments passed as Barkran allowed them to gather their thoughts. He was in no hurry; it was better to resolve this inconvenience now rather than waste his time in the future.
“I was wondering if… if you’ve really thought this move through, Barkran,” Ludaire stammered.
“Are you referring to the takeover of Ulterian specifically or the rise of the Hierarchs in general?”
“Ulterian. I would never doubt the vision of the Hierarchs,” she hastened to reply, as if the very idea was absurd to her. Good, that was very good. Barkran smiled. “I was just wondering…”
“Why Ulterian,” he completed for her, and she nodded. “Look at that tapestry,” he pointed to a large map on one of the room’s walls. “I chose Ulterian not out of whim, but for three fundamental reasons. First, to the west, we are strategically close to Actubrion, who will be our main opposition, but not so close that they could overwhelm us without us anticipating their movements. Second, to the east, the great nation of Exia has fallen to the empire of Jarferun. Once we ally with the Norduri, we will have no enemies in the east or the north. Lastly, and directly related to our goal of allying with Jarferun, Ulterian had the audacity to resist the Norduri advance. It is an excellent tribute to offer our future allies, to strengthen our bonds.”
“We don’t need the Norduri,” Shuur said then.
“Excuse me?”
“Of your entire plan, the alliance with Jarferun strikes me as pathetic and, frankly, repugnant, Barkran. Not only does it seem like a desperate attempt to find support for our cause, but seeking support from Jarferun seems like utter madness. How can we go through creation speaking loudly of the divine right that magic gives us to rule over others, while at the same time allying with those who clearly don’t deserve magic?”
“You’re wrong, Shuur. Magic does not distinguish race or color. It cares not for our exterior—only for who is worthy of wielding it.”
“And the Norduri are not worthy of wielding it,” he insisted, his voice marked with disgust.
“Who are you to define who is worthy and who is not? Magic enters the hearts of those it chooses.”
“Then we have different visions, Barkran. The very reason the Hierarchs exist is to define who is worthy and who is not. Otherwise, why bother?”
“Are you saying that I am not leading the Hierarchs in the right direction?”
“I didn’t say it, but that’s exactly what I meant.”
Barkran clenched his fists and tensed his muscles, ready to confront Shuur and, once again, prove why he was the Supreme Hierarch and no one else.
But there was no need to fight.
Roots had sprouted from the pouches hanging from Ludaire’s belt, strangling and impaling Shuur in the blink of an eye. Then they withered within seconds, turning to dust as swiftly as they had grown.
“We cannot afford doubt,” she explained, watching as the lifeless body of her victim fell to the ground. “You, find something to hang this traitor above the throne,” she ordered a pair of nobles who had been cutting scraps of cloth to wipe the blood of the other dead.
“Well thought, Ludaire. And I commend you for your decision. I believe any doubts I had about you have been erased,” Barkran watched as the weak nobles struggled to move Shuur’s body, thinking and debating how to hoist it up high. “This gesture you’ve devised, putting our former colleague to good use, will serve exactly the message I need. When we gift Ulterian to Jarferun, let them know we will show no mercy in our revolution.”