Prologue : Wayward Son

A baby was born to Great House Mnemon in the Realm year of seven-forty-four. His birth was inauspicious, in the five-day season of Calibration, a time in which the laws of the world grow thin and weak. Despite this, the birth was healthy, and neither parent nor child suffered.

The boy was named Rhomon by his mother, Mnemon. His father was unknown, for the great lady Mnemon never answers inquiries related to him. The boy was not her first child, for great lady Mnemon was nearly four hundred years old by that time, and had many children and grandchildren already, all of whom quickly began to draft plans regarding the political function of their newest baby relative.

The boy was handed over to the care of household servants and mortal relatives, where he grew quickly. By the end of his first year he was walking with confidence. By the end of his second year he was speaking with eloquence, and ready for his early education.

The boy was astonishingly prodigious, perfectly quiet and dutiful while maintaining a ferocious pace of learning and development. Exercises he performed with silent gusto, riding and sailing he absorbed at a frightening pace, a second language he lapped up with ease. In singing and instrumentation he was head and shoulders beyond his peers, and he went undefeated in games of strategy. 

At no point did the boy make requests to play or take time off, and indeed seemed to regard playdates with a grudging acceptance rather than enthusiastic enjoyment. His requests were only ever for yet more things to be taught, yet more lessons to be given, yet more books to absorb, yet another skill to master.

When told of this behavior, his mother gave an amused smile, and the order was given to fulfill these requests for more to learn. 

The boy was sent to primary school at the age of nine, as was tradition, and there he excelled just as he had his whole life up until that point. It was remarked in reports that the school and the teachers there- some of whom were several hundred years old, had never seen a more talented, more dedicated student. 

Archery, bare-fisted fighting, swordplay, athletics, history, geography, government, politics, religion, philosophy, and spirit lore- all courses he took he excelled in, and while he wasn’t permitted to take ever course, he was allowed to study them in his free hours and take private tests devised by the delighted teaching staff.

Needless to say, even without being able to attend the classes in full, his testing showed remarkably higher results than anyone could anticipate. 

It came to be that the name ‘Rhomon’ meant ‘Excellence’ in that boarding school. Their only concern was his lack of interest in socializing with his peers- though he proved entirely capable if pushed to. When it came time for the boy to return home for holiday, he requested to stay and study further in a letter to his mother, which she allowed. 

Many of his peers began to awaken their dragon’s blood- their exaltations- the proof of their lineage and the elemental power that lurked within. Many of them found themselves outcompeting Rhomon in one or two fields- but he was never far behind, and none of them could best him in all fields regardless of their efforts. As the years advanced and the children grew, more and more of them began to awaken the power in their blood.

The boy did not. The teachers were not worried, late-exaltations were certainly not unheard of, and the boy was perfectly polite and absurd in talent and diligence, while being of an exceptionally good line. If anyone were deserving of the power of the dragon’s blood, it was this boy.

Primary education continued, and the boy continued to accumulate skills and merits. A wider range of achievements than any other, and performed better than all but a handful of top-graders with the mystic power of the elemental dragons to back them. Being outcompeted by his exalted peers eased much of the resentment that had built against the prodigy, and his broad and deep pool of expertise began to be regarded more as a curiosity than challenge.

Primary schooling ended when the boy was fourteen years of age. His graduation ceremony was filled with the praises of his educators, and for his performance he acted as the sparring partner for every other student who requested one. While he was often outmatched, it was not by much, and the sheer breadth of his talents was on full display. 

Once graduation was complete, he briefly returned to his family home and was presented before his mother. Great Lady Mnemon smiled down at him, and asked him what secondary school he’d like to attend.

Without hesitation, the boy declared. “The Heptagram, academy of sorcery.” 

Sorcery, the art of shaping the essence of the world around you, was an art that was as feared as it was powerful. It is rare for a child to choose such a field, especially with such promising prospects in all other fields.

Mnemon, a powerful and feared sorceress herself, nodded her head with a pleased look on her face. It was then he was introduced to his fiancee, a girl of roughly his age from Great House Tepet. Feasting and celebration followed, albeit with some new apprehension from his intended schooling.

The Heptagram teaching staff was initially reluctant to teach one who had yet to awaken to their dragon’s blood, despite the overflowing praise of his staff and the talent the boy displayed in their testing. Sufficiently generous donations from Great House Mnemon tipped their hands, and it was soon that the boy was properly admitted into the finest, and only, academy of sorcery upon the Blessed Isle.

With the same dedication to all things, the boy threw himself into his studies. While he could never directly match his exalted peers in sorcery, in power and speed, he more than matched them in all other fields. Spirit lore, craftsmanship, engineering, alchemy, etiquette, mathematics, composition- all of which the young man placed consistently high within. 

The years continued to pass, the boy continued to learn and grow, and eventually it came time for graduation from the Heptagram as a full-fledged sorcerer and thaumaturge. A scholar and beloved student of the staff, a prodigy in all fields he was given to learn.

But… the boy did not Exalt. His dragon's blood remained dormant. In spite of his lineage, his work, his dedication, and his broad talents- there was no outburst of elemental essence that heralded a new Prince of the Earth. Once-jealous looks from his peers had long dissolved into pity, for all others in the Heptagram were Exalted before they arrived, and the boy had never been anything but polite and kind to them.

As a graduation gift, the Master of the Heptagram gave unto the boy the gift of awoken essence. A ritual that flooded his body with raging energy and forced open the dormant channels within. An offer of pity for one so misfortunate, for the ritual had potential to disastrously injure and mutate the boy.

The boy accepted it calmly, and underwent the ritual. Remarkably, there was neither failure nor mutation, and the boy finally became master of his spiritual energies. 

His frail, human energies. Not the raging elemental power of the Dragonblooded Exalted.

In his twentieth year, the boy returned to his family home with a stoic bearing.

A sorcerer, a thaumaturge, a prodigy, a son, a grown man.

A mortal man.

By this point, the name ‘Rhomon’ was synonymous with ‘Tragedy’ throughout the Realm.

—

Mnemon Rhomon, Sorcerer

Realm Year 764, Ascending Water

“Lord Rhomon… there is a letter for you.” A familiar old servant of his household spoke with some hesitancy, offering a sealed scroll to him. The old man had been his schedule manager in his youth, one of six total caretakers, and wore formal robes as a matter of fact. His brown hair was heavily greyed, and his eyes wrinkled with aged kindness. “From Tepet Lisara…”

His fiancee. If he was correct, then she should be in the middle of a campaign with the Third Legion right now. The letter would have to have been penned ahead of time and then given to a servant with instructions to deliver upon certain conditions being fulfilled or not.

Rhomon gently set down his flask upon the windowsill, reaching out to take the letter with a nod of acknowledgement, breaking the seal and unfurling the message in the light. The window overlooked a central courtyard for the building, within which servants managed fine gardens and mortal patricians of their household escorted young scions as they played about. A brief respite for them from the studies they saw as worrisome, no doubt.

His lone eye scanned across the words within. The other eye sacrificed as the price to initiate into sorcery. Sure enough, it was exactly what he had been expecting from his wife-to-be.

Former wife-to-be, he should say. 

“It seems I am no longer a taken man.” He commented with a mild humor, rolling the scroll up again and placing it down upon the windowsill, taking up his flask again and sipping at it. A thinned, honeyed wine that he had developed a taste for over the years. Honeyed wine was the drink of the Dragonblooded, after all, along with fruit juice.

“...My… deepest condolences, Lord Rhomon.” The old servant bowed his head, throat audibly strained with restrained grief. The shame the servant was feeling at being the one to deliver that letter was significantly more than Rhomon himself was feeling at the moment.

Rhomon had much larger things to worry about than a mere cancelled engagement to a woman he met all of twice. The various looming apocalypses, for instance. “Worry not. I expected something like this.” He smiled gently towards the servant, a reassuring tone in his voice. “I am, after all, a mortal and not a dragon. Expecting her household to maintain this match would be unfairly optimistic.”

The servant swallowed, hesitantly nodding and maintaining his bowed head. “That- that is true… I simply… If anyone were deserving of Exaltation…”

“It is what it is.” Rhomon nodded, turning his gaze back to the window. “I am still a sorcerer, at least. A sorcerer and thaumaturge and smith and many other things besides. I will hardly be useless to my house.”

Not that he intended to be very useful to his house, on account of all the plans he had formulated since his reincarnation.

Briefly he focused on the aniconic patterns that decorated its trim- idolatry was forbidden by the state religion, and so much of the most conservative artistic featured no depictions of any creature or character. This did not stop scores of younger, more rebellious Dragonblooded having their armor decorated with images of powerful beasts, of course. 

But they were Dragonblooded, and so they were allowed much greater tolerances in behavior than mortals.

The year is seven sixty four. The Scarlet Empress disappeared during the season of Calibration just before the new year began. Unbeknownst to anyone else, this disappearance is not merely one of her seasonal fancies or vacationing periods, and she will not return and restore business as usual in the empire.

A near-immortal god-empress who ruled the largest dynasty on the planet with an iron fist and deliberately arranged her state in such a way that it could not maintain stability without her- needless to say, this was a significant issue. No one else knew it yet, but the Realm was doomed to nigh-inevitable civil war. The Great Houses would tear each other apart like dogs, all the while chunks of their mighty empire would be devoured by smaller powers taking advantage of the new weakness.

It would be an apocalyptic war by most standards. It was also the least-important apocalypse he had to worry about. Such was the Time of Tumult.

“...Lord Rhomon… would you permit me an inquiry?” The servant asked with some hesitancy. Even if Rhomon wasn’t a Dragonblooded, he was still a scion of one of the Great Houses.

“Speak your mind.” Rhomon nodded, taking another sip of his drink.

“Did… did you anticipate this? That you would not Exalt?” The old man asked with trepidation. “Even as far back as your request to attend the Heptagram?”

Six years ago, then.

Rhomon considered how to answer that for a few moments, then slowly shook his head. “Anticipation is too strong of a word, too great of a claim, I think. I merely considered all of my options, determined the worst possible outcome, and made the choice that minimized the damage that outcome would bring.”

He waggled his hand. “Being a patrician in the legions, in the temples, or in the bureaucracy- all of which would be a safe and secure career, if not terribly exciting. Being a sorcerer? My position would be largely the same regardless of if I were a patrician or a dragon. Respected for my power, indispensable for many tasks, and given some distance in social matters. Sorcery is not so reliant on one’s personal power, after all.”

The real reason was that he needed to absolutely maximize his personal power if he wanted to matter at all in the conflicts to come, if he wanted to avert even one impending disaster, let alone the half-dozen he remembered. 

“I see. Even now your wisdom astonishes me, Lord Rhomon.” The old servant shook his head with a small smile and pitying eyes. “Any career would’ve been lucky to have you, any of them.”

Being a prodigy and having foresight was very easy when you had the mind of a grown man as a toddler and the stress of knowledge of what was to come looming over you. The benefits of reincarnation and the pressures of foresight were motivating in the extreme.

“...Do you have any plans, Lord Rhomon? For what you will do first?” The servant overstepped mildly by asking that without first asking permission to ask that, but Rhomon had no real interest in punishing him for it, because that was a silly rule.

“I believe I will hew close to tradition, and begin my adulthood with a sabbatical.” Rhomon nodded firmly, finishing off his drink and putting the cap on his flask again, returning it to his belt. “Not for too long, maybe only five years or so, after which I will return and see about securing a longer term career.”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps as a dedicated alchemist and physician. Everyone respects a proficient healer.” He said this knowing full well that he was never going to have a normal career. 

“An excellent choice, Lord Rhomon. On that topic, I have been requested to inform you that your honored nephew, Lord Caras, extends an offer of service in his retinue.” The old man bowed respectfully as he said this, hands brought together under the sleeves of his formal robes. “And- your honored nephew Nepal has extended an offer to join him in what he called ‘rousing tours of the fineries of the Blessed Isle’.” The old man was significantly more awkward in tone as he said the second thing.

Feasting, drinking, and fucking whores then. Rhomon chuckled. “That’s certainly kind of them. I’ll keep both offers in mind.” Despite being his nephews, both of the men were older than him, and were much more akin to uncles than anything else. The family trees of long-lived artificial demigods got strange with alarming swiftness. 

“Your honored sister, Lady Darow, extends an offer from her husband to act as sorcerer-attachee of a Cathak legion.” The old man hesitated strongly for a few moments, wringing his hands together. “Your honored grand-niece, Lady Seras, extends an offer for you to be her… ‘official footstool’.”

“Yeah that sounds about right.” Rhomon replied dryly, making a clear and visible deadpan to the old servant. The servant gave an awkwardly humored chuckle, gaze cast to the side and shoulders slumped. Rhomon shook his head and rolled his eyes. “In any case- it’ll be another half-decade before my sabbatical is complete. Plenty of time to consider these offers.”

“Do you have plans for how your sabbatical will go already, Lord Rhomon?”

“Oh yes.” He nodded, finally pulling away from the window and continuing down the well-furnished hallway. “I intend to tour the Satrapys on horseback, with a loyal hound to escort me, and engage in quite a bit of half-minded errantry.”

“E-errantry, Lord Rhomon?” The old servant asked, following after him at a respectful distance. 

“You know- wandering about, finding villains to vanquish and damsels to rescue.” He waggled his hand. “That sort of thing. I’m finding myself quite compelled to do righteous work with this confirmation that my life will be measured in decades rather than centuries.”

“...I see. I can certainly understand that, Lord Rhomon.” The old servant nodded, a note of pity returning to his voice. 

“I will begin in An-Teng, I should think, then make my way around the entirety of the inner sea coast until I wind up somewhere in the near-north. Whitewall or Torvar, one of those two.” He inclined his head. “It depends on how much progress I make on the rest of my journey, I suppose.”

“An-Teng… Then The Lap, I would presume. Followed by Paragon.”

“That’s correct.”

“Have you a retinue assembled already, Lord Rhomon?”

“Not quite yet. I’ll be gathering the necessary supplies and making the arrangements for a week or few, then departing.” He titled his head. “I think I might assemble a retinue as I go along. That might be entertaining.”

“I… confess surprise that your aim is entertainment, Lord Rhomon.”

Rhomon gave a tiny smirk, faced away from the old servant. “What? Can I not have a little fun?”

That was a lie, of course. Fun was the last thing on his mind at the moment. Having a retinue looking over his every action and reporting back to his house was the last thing he needed. 

Realm dogma would have him kill many people that were going to be very important for saving the world.