In the waning days of the Empire, a sorcerer journeyed to save a dying land.

Amaranth of Vainqueur was a scholar of some renown, younger brother to the Emperor who ruled over the continent with an iron fist. A soft-spoken, bespectacled man, Amaranth was easily recognizable by his long, pointed ears, a heritage from his distant Beastkind ancestors. Unlike his illustrious sibling, however, his eyes were not the true crimson indicative of the Imperial lineage; instead, they were a red-purple hue, reminiscent of the flower he'd been named after.

In Amaranth's time the lands of Vainqueur were struck with a strange affliction: crops withered to dust while beasts died in the fields, turning to sand under the horrified gazes of the villagers tending to the herds. People came to petition the Emperor in the capital, pleading, what can be done to save the land, how should we stop the spread of the desert, can you feed our hungry children? The Emperor swept aside their concerns with a dismissive hand, but his brother listened carefully. Amaranth was a gardener who cherished the nourishing earth, and he had named his children after rare blossoms held sacred by their distant Beastkind kin.

Yes, Teo and Lippti were his pride and joy—and the source of all of his fears, the subjects of all of his nightmares. Amaranth knew the fate of Vainqueur was tightly entwined with their own. The day he left on his journey, he tightly held his children to his heart, unwilling to let go. The twins—his sweet, ever serious little scholars—solemnly vowed to wait for his return. Then, Black Chronicle safely tucked under his arm, Amaranth set out of the Imperial capital.

He was met with signs of strife at every stop of his journey. Conflicts erupting between humans and Beastkind, whose people had once been bound by ties of friendship and blood. Diseases striking swaths of villages like raging summer fires, leaving naught but ghost towns in their wake. Neighbours and kin coming to blows over a long-dried well or the last acre of fertile land.

Amaranth's scientific mind could only come up with two conclusions: Vainqueur was dying— and time, the most precious of commodities, was running out.

As the bearer of the Black Chronicle—as the inheritor of a great power that should have never fallen into mortal hands—Amaranth knew he had to intervene. No one else seemed willing to shoulder that burden, and dire circumstances called for dire measures. With a heavy heart, Amaranth took the Black Chronicle's power for his own, gaining control over the fabric of time itself—and, like any true and tried scholar, he began to experiment.

Here, he subtly influenced a regional governor to use newer means of irrigation to optimise agricultural yield; there, he brought together some of the Empire's brightest minds to study the causes of the desertification. Amaranth stopped wars before they could erupt; he dirtied his very own hands planting trees at the edge of the wastes. It was gruesome, ungratifying work, going through the same events again and again and again until he was—finally!—satisfied with the outcome. Always he was met with unyielding stubbornness on the part of those ruling the various provinces of Vainqueur at his brother's behest; Amaranth was seen as an interloper at best, a potential traitor to the Imperial cause at worst.

Still, their bullheadedness had nothing on the Imperial engineers, who were tasked with building and maintaining the numerous Thaumatechs at the heart of the Empire's every triumph. All of these illustrious men and women were adamant; there could be no link between the machines' consumption of Mana and the strange blight scouring the land. They had done the research to prove it, oh, they could (apparently) back their claims with decades' worth of (dubious) data. Despite all of his best efforts, Amaranth remained helpless as they kept whispering sweet poison in his brother's ear.

You would throw away the source of all of our power, the origin of our wealth and material comfort, the Emperor once told him, only to test one of your precious hypotheses? Have you lost your mind?

If you would listen to the owners of your most distant farmsteads, or even the chieftains of the —

Amaranth's brother laughed, then. You have been spending too much time smoking Celestial herbs with the Beastkind, brother. I thought you a scholar, not a mystic! They've filled your head with fairytales, those beastly cousins of ours. He grew serious, before adding, You will find another way. That is, if that desertification problem of yours is not simply a myth. I can't say you've convinced me. It might all be wild stories the Beastkind are telling you to weaken the strength of our borders.

Those visits to the Imperial capital always served as another source of heartache. Father, why do you look so old, the twins would ask, taking his wrinkled hands into their own—and, as sure as the coming and going of the tides, whenever Amaranth would look into a mirror later that night, he would only see a weary old man staring back at him. Amaranth had lived decades through the course of only one year—and his own children no longer recognised him. It made him want to weep.

He tried not to let that bitterness weigh him down. In his lifetime, Amaranth would not see the world he had saved with his own eyes—but his children would. Perhaps one day they would share the tale of their father so that Amaranth's name would not be forgotten over the generations— so it would be known that he had given up everything to safeguard the future of the continent. Perhaps. It was a naïve thought, though Amaranth clung to it, somewhat desperately; as the years and tears, the wear and tear, began to whittle away at the last bits of his sanity, that idea, that simple mantra, was all that kept him going.

He was old and weary, so weary, when the solution finally presented itself to him. In his later years, his body had become a temple, a monument, to a lifetime's worth of little pains—creaky joints, persistent headaches, ever shaking hands… Amaranth was almost looking forward to his end, if only that meant he would stop hurting. Still, Amaranth eventually realised that he had accumulated much more than simple regrets during his long travels.

Over the course of his life—of all of his lives, truly!—Amaranth of Vainqueur had become a vast fountain of sheer magical power.

He was a broken vase, truly, all that Mana seeping out of him like sand out of a cracked hourglass. And yet perhaps this was the answer he had been seeking all along; Amaranth would go to his death, gladly, and release all that potent energy crackling beneath his skin. It was a temporary solution for a problem that would surely take many generations to solve. Still, that would give his children a fighting chance. Teo and Lippti would not see the world their father had saved with their own eyes—but surely their children would.

Amaranth was met with gasps and stares when he returned to the Imperial capital for the last time. He had been a handsome man, famed for his delicate features and long, lustrous hair. Now courtiers scrambled away from him, wrinkling their noses at his stench. The raving, sour-breathed old man stumbling toward the Emperor could not be his brother, so well-loved by their people, they all said.

The Imperial guardsmen did not recognise him either, and Amaranth was brought before his brother's throne in chains. He glanced about, committing his once-familiar surroundings to memory: in the corners, Thaumatech soldiers kept guards, their magical mechanisms making a soft whirring sound. Above their heads, Mana-infused lamplights infused the room with a harsh, blue-white glow. Amaranth closed his eyes and sighed. Did he truly belong here? He'd spent so much of his life as a penniless wanderer than such luxuries felt decadent.

When he opened them again, Amaranth was met by a familiar pair of violet eyes from across the distance. His dear girl looked shocked; she was huddled close to her brother and two cousins, not far from the throne where the Emperor was seated. Teo was the very portrait of his mother with those thick curls and bright amber eyes of his, but everyone had always said that Lippti closely resembled the man who had sired her. Her mouth was slightly open, and her little brow was furrowed. Did she recognise him? Of course not, Amaranth thought with some despair. He was a stranger to his own children—or perhaps it was the opposite. They were strangers to him. He could not say when he had seen them last. A year, perhaps. Or even a decade.

Steeling himself, Amaranth stepped forward to address his brother. At length he spoke of what he had witnessed; the Emperor remained silent, even as the rest of the courtiers whispered among themselves. Of course they did, he thought with a surge of uncharacteristic hatred. Those foppish aristocrats had never seen children starve, as he had.

It's our Thaumachines, Amaranth eventually told his brother. They use too much Mana. That is why the land is dying. We must—

Would you have us stop using them? the Emperor said, quieting his sycophants with a raised hand. What would purify our waters, then? What would keep us warm in the winters, cool in the summers? What instruments would we instead use in war, to protect our borders from those who covet our way of life?

I do not know, said Amaranth. Use me, instead, to power your machines. He held up his hand, and sheer magical energy crackled in his palm. Cries of fear and dismay followed that display. Make me the foundational pillar of your Empire, brother. Make a sacrifice of me—and let me give you time enough to find a more lasting solution to this blight…

The Emperor stood up. Shock had finally broken through the apathy. H…how?

The Black Chronicle. The item in question was under Amaranth's arm, softly pulsing with power. With each new repetition of reality, I felt the Mana massing inside me, and I grew more powerful. With this power, I can heal the wounds in the world, brother, at least temporarily. Beseechingly, he added, I must do it! I must! Otherwise… Amaranth glanced at his children, too distressed to speak a word more. The twins were holding hands; their faces had gone white from fright. Please…

The Emperor lifted one hand. Servants and sycophants scurried toward him. Make the necessary preparations, he told them. This must be done quickly.

Courtiers were shooed away from the throne room. Instead, they were replaced by scholars and spellcasters who busied themselves by following Amaranth's instructions. The twins, and the Emperor's two children, remained in the room. Amaranth would have rather sent them away, but his brother's word was absolute. His son Allium had inherited his father's crimson eyes, but not his warlike nature. Yet the Emperor wanted an heir with a will as strong as steel, hammered on the anvil of strife; this was the sort of so-called building experience to which he often subjected the boy.

Finally, the Emperor came to stand before Amaranth, Black Chronicle in hand; the purple pages of the book flitted quickly, as if caught in a nonexistent breeze. Amaranth could feel its power even without touching it. His battered, broken soul pulsated alongside this wretched family heirloom. His brother would use that connection to rip out Amaranth's soul from his body; if Amaranth's calculations were correct (and they were, Amaranth was not called the greatest mind of his generation for nothing, after all) then the process would release all the latent Mana accumulated inside him. The Emperor could then direct that energy toward all the machines powering up the city, giving them more precious time to find a more permanent solution.

Light enveloped the Emperor's form as he began to cast his spell. Amaranth kept his eyes fixed on his brother. In the distance, he heard a child crying out. Lippti was trying to run to him, but her brother and cousins were holding her back. Amaranth blinked away tears. The thump-thump in his chest—his second heartbeat, if you will—was getting louder. Pulsating agony spread through his body. Still, Amaranth grit his teeth, still standing upright despite his swaying feet.

The dark, purple glow around the Emperor flared brighter. Amaranth nearly swooned from the pain. That was it. The end was near; Amaranth could taste it on his tongue, as metallic as blood. Summoning the last bit of strength in his weary body, he came forward and shouted to his brother, Promise me you will find another way! Use that time wisely, I beg of you! My children—

My children deserve a better world than their father had been given, was what he'd meant to say as his last words.

And yet Fate, inscrutable Fate, had other ideas…

The Emperor fixed on him a cold stare. Well, in any case, with this ritual of yours, we will never have to find another way. We simply need to find others to replace you and serve as new foundational pillars for the Empire.

It took Amaranth a few precious seconds to understand the tenor of his brother's words. Then the Emperor glanced—the history books would not record it, but it was only ever a glance that destroyed everything, only a simple glance that doomed the whole of the Empire!—toward Teo and Lippti.

Pain and fury surged through Amaranth, and he screamed like a wounded beast, baring his teeth and reaching for his brother with clawed hands. Raw Mana trailed out of his eyes like tears, blue light flaring out of his mouth. The Emperor stumbled backward, shouting for help.

He would not find any; something inside Amaranth reached forward, something raw and primal and angry, and the last Emperor of Vainqueur burst into an explosion of light and magic, what little remained of him scattering through the room as a wave of dust.

The Black Chronicle fell to the ground with a dull thud. Amaranth did not see it. Screams filled in the room. Amaranth did not hear them. Matter called to other matter; energy demanded more energy. The Emperor's soul had made but a paltry meal. The Thaumatech guards were the first to fall, becoming inert bits of machinery. Then the lights flickered and died, bringing another chorus of screams. Instead, the throne room was bathed in an eerily blue glow, brought about by the great flare that had burst into life where Amaranth had once been standing…

More, a strange command filtered through what remained of Amaranth's consciousness. It wasn't really a thought per se; his brain matter was thoroughly gone by now. Moremoremoremoremore –

There was movement in front of him, and a keening cry flaring in the air. A small form—clad in purple, with long brown hair—had come to grab the Black Chronicle, at great risk to her person. Lippti (her name, that's her name, oh, my dear, sweet girl, what I have—) scurried back to her hiding place, stumbling along the way as she fought the pull trying to drag her backward.

His children's cousins—young prince Allium and ever curious Nemesia—came to huddle around her. Allium was trying to protect his sister and the twins—ineffectively—from the tempest of magic raging in the throne room. Only Lippti seemed in control of herself; with trembling hands, she opened the Black Chronicle, and Amaranth saw her mouth moving. She was trying to get them all to safety.

Amaranth could feel himself slipping. Tears mingled with the trails of raw Mana bursting from his eyes. His body—his physical form—was quickly disintegrating, and along with it the last dregs of his consciousness. Still, he held on, oh, he fought with all that he had. His soul—nearly ripped to shreds by the backlash of the spell—was still intact enough to keep one thought going.

(My children deserve better, my children deserve better, my children deserve better—)

Lippti finished her incantation. She raised her eyes, no doubt trying to find her father's gaze in—what had Amaranth become, exactly? He could not speak, could not think. Only his mangled soul held on, by the barest of threads.

He saw Lippti's lips move, forming a single word. Papa!

And then she—and the other three children—were gone, whisked away by the powers of the Black Chronicle.

With a sigh, Amaranth let go as well. Let go of his physical form, of his history, of his name. A strange thing occurred, then; all of his mass, all of his matter, seemed to condense, compressing in a space as tight as the head of a pin. But he had lost none of the energy now unstably contained in his broken soul; by sheer gravity, that wild surge of Mana drew to itself everything present in the room—furniture, people, even light itself.

There were no screams; there had been no time for screams, really. As raw matter and energy flocked to him, the hole where Amaranth of Vainqueur had once stood grew denser; it grew hungrier. There went the gardens of the palace, and all of their magically-infused lamplights. Soldiers and servants scattered into dust without ever uttering a sound, their souls drawn by the impossible pull of whatever had been left in Amaranth's wake. Hounds and horses—Teo's favourites among them—breathed their last in the span of a sigh.

Then it was the city, from the tiniest of mice scurrying about dim-lit alleys to the people who thought themselves safely ensconced within their homes. Amaranth ate and ate and ate. Flashes of life poured into him as he devoured souls upon souls. A guardsman complaining about a slow night to his uninterested companion. Two breathless lovers, smiling as they basked in their shared bliss. A father, ever so weary after losing so much sleep as of late, humming a lullaby to soothe a crying baby.

What little remained of Amaranth saw all of these lives—these mundane, but ever so precious existences—bared before his eyes, oh, he saw it all, and he screamed, no, no, no, stopstopstop, this isn't what I wanted, oh by God's grace, make it STOP –

It was over in a matter of minutes.

The Imperial Capital stood very still. Its walls were as white and beautiful and pristine as ever. Its foundations remained unshaken. Yet in homes and hovels alike, there was an unnatural quietness. Where people and beasts had once thrived, there were only pocketfuls of sand.

Above it all hovered a wound in the world, bleeding darkness all over the city. Amaranth had become a black shroud potent enough to devour even starlight. Time stood still as that wound, that hole piercing the very fabric of reality, hung above the Imperial capital, sated—at least for now.

Outside the confines of the capital, four children waited and watched. Lippti collapsed into the sand, weeping. Her brother encircled her with his own frail arms. Teo was too numb to shed a single tear.

Amaranth had only wanted to protect the world for the sake of his children.

Instead he became a mindless devourer, more blight than beast.