As the storm clouds of war gathered, dark as shadows, a prince fled from his cruel fate.
Heinrich of Granorg had been raised from birth to be sacrificed for the sake of the world. His elder brother was the king of the realm bearing their name—a tyrant feared by both his family and his people. Meanwhile, the younger of the two siblings would die in anonymity, forgotten and unmourned by those he had saved.
Unlike his brother, Heinrich had been cursed with the crimson eyes indicative of the Imperial lineage they both shared—a dubious inheritance from the first ruler of Granorg, King Allium. In these days, the Empire was but a distant memory, with only ruins scattered across the desert to bear witness to its once prodigious might—and stand testament to the depth of their hubris.
Now the world stood on the cusp of ruin because of the great folly of their Imperial precursors (nobody could tell what ancient sin had doomed the continent; no record remained of that time). A decade ago, Heinrich's uncle had been sacrificed to slow the advance of the wastes—to keep Granorg from suffering the same fate as its illustrious predecessor. Now that unenviable duty sat heavily upon his frail shoulders. Heinrich had no desire to die. He was no hero meant to save the world, only a man made wary by an existence spent knowing that he would have to be murdered at the hands of his lifelong tormentor.
The only bright spots illuminating those dreary days were his brother's children. Ernst's eyes gleamed like aquamarine, and they were filled with wisdom beyond his years. And though blue-eyed Eruca spoke with a shy stutter, the girl had a will of iron. They were too smart, too stubborn for their own good—and far too good for this thankless world. As his niece and nephew aged, so came another horrifying realisation: Heinrich was to suffer for the sins of an ancestor whose name history had forgotten—but so would they. Heinrich was the last in a long line of men and women forced to bear the weight of the world. Upon his death, that burden would fall to those sun-bright children, and it would then be carried by their descendants, while the world grew fat gnawing on the essence of their souls.
And so Heinrich fled from his fate, taking with him the means to carry out the ritual destined to save the world—the ritual that would bring about the end of all he held dear. Heinrich did not say farewell to Ernst and Eruca as he left on his self-imposed exile; to listen to their words of contempt (why are you leaving us with him, he could almost hear them say, of all people?), would have broken the mask of his resolve like cracks upon cheap lacquer.
His only travelling companions were the White Chronicle—and the two ghostly children who kept guard over this priceless artefact from within Historia, a dimension that existed out of time and space. Teo and Lippti were a source of comfort as much as they were a source of frustration. From their timeless prison, they had watched over generation upon generation of Heinrich's kin, guiding them toward their untimely end. The twins never commented upon Heinrich's reluctance to do his duty; according to them, all sacrifices had gone willingly to their death in the end, and Heinrich would be no different.
Why are you helping me? Heinrich had asked them, once. Who are you, really?
Our task is to guide the bearers of the Chronicle, Lippti answered.
Our goal is to save the world, her brother added.
Why? Heinrich retorted, bluntly. Why are you so invested in this world? You no longer live in it.
The twins had remained silent in response. Not so long ago, Heinrich had felt sympathy at the sorrow that perpetually clouded their gazes. But now he was wary of their inconclusive answers, these half-truths, these barely hidden lies, and he had turned away with a scoff, leaving them to wallow in their misery.
Heinrich thus wandered the land, seeing for himself the consequences of his so-called selfishness. Deserted villages and sprawling wastelands with nary a hint of green to see. Whispers of war being uttered on every lips. Peasants holding starving children to their breasts, looking at him with sheep-like eyes.
Heinrich wanted to scream at them, why are you not saving yourselves, why must it be my burden to bear? Instead he was met with blank stares and mistrustful gazes. How he loathed them. Save us, they wept, why are you not feeding us, why are you not risking your lives to protect ours?
Heinrich would have gladly let them die screaming. There should have been a monument to preserve the memory of his predecessors; their names should have been known to every child on the continent, and people should have spoken them as reverently as a prayer. Instead, men of power refused to see the coming end, while their mindless minions squabbled on scraps like beasts without honour or humanity. Heinrich's brother had formidable power at his disposal; he could easily have gathered all the brightest minds of the continent to find a more permanent solution to the encroaching wastelands.
The king instead raised his knife to his son's throat.
And Heinrich broke the world rather than to let that happen.
Oh, yes, he would have broken the world a thousand times over for sweet Ernst's sake; anyone in his situation would have done the same. The White Chronicle—and its time-travelling powers—was meant to bolster his magical capabilities. It was meant to make him a walking, talking recipient of Mana which would then be used to—temporarily, of course—seal that breach in the desert.
Heinrich was all too glad to misuse its powers to murder his brother—again and again and again.
The king died choking. He died of a blade plunging in his heart, he died screaming as Heinrich set him aflame. Really, his brother should have died a hundred deaths, one for each of the sacrifices who remained forgotten and unmourned by the world they had saved. Heinrich had to remind himself that he had other priorities; everything he did was for his dear boy's sake, after all.
Leaving his brother's corpse to rot, Heinrich took his nephew away, not caring that Granorg was in utter chaos after the sudden disappearance of both its king and heir. Precious Ernst, now renamed Stocke—after a flower Heinrich had loved when he had been but a simple aspirant gardener rather than a living fail-safe measure to be used as his brother saw fit—began a new life in neighbouring Alistel. His memories had been carefully manipulated by his uncle; that way, the boy did not remember any of the terrible events that had led to his father murdering him.
(Heinrich had also excised any mention of him in the lad's mangled mind. Oh, it had hurt as if he'd ripped out his own heart to do so, but it was necessary. Ernst had to survive. Nothing else mattered.)
War erupted across the continent. The throne of Granorg had passed to the king's widow—an incompetent, vapid wench of a woman. Meanwhile, Alistel was ruled by a religious despot who wished for nothing but to scourge the enemies of his God from the continent.
Heinrich—or Heiss as he was now called—took advantage of this chaos. While the weak-willed warred, he stood behind the scenes, pulling all their strings. Like his brother, the so-called great and powerful were less interested in saving their people from ruin than in protecting what little scraps of power they still held in their grasping hands; that made them prime targets for Heinrich's manipulations.
In contrast, he was not so careless, giving away the White Chronicle to his dear boy for his own safety. After all, Heinrich had kept the Black Chronicle—taken from his dying brother's hands—for his own personal use…
What are you doing? the twins had asked him. If you keep the ritual from happening, then—
—that monster of yours will devour the entire continent, yes, yes, Heinrich said, waving a hand around. He had been the first sacrifice in many generations to stumble on the truth; he had even caught a glimpse of the creature, hidden in the shadowy depths of Historia. Stifling a shiver at the memory, Heinrich fixed a piercing stare on the twins before adding. You brought this on yourselves, you know, just as my brother brought his own fate on himself. Perhaps if you had not keep the sacrifices in the dark as to the true cause of the desertification, then—
It was for your own good, Lippti said, weakly, which prompted a nasty laugh from Heinrich.
Perhaps your dear sacrifices would not have so gladly gone to their end if they knew they were paying for the sins of another? Is that what you mean?
The twins looked miserable. Good, thought Heinrich. Let them suffer, just as all the others before him, the others who had been fed so many vile lies by those wretched children-shaped constructs, had suffered.
We do sympathise with you, Heinrich, Lippti murmured
We know what it takes, making amends for the sins of another, her brother added.
Do you, now? Heinrich narrowed his eyes. Not long ago, he would have fallen for their lies hook, line and sinker. Is that why they presented themselves as children? To elicit sympathy in their victims? God, but how Heinrich hated them.
We have failed you, Heinrich, Lippti had said, much as we failed the world back then. Give us the chance to make this right. Please!
They had been his constant—and only!—travelling companions for the better part of two decades by now. Yet at this heartfelt plea, Heinrich could only snarl, No. You've brought my kinsmen to their death only to delay the inevitable. If it is the world's fate that it comes to an end, then so be it.
Surely Ernst—Stocke—would one day believe the same as his uncle. Yet the boy tested his patience, risking his life over and over again, for his comrades in the army, for his subordinates, for random strangers, even. Ernst's bleeding heart still beat strongly in Stocke's chest. Heinrich wished he could talk some sense into the boy, wished he could tell him, they aren't worth it, their lives are nothing compared to yours!
But ever curious Ernst had grown into a deeply suspicious young man who closely guarded his emotions. The boy who had told Heinrich all his secrets was no more; instead what remained was this surly youth who opposed him at every turn, who acted as if this world which had marked him—and so many others of their own blood!—for death deserved a second chance.
Then Stocke met with his sister, and each of Heinrich's careful plans unravelled completely.
The little chit put ideas in her brother's head. Made him think that he had to give his life to solve a problem not of his own making. Heinrich should have killed her alongside her duplicitous father, but he had stayed his hand, out of the fondness he had felt for her long ago, when she had been a sweet—and obedient—child. Perhaps, he eventually mused, it was not too late. If she were to die, then the ritual could not be completed, after all.
(Oh, Heinrich wished he could have saved her as well, he did—but she had damned herself the day she had decided the lives of strangers were worth more than her own family.)
Heiss, stop this, the twins tried to warn him. What do you expect Stocke to do after you've caused the world to come crashing down around him? Do you truly expect you two will survive long after the collapse of all society?
This world has already been broken once, Heinrich answered, and people have still managed to live on. We humans are hard to kill. We are cockroaches, the lot of us.
Deep within Historia, he could feel it: the Mana-devouring beast, this wound in the world. Once, Heinrich had been afraid of it; he'd stared into that void only to feel its hunger gnawing on the fragment of soul keeping him alive, as it had once feasted on his predecessors' lives. Now he closed his eyes and reached out to it, almost forming a connection to this distant ancestor.
You're like me, he almost wanted to say. You must have struggled under the burden of saving the world, just as we all struggled after you. You had to be as steady as a pillar, holding the whole of the Empire with only the strength of your own will—until your resentment, your anger, made it all crumble away…
That fateful day, underneath his childhood home of Castle Granorg, Heinrich called on this connection again as he was met with the blades of Stocke and his comrades. The boy had rejected him, utterly; it was hard not to feel an emptiness where his heart had once been, a gaping wound that would never heal. Heinrich had broken the world for him. It had not been enough. Stocke was the last in a long line of men and women forced to bear the weight of the world—and now he preferred to spit on their memory rather than to turn his back on the people who would gladly see him dead to save their own skins.
But Heinrich had not forgotten them. He had not forgotten him, the nameless soul whose sins he was meant to bear. Heinrich could almost feel hundreds of ghostly hands trying to tear off his flesh. Fight for us! his predecessors seemed to whisper in his ear. Be our champion. Take back what has been taken from us.
He smiled a predator's smile, then, even as Eruca and Stocke—Eruca and Ernst—dared to stand before him, weapons in hand. Heinrich—Heiss—had played the victim long enough in this tale.
He gladly became a devouring monster instead.