Resurrection (Writer’s Games)
The first of three stories written for the Writer’s Games 2021 writing competition that didn’t place in their events. These were written within a 72 hour time period and with a strict word limit.
Journal, Property of Executor Jiirahn
NOTE: Reading the contents of this tome without the granted permissions of Executor Jiirahn will be interpreted as an attack on his personage. Be advised.Entry One; Date: Unknown
The stories of princes and princesses, sorcerers and sorceresses, stuck in a gilded cage number in the hundreds, if not thousands. They sit among golden statuary, silk sheets, canopy bedframes, looking out from a convenient tower balcony at the varyingly beautiful or hideous vistas beyond — depending on the capriciousness and cruelty of the storyteller. These characters might even have servants (magical or otherwise) that bring them food and drink. But a beautiful prison is a prison nonetheless, and so they gaze wistfully toward the horizon with dreams of adventure reflected in their eyes. They may down golden goblet after golden goblet of fine wine, all to numb the pain of their limited potential.
Unfortunately, this isn’t a story, and I have no wine, gold, or silk sheets. But I do have this little book, a writing table, and time. The rest of my accommodations are far less generous.
The chair feels hewn from stone, and the bed is soft only by comparison. There’s an endless supply of mineral-heavy water via a device on the wall, and presumably food will be delivered to me via the small hatch in my prison door. The balcony is an ugly thing, like a spur growing out from this sharp, bleached bone of a tower. I don’t even have the luxury of open air to throw myself out into — I can feel the barrier just beyond the edge from here. No, a final flight is not an option if I were to ever consider it. When I look outside, the mountains look like weapons forged to kill the sky — sharp, dark, and unforgiving angles rupturing the serene and cloud-spattered blue above. That means I’m in the Blades…which means nobody will ever find me, intentionally or otherwise. I’m on my own.
My captors went through the trouble of drugging me, taking me alive, and transporting me here after rendering me catatonic. I can only assume they have a use for me. I’m no good to them dead. Are they an enemy state? Or did my opposition in the Conclave finally make a move?
Which is ironic. As far as the people of Hironai are concerned, I’ve been assassinated. So what can their “dead” Executor accomplish from beyond the grave?
How do I escape?
Executor Jiirahn set the pen down on the table and closed the journal. He should consider himself lucky; it was one of the very few items that was not missing when he awoke in this cell. A newly bound and purchased journal is unimportant; they had no reason to take it. The captive looked at his hands and sneered. They did, however, take the signets of his multiple offices — the Executor’s Eagle no longer adorned the index finger of his right hand; the concentric circles of a Sorcerer Majestic no longer adorned the ring finger of his left. He flexed his fingers, dancing each one into brief contact with his thumb in rapid succession. An old Sorcerer warm-up routine.
His naked fingers missed.
He’d kill them for that. At least, once the razorblades in his head were dulled from overuse and he could think clearly. The migraine hadn’t stopped since he roused from his stupor, making it near impossible to concentrate on anything.
Likely an aftereffect of the poison, he thought. It should fade with time.
The chair — theoretically made of wood — ground and caught against the stone floor as the Executor pushed it back from the desk. He made a mental note to improve the accursed thing later; that grinding put his teeth on edge. It would be easy once he regained control of his magic.
So would escaping, theoretically, he mused. But they were able to drug my food without my tasters being affected, which means they somehow poisoned it while it was in front of me. Jiirahn frowned. The feast had been raucous, yes; any feast with open access to the public had a tendency toward joyous chaos. It was why he ordered them. Could one of my tasters have been an accomplice? No, they were all Oathed; they were under a compulsion not to harm or betray him. Then how could it have happened?
He shook his head, which cleared his thoughts at the cost of rattling the razorblades. The Executor grit his teeth, eyes clamped shut. Small red cuts flickered behind his eyelids. The lines and flickering faded with the pain, and Jiirahn could think again. None of that matters now. If they are capable of capturing me this easily, they’ll have prepared for my magic in some way.
“But no prison is perfect,” the captive muttered. “And no captive helpless.”
Static tingling raced along Jiirahn’s spine, and that was his only warning. He spun, throwing his hands before him instinctively to project a wave of power toward the unknown assailant — but there was no power to project. The magic slipped out of his grasp like water, leaving him helpless.
It didn’t matter; a shimmering transparent blue barrier had formed between him and the door, which was now further blocked by a cage of metal bars that had dropped into place. Behind these twin layers of restriction stood a single individual. Their slim frame was accentuated by the deep purple waistcoat over white shirt, fitted white trousers, and long, high-collared black coat. Jiirahn could not determine the sex of the figure, as they wore a mask over their face and a tall hat on their head. Like a magician out of a storybook, this character emerged shrouded in mystery and inconvenience. But all stories are built on some truth, and everyone knew that magicians were a rare and dying breed.
“I’m glad to finally put a face to my would-be jailors,” Jiirahn sneered. “So to speak.”
The figure stood silently; black gloved hands hooked on their coat pockets.
The captive shook his head. “I’m alive for a reason. What does a magician like you want from the Executor of Hironai?”
“Compliance and Cooperation.” Their voice was distorted by the mask, filling the air with euphonic androgynous tones. They snapped the fingers of their left hand, and a rustling sounded from the balcony. A red-striped hawk perched on the railing’s edge, head cocking to and fro as it observed the scene. Sitting nearly two feet tall, it was a bird of no small size. No aura was visible to Jiirahn’s eyes, but the glyph painted on its forehead revealed its magical nature. Damn magicians, Jiirahn glowered. Illusions and cheap tricks were the goal and extent of their power; that’s why their craft was dying.
But they’ve captured you, the critic in his mind whispered. He snorted. Shut up.
“Why should I do anything for you?” he demanded, stepping toward the barrier. “Why should I care about your feathered tool?
“Go to him.” The magician’s words were terse, but not hostile. “His name is Tobias. Tied to his leg are our demands, and your incentive. I will return in time; food will be delivered twice a day. If you comply, other benefits may follow. Your talents are necessary, even if your identity is not.”
Without another word the magician turned on their heel and snapped the fingers of their right hand. The barrier flared just enough to be blinding, forcing Jiirahn to turn away. When he looked back the magician was gone. All he could see was the locked door, and the now-permanent metal cage. Rage and confusion warred within him, simultaneously tightening his chest and slacking his jaw. He was one of the most powerful men alive, and he’d been all but ignored.
He inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly, counting seven seconds before moving. It’s no use; focus on the immediate tasks at hand. The bird — Tobias — was waiting patiently on the railing. Two red stripes ran from the corners of its eyes down its back, scattering diffuse red shades into the brown feathers near the wingtips and tailfeathers. It watched Jiirahn approach with curiosity, but no fear. The Executor closed the gap in a few steps and reached for the bird. Tobias’ head flicked down to examine the hand. After a moment of contemplation, he hopped onto the hand. The weight of the bird took Jiirahn by surprise, but he managed to avoid dropping it. Tobias extended a talon, revealing a small case tied to it. The captive opened the case, privately appreciating the fine patterning on the leather, and pulled forth a tightly wound scroll that was significantly longer than the case. More accursed illusions.
Useful, though, he admitted begrudgingly.
He took the scroll back to the desk, unrolled it and began to read. Proud shoulders began to shake, and the proud back hunched forward as he read. An observer might first believe that the Executor was breaking into tears, but that could not be more wrong. One hearty fist slammed down onto the table, shaking the writing materials atop it. Tobias jumped on his perch, startled by the sound. The predator glared at the man, feathers ruffled, as raucous, booming laughter escaped Jiirahn’s chest with explosive force.
“The audacity!” he exclaimed, wiping away an imagined tear from his eye, “it almost makes me want to cooperate on boldness alone.” The Executor sighed and leaned back in the chair. One arm fell over the back of the chair as he looked over his shoulder at Tobias. “Bird, tell you masters that I’ll play along, with conditions.”
The difference between reigns and a noose is where the rope is tied, he mused. Jiirahn couldn’t restrain the toothy grin that split his face. And they’re handing me a lot of rope. Yes, he’d play along. But only until he’d turned his noose once more into the reigns guiding a nation. Deposed by his own government, but kept alive for his talents as a leader? They hated him, but they couldn’t risk truly killing him. He chuckled; hands clasped before him. Salt in their wound was balm for his.
Jiirahn couldn’t restrain his excitement.
Entry Two; Date: Unknown
Day three, and the magician has yet to return. Food is not courtly fare, but it is the satisfying warm sustenance that I loved while traveling during my apprentice days. Hot stew, a chunk of warm and fluffy bread, and a cup of tea (in the morning) or wine (in the evening). The cup is extremely fragile — I suspect it’s made of a paper composite. Nothing I could use as a chisel, break into a weapon, or otherwise take advantage of. The stew comes in a bread bowl — an admirably clever solution. Aside from the cup, I have no dishes or utensils; I have only bread.
I explored the cell more thoroughly after yesterday’s encounter; I felt it the most productive action to take. It’s split into two rooms; a small bedchamber with a privacy curtain (unsure why, nobody else is ever here) that contains only a bed. I’m surprised they allowed me sheets and blankets — I suppose they assume suicide isn’t an option for me. They’re right, bastards. It doesn’t matter; the sheets and blankets are secured to the bed, which is a thin mattress set inside a depression of a stone slab. I’ve slept in worse places, but not many of them. There’s also a narrow sluice for bathing, which is a luxury I wasn’t expecting. I was prepared to bathe on the balcony when it rains.
The other room has the damnably heavy chair (which I suspect is enchanted in some way), the writing table, and shelves carved directly out of the walls. The decorative carvings and runes etched around the space are skillful, and doubtlessly have some significance. Birds, deer, serpents, all in threes. I can cover the distance from my bedroom threshold to the locked gate in a mere five strides; I scarcely have enough room for basic calisthenics or exercises in here.
I’ve signaled my compliance to them; are they making me wait as an expression of power, or has some externality drawn their attention? Not knowing frustrates me to no end. I have a feeling they’ll return tomorrow. It’ll be the third day after the first meeting, and three is a number of significance to magicians. Some drivel about the three phases of the self. There are only two: alive and dead. My teaching must be inadequate if they didn’t learn that lesson last time.
The headache hasn’t gone away. My power keeps slipping between my fingers. Drugs laced in the food? Some enchantment in the walls of the cell? Avoid food and drink to start.
Entry Three; Fourth Day in Captivity
I tossed my food and drink off the balcony last night instead of eating it, to test my hypothesis. The headache has faded somewhat, but the magic is as elusive as before. I did still consume the water from the wall — that will be the next experiment. I’ll continue fasting until I see results. If it’s the same drug or poison they used to capture me, it’s been heavily diluted to keep me impotent but lucid. Every day I’m not ingesting more of it gives me more of a chance to build up a tolerance through controlled dosage.
Of course, this fails if the water is also tainted. I have to accept that for now.
My captor should, if I’m correct, be visiting in the next half-turn of the hourglass or so. I expect I’ll get some answers, or at least some orders by —
The cool static pulled at the hairs of his neck as the barrier flickered into place. Jiirahn slammed the small tome shut and slid it into a fold of his tunic. As far as he was aware, they didn’t know about his journal, or didn’t care. The faint tingling in his fingertips as he brushed the cover reassured him that the protective curse was still active; a precaution left over from the Noble Rebellions.
Funny how that works out, Jiirahn mused sardonically. Old foes, old lessons.
He rose to his feet, not bothering to push back the chair. Oddly, it slid backward with ease anyway. The Executor turned to meet his captor and came face-to-face with the mask. The magician stood not two meters away from him, surrounded by the barrier. Jiirahn peered through the transparent shimmer and examined the mask, looking for clues to their identity. There were none; this mask bore none of the decorations of the room, door, or even their own outfit. It was a smooth oval of some polished material — it could be metal, but the luster of it might suggest lacquered wood — with angular black eyeholes and no mouth. The magician stood with one hand in coat pocket, and the other on their hip.
“Good morning,” Jiirahn said. There was no reason not to be polite; the other options would be less effective. You’re in no position to make threats right now.
The magician inclined their head in acknowledgement. “Indeed. I trust you’ve read our demands?”
“Your audacity is astounding,” the Executor replied, “That earned some of my respect. I also know when I am beaten — ” temporarily, “ — and so I am willing to cooperate. I will help guide my nation from this cell.” He shrugged, wishing he could see the magician’s eyes. “I’m bored, and it will entertain me. When do I start?”
“Today,” the masked figure responded. “And it’s our nation now. Not yours. As it should be.”
“Right. Tell me,” Jiirahn said, “how did you manage to poison me? Did you bribe one of my tasters or security team? Did you slip the drugs into my food or drink as it was on the table in front of me?”
“Why should we give you an answer?”
“Because I’m imprisoned here and have already agreed to your terms.”
The mask inclined toward him. “Fair. The poison was oiled onto your eating utensils directly, as they were placed ahead of the meal.”
“That allowed a strong enough dose to render me unconscious?”
“No, but it dropped you fast enough for us to inject you with the proper drug,” the magician’s head tilted to the side; Jiirahn got the distinct impression that the figure was smirking. “How’s the headache?”
Jiirahn snorted. “Irritating. How long have I been here?”
“One week. Your funeral procession is today, and the Conclave has retaken control of Hironai. Our Republic has been restored, Executor.” The final word was tinged with spite.
“And yet I’m still here. Which means you still need me. So, what’s changed?”
“You are being kept alive as an advisor. Any suggestions you make will be reviewed by the Conclave before any implementation.”
“Why?”
The magician crossed their arms. “Your Executorship was one of the most successful in history. But no previous Executor retained a tight grip on their power after their war or conflict. You needed to be removed, but there’s no reason to waste your talents.”
“A surprisingly pragmatic brand of political idealism, then,” Jiirahn murmured. Assuming it’s true. “How do I know this is for the good of Hironai, and not to centralize power for yourselves?”
The magician scoffed. “Hypocrite.” They shook their head and snapped the finger of their right hand. The rustle of Tobias’ feathers announced his arrival on the balcony. “I shouldn’t have bothered to converse. Consider the given problem, compose your solution, and send it with Tobias.” They turned to leave. “Don’t expect to hear from me for a long time.”
The barrier flashed, the figure vanished, and Jiirahn recovered the scroll. Let’s see what crisis they need me to solve. Hironai was his nation, and he’d be damned if he let these political snakes run it into the ground.
Entry Four; Eighth Day in Captivity
I’m dead for one week, and the nation is falling apart.
Apparently the Conclave thought it wise to reinstate the old noble caste; I abolished that for a reason. The citizenry was more willing to join the Kalriohn war if they felt like they sat at the bargaining table. The people are rioting, as one would suspect when a hated class of people regain power. They won’t listen to any recommendations that require them to step down, so I’ll have to work around that.
TASK: End the rioting and restore order in the nation
GOAL: Restore peace, disempower the Conclave.
Alternative: Suggest policies that empower the Conclave nobility; enrage citizenry into violent revolution —
The scratching of the pen on paper stopped as Jiirahn stopped to consider his options. An accelerationist approach would, if it worked, completely disempower the upstarts that captured him. Perhaps a democracy would take the Conclave’s place. But it would also get me killed almost immediately, the Executor mused. That was unacceptable.
SOLUTION: Increase civilian presence on the Conclave; two more seats. The new total of eleven seats gives nobility a mere one-seat advantage, which should assuage the concerns of the people without risking complete denial from the Conclave. Further suggestions include not raising taxes and guaranteeing the freedom of the mercantile sector.
Jiirahn nodded to himself; this was a start. He’d love to have more information, more details, more anything to work with, but he had to pass this first test. They wanted to see if he’d recommend spiteful policies (to target them) or helpful ones (to strengthen the nation). This solution would technically do both — but the benefit of order should outweigh the price of diluted power. He had woken to the sight of a proper pen, inkwell, piles of paper, and sand. Proper pounce sand too; they didn’t spare the expense. The captive wrote out the suggestion on a new piece of paper, sprinkled and cleared the sand, rolled it up, and sighed. The first of many, ready for delivery.
Jiirahn rose to his feet, and nearly collapsed back into his chair. His legs shook and his head swam, hot static eroding his vision. Catching the edge of the table, the Executor locked his arms and caught his breath. Two days now without eating any of the provided food; the headache was fading. But so was he. I’ll start reintroducing food in small quantities tomorrow, he decided. If only a few bites of bread. Bread was the least-conducive to subtle drugging, after all. But I’ll throw out the tea and wine. He wasn’t quite ready to commit to a drinking water test yet. I need more time.
Having recovered, Jiirahn staggered across the room to the balcony where Tobias sat idly preening his feathers. The wind — muted by the barrier around the balcony — whistled against the tower. The Blades were as bleak as always. The scroll slid neatly into the fine delivery tube, and Tobias promptly fell backwards over the edge into a dive. Message sent.
Let’s see if they listen, Jiirahn thought.
Entry Five: Ninth Day in Captivity
They accepted my suggestion wholeheartedly. I’ll admit to surprise; I was expecting them to reduce the number of new civilian seats. This is as close to an even split as I can get; without me the old nobility has the open support of the new Lords and have begun parceling up sections of the kingdom. I suspect that they didn’t consider that more of the army is now under civilian control as well — I wonder if they’ll figure it out before they try anything.
They want me to help them allocate resource distribution throughout the kingdom. I’m going to ask for more detailed information or some way of acquiring it — I need it to properly advise, and I want something I can directly control.
The headache is all but faded today. The magic still feels out of reach, but now I cannot tell if it’s from unuse or from lingering effects of the drug. I’m going to try again when dinner arrives; if I get close, I’ll fast for another night. Regaining control of my power is the first step to my escape and “resurrection”.
Entry Six: Tenth Day in Captivity
Today is a day of mixed results. I’m writing this two hours past noon; two hours before my evening meal arrives. The abominable headache is gone, and I intend to recover my connection to magic today. My stomach stopped burning yesterday; it’s a solid lump in my torso right now. Concentrating is difficult, but I should be able to center myself while I meditate.
The Conclave has not granted my request. All the additional information they gave me was that they wanted to establish a consistent storage network of food and other supplies throughout Hironai. Either they’re paranoid or they’re expecting conflict soon. Supply caches throughout the realm, within our borders? I need more information. —
Jiirahn closed the journal and penned his request for more information. After sending it off with Tobias, he slowly walked to his bedchamber; the bed was the perfect place to meditate as he sought out his sorcery.
He sat cross-legged on the thin stuffed pad that was his mattress and closed his eyes. Slow, deep breaths marked the beginning of his meditation — each one dragging stress and bodily strain out with it. His eyes and mouth were the first to relax, the lines of dry wit and suspicion fading away as the tension bled from his face. The forehead deeply wrinkled with years of the strain of governance smoothed like rumpled sheets on a bed swept by a gentle hand. Another breath, this one taking the broad shoulders down and forward. The next breath curved his spine, and loosened his arms, letting his body curve over his legs and clasped hands. The air rushed silently into his nose and whistled faintly through scarcely parted lips. With each breath, he relaxed his body — and allowed his soul to slip free. Free of the corporeal form, and therefore open to the aether and its power. Such was the art of sorcery.
Despite having no lips, he tasted faint sweetness as he dissociated. With only a fragment of himself anchored to his body, Jiirahn drank deep of the aether, of the ambient energy around him. Like cool water to a parched desert traveler, he filled himself to breaking with power. The Executor could feel magic again. I feel whole again, he thought. He hadn’t been so bereft since before his apprenticeship. With this, he thought, I can accomplish anything.
Glancing around, he saw no signs of magical barrier or tampering in the chamber, aside from the barrier runes. They had no other precautions against him. At least, none he could see. I’ll still plan around it. Magicians are a different breed; they may be able to hide something from me. He slowly returned to his body. Deep brown eyes snapped open, and he sucked in breath like a drowned man saved. Despite his hunger, his skin flushed with heat and his senses felt painfully keen. Feeling again for his connection to the magic, he found it open and unobstructed.
“I win,” Jiirahn murmured. A smile split his face. Now he need merely wait for his next visitor; a simple barrier wouldn’t be able to stop him. Break the barrier, capture and interrogate the magician, return to my kingdom and resume my place as Executor. Three steps.
“I can handle three steps,” the Executor said. His stomach rumbled. He chuckled. “But first, food. I must be strong before I can be effective.” Jiirahn’s magic would be able to locate and potentially nullify the drugs in the food, allowing him to eat and regain his strength.
And so he did.
Entry Seven; Twelfth Day in Captivity
I have not received any more information on the previous request. They must have decided it was too risky to trust me with the details, which means they were worried about how my suggestion might change if I knew more. That tells me they’re doing something I don’t want them to be doing — I can’t have that. I have two predictions: They’re preparing for a revolt, or they’re preparing for war. You don’t plan for supply caches if you’re not planning to use them. I can threaten them with that. I wonder if they’re going to try and revert to the old noble caste system. It’s a shame half the army is now under civilian control. Idiots.
My power has returned, and I’ve determined that the drugs are only in the extra provided drink. Lazy. I would have laced some in the stew, and likely added some to the bread in some way. I’ve also examined Tobias; I can’t quite identify the markings on his head. I try to avoid magic when he’s present; there’s a chance he’s trained to detect when I cast. I can’t risk summoning a familiar to scout for that same reason. A minor irritation.
Let’s see if I can summon that magician.
The Executor neatly closed his journal, pulled a new sheet of paper from the stack — no, parchment today. Are they running low on funds, or are they punishing me for disobedience? He shook his head. Doesn’t matter. This will get their attention. He dipped his pen, flattened the parchment, and wrote one simple sentence:
You are not prepared for the consequences of your plans ~ Executor Jiirahn Aionis
Jiirahn watched Tobias dive away, carrying a note that was as much a threat as an invitation. Would they come to chastise him for his own audacity? Or would they come to heed his warning and learn from him?
“Either way,” he murmured, “they will come.”
Entry Eight; Thirteenth Day in Captivity
They’re foolish, but not entirely stupid. Ambitious, scheming politicians wouldn’t survive if they were. They’ll come today, and today will be the day I escape. I’ve weakened the barrier just enough that I can target the source rune and disable it, giving me a clear shot at the magician. I soaked my bread in the drugged tea and fed it to Tobias. He’s asleep in my chamber now. He won’t get in the way.
Today’s the day. Day thirteen. I’ve always loved that number.
Executor Jiirahn Aionis sat at his writing desk and waited for his captors to arrive. I never did look to see if this chair was enchanted, he thought. He shrugged. He had time; why not check? He rolled off the seat and dropped to one knee, ignoring the faint odor from his shirt. Washing his clothing had proved only mildly effective. The chair was of simple wooden construction, with the legs on the right and left side connected at the feet. The stained wood was free of any knots or other discrepancies in the grain, which left the chair appearing uncanny. Jiirahn leaned beneath and looked up, conjuring a finger-flame for light. On the underside of the chair was a complicated mass of carved circles, angles, and ancient script — he didn’t need to look through aether to see that it was, indeed, heavily enchanted. So how does this work? He wondered. Rising to his feet, he attempted to lift the chair. It was as if he’d tried to lift the tower itself. Were they worried about me throwing the chair like a drunkard in a bar fight? He snorted. Well, I’ve been a drunkard in a bar fight. Fair game. He attempted to gently drag the chair back from the desk. This time it slid smoothly across the stone floor, as if as light as a feather. The Executor tried to lift the chair with the same amount of force but was immediately burdened with a tower once more.
“Cheeky,” he muttered. He turned the chair to face the barrier and waited for his guests to arrive. He wasn’t waiting long; nearly the moment he got comfortable, the barrier buzzed into being and the magician stood before him. This time there was a dagger in their hand.
“Good afternoon, magician,” Jiirahn said cordially. Big smile, like you mean it. “What can I do for you?”
“You can tell us what you know about our plans,” the Magician spat, pointing with the blade. “Or better yet, I can kill you. You’ve already proved to be more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Ah, so you were going to restore the old lands of the rebels,” the Executor sneered. “You realized too late about the civilian Seats and what that really meant. Which means those supply caches were preparations for civil war.” He clapped slowly, sneering smirk plastered on his face. “Well done, well done.”
“How did you — ”
Jiirahn stood and bowed low and long. “You just told me.” He straightened up and dusted imaginary debris off his maroon trousers and black tunic. “Now, I trust you’ve prepared my carriage home?”
The magician snapped, dispelling the barrier, and stalked into the room. They flicked their wrist, conjuring another knife in a flicker of violet light. “I’ve prepared an unmarked grave!” they snarled. As they spoke, faint mirror images flickered out around the room, all advancing toward the Executor.
“A shame, I’ll just have to take yours,” Jiirahn sighed, “You magicians are a dying breed; let me demonstrate why.” He rolled his shoulders and, as the magician horde was mere steps from him, clapped his hands. A wave of violet energy flooded from his feet, disintegrating the mirror images and throwing the magician back against the wall. His power manifest, the Executor took slow, deliberate steps toward the fallen magician, reveling in his regained authority. The magician groaned, pushing themselves up on the wall. Jiirahn chuckled and snapped the fingers of his right hand. A tendril of lavender mist coalesced and picked the slim figure up by the throat. Hands crossed behind his back, the Executor examined the mask. “I think I’d like to see your face, magician.”
“N-no…mercy,” the figure gasped, “please!”
Jiirahn cocked his head to the side. “No mercy you say?” The figure began thrashing, and muffled choking sounds floated in the air — the mask’s enchantment filling the air with the song of suffocation. He shrugged. “I suppose my curiosity comes second to the wishes of a dying foe.” The Executor leaned in close. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”
He relaxed his grip on the magician just enough for them to scream, a gurgling, inconsistent howl that only a cornered animal might make. Jiirahn gathered power around his hand and thrust it into the magician’s chest, phasing through the clothing and flesh until he could grip their heart directly. “Mercy would be killing you. I think my resurrection is enough of a feat that I should at least be rewarded with a servant, don’t you? My people will welcome me like a god-king of old — they’ll think nothing of you.”
Power flooded through him, coruscating amethyst and sapphire light rushing down his arm and through the magician. The screaming stopped as their body stiffened, every muscle desperately fighting control — and inevitably failing. With in seconds, the magician fell to the ground limp. Jiirahn waited one heartbeat. Then another. Did I overdo it? he thought. I am out of practice, I suppose. The figure did not move. A shame. He turned to leave, but a scraping noise alerted him. He spun, pale fire burning at his fingertips, but the magician stood silently, watching him through the mask.
“Give me your name,” the Executor demanded.
“Loriana, your Excellency,” the magician responded.
“Remove your mask, so I might see the face of my servant.”
Loraina slowly reached up to her mask and pulled it aside in one smooth motion. The hat came with it, revealing a shock of deep red hair, and a round, freckled face. One eye was a startling blue. The other eye was colorless, pupilless, and set within the brutal tapestry of a long-healed burn that covered most of the left side of her face. She couldn’t be older than twenty.
“Your burn; the Noble Rebellions?”
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“I am sorry.” His apology was was genuine; as necessary as that war was, the victimization of children still left him with regret. “How do you feel?”
“Unsteady on my feet. There’s a voice in my mind that’s telling me something is wrong.”
“Ignore her; she’ll quiet down in time. Do you have transport back to Hironai? I’d like to leave this place behind forever.”
“Yes, your Excellency. This way. There is a griffon waiting for us below.”
“Excellent. Lead the way.”
Entry Fourteen; Year 803, day 97
This will be my final entry. I am home, and I have been busy. The civilian armies had survived the conflict but were on the edge of breaking before I arrived. The few that didn’t throw down their arms, be it in fear or worship, were killed. The talented ones were turned like Loraina — who has proven talented and useful. Hironai had been broken, and — once I purged those who turned on me — I was given the responsibility of repairing it all.
The Conclave has been abolished; I have returned to my Executorship and have taken all powers and responsibilities unto myself. The people have called me Jiirahn the Returned. A quaint nickname, but an enjoyable one. There were some criticisms of my consolidation of power — understandable, given recent events. I did my best to assuage those concerns and have put the most vocal under watch. Hironai is stable again.
I’ve heard some rebels escaped to the east, to Kalriohn. I’ve heard they’re a spiritual people, blessed by a rich land of honey and wheat. We need food while our crops regrow. I’m sure we can work out a deal of some kind. A partnership, mutually beneficial. They have no reason to refuse.
If they do, that’s fine. I’ve always wondered what I’d be like to be called “Emperor”.
~ Executor Jiirahn Aionis
Final Entry; End Journal
