Through a dark, dark crimson, crimson corridor walked a pale man. Clad only in a loincloth, he resembled a paragon of perfection descended from a painting by some unknown master. A master greedy for ideals of the body. Beauty. Power. Undeath. Grandeur. Eternity. The man walked forward, and massive doors swung open before him with a loud click. Lesser servants scurried about. Not so magnificent, riddled with flaws. The risen puppets of the mistress. No match for him.
Once, a great empire had fallen by the will of a reborn goddess. Only the last, most loyal warrior had staked everything to bring her back from the abyss of ruin... Nefria, the realm of the undead. One against the whole world. Unwavering, loyal, and mighty. Sir Tann Monargot dared to invoke the power of the nine Ancient Obelisks to grant his one and only wish.
And he lost. He was beaten to it. Beaten to it, so that someone could wish upon the whole world... death. And by cosmic irony, from the world's death, Nefria rose anew. And Sir Tann's companions, those with whom he had shared fragments of his soul for the sake of the mission's success, met their fates. Some perished, some rebelled, and some stayed by the black knight's side, having duly appreciated his generous gifts. The Mistress was among the latter.
"Hail Nefria eternal!" exclaimed the pale servant. He had been here for a long time. From the very first batch, a prototype of the mistress's servants. Not so perfect, but already devoid of glaring flaws.
Were there a place in the realm of the undead for idle living minds, they would have deemed the Mistress of Flesh a mad murderess. But the truth was that she, whom Nefria called the Pale Mummifier and who stood at Sir Tann Monargot's left hand, sought only the empire's prosperity. She believed in beauty and doubted the worth of naked guests and rotting corpses. Why resemble a rotten piece of meat when you can look like a beautiful piece of meat? Beautiful and undying. A piece of meat that would outshine any living being. Perfection lies in undeath, and Nefria, the empire of undeath, ought to match its grandeur in appearance. Not all shared the Mistress of Flesh's views, but some did find hidden meaning in them. Thus, the Pale Mummifier had been running the flesh-processing laboratory for ages, crafting perfect dead to serve Nefria. Her greatest achievement, however, was herself — the most beautiful and alluring corpse in the whole world. Pointless, the ancient skeletons would say; meaningful, Kamistella Lane would retort. Though hardly anyone had called her by name since Nefria's rebirth.
"Morthan," a charming maiden's voice greeted the pale guest. "My finest male specimen. Today is a dreary day. A day without achievements. Which means you shall have to entertain me once more."
The creation named Morthan bowed his head before the Pale Mummifier. Kamistella lounged half-reclined, half-seated upon a crimson bed. Her gaze was turned away from the guest — toward one of the many portraits adorning the chambers. That particular portrait held special significance for the Mistress of Flesh — once, she had managed to persuade Master Tann to have a commemorative painting made together with the most loyal of his followers. The most loyal, Kamistella undoubtedly considered herself. From great horror to the drive to resurrect Nefria, they had been through much together, seen no small amount of unpleasantness, and devised more than one or two cunning plans. Master Tann inspired only admiration in Kamistella. Admiration for his devotion, his perseverance, his strength. It was on such knights that the world rested. Or did not rest, given the fate of Anuzish.
"I heed your will, mistress," — once, Morthan had tried to resist. Once, he had been alive. What a useless state.
A dear. He will amount to something. One day, everyone will see the grandeur of the Pale Mummifier's designs! And all will bow before the empire. Foolish living creatures do not themselves understand what a meaningless weakness they cling to. Death is not the end. Death is a new beginning! Though, in her youth, Kamistella too had not understood the nature of things; she had tried to fight the blessing and save the curse. Ah, she had been so silly back then!
"Your story about the bloodsucking heart-eater was quite riveting, but you cut it off at the most interesting part," the Mistress of Flesh gracefully leaped down from her bed. "I hope you will not disappoint me like that again, Morthan."
"No, mistress, this time I have prepared a special story," the servant wrapped an arm around Kamistella's waist. "Tell me, what do you know of Tezoth?"
"Tezoth, hmm," Kamistella smiled thinly. "We are not there yet. A pity."
"My new story... is dedicated to the Knights of Tezoth. Do not ask where I learned it. I... do not... remember," Morthan winced, as if he could feel pain. "Calamities, monsters, conspiracies — everything you love, mistress."
The Mistress of Flesh ran a finger curiously across her creation's bare chest. Yes, he understood her tastes somewhat. And what would happen this time? Would everyone die tragically? Would everyone die, but not tragically? Would someone again go looking for a waterproof bag? Would everyone fall out and a fratricidal bloodbath begin? Would everyone become slaves under a mighty heel? Ah, so many options! How exciting!
"Begin, dear! I am burning with impatience!"
The perfect dead intertwined in an embrace, and Morthan began his tale... So, before us lies the very heart of Tezoth — its capital...
Fate is a vile thing and simply adores unpleasant coincidences. Everything seems fine, and a minute later it is not fine at all! Deus's birthday is, of course, a momentous day. But why gather everyone here, all at once? Lord Afortek Transend stayed behind to defend the north, but if something happens, how will she, Rezara Sanjore, look her ancestors in the eye? What was she doing while monsters ravaged Swordgard? Nothing! Having fun in the capital!
"Deus Mariarnelia's dress is beyond all praise," Rezara whispered to Lady Adata, "the capital knows its fashion. What do you think, should we pick up a couple of souvenirs? Who knows when we will next get a chance to leave Swordgard."
Though Rezara had served Lady Adata for only a short time, she had come to know her long before becoming a knight of Lord Afortek. The Sanjore and Transend families were bound by unbreakable ties in the defense of Swordgard. For many years, Sir Remar and Lord Afortek had stood shoulder to shoulder guarding Tezoth, and their daughters had slowly grown close. That was why Rezara had chosen Adata. Besides their hometown, they simply knew each other well.
Lady Adata's presence soothed Rezara's anxious heart. Beside her, she could briefly forget the countless threats reaching their grasping claws toward Swordgard's borders.
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