Awakening

18th of Midsommer, 980 AD

The Hall of Convocation echoed with quiet murmurs as the noble families of Setmerun assembled, their banners draped in muted colors - a gesture of solidarity, though Eldoril Alcarinde knew better than to take such displays at face value.

At the head of the chamber, seated upon a throne of gold and silver inlay, sat Emperor Aurelius Caldwell, his expression stern. Beside him stood Eldoril - he was the Emperor’s Hand, a position that demanded not only loyalty, but constant vigilance.

Today’s council was not convened for grand ceremonies or declarations of war. It was a subtler, more dangerous thing: the slow unraveling of grievances, suspicions, and fear.

The Spellplague - the still-burning curse of corrupted magic left in the wake of the death of Mystra 3 years ago had begun to stir anew in Setmerun’s border territories. Strange storms rolled across once-stable provinces, warping fields into crystal wastelands and twisting simple beasts into ravenous horrors. It was a threat unlike anything conventional armies could defeat.

At Aurelius’s decree, the Empire had deployed the Crown Arcanum, an elite corps of spellweavers and arcanists trained to contain outbreaks and seal unstable zones.
Still, the noble houses complained.

House Menvar accused the emperor of seizing too much land under the guise of “quarantine.” 

House Caervall whispered of lost citizens too close to the Spellplague who were quietly disappearing under Imperial edicts. Even the minor houses raised concerns about taxation and emergency levies being used to fund containment efforts.

“Your Majesty,” rasped Lord Fenric of House Menvar, his voice oiled with a false deference. “We do not question your wisdom… but might it not be better to trust the local lords to manage these outbreaks? Why risk imperial overreach… and unrest?”

Aurelius fixed him with a stare that silenced the room.
“The Spellplague does not respect banners or borders,” he said coldly. “It is not a foe that can be bartered with, nor a storm that passes with a prayer. It is a cancer. Left unchecked, it will devour us all.”

Murmurs spread like ripples through the chamber.

Eldoril watched carefully. Aurelius was speaking the truth - but it was the truth they feared most. The Emperor was gathering power not only through force of arms but necessity. Each emergency decree tightened his grip a little more. Some houses would bend the knee out of loyalty. Others… would not.

The discussions dragged on, covering tariffs disrupted by plague-ravaged trade routes, demands for reparations, complaints about “disappearances” of magically tainted citizens.
Through it all, Aurelius listened with a stillness that unnerved many of the older lords. He spoke little, choosing instead to let them reveal their fears and ambitions.

When the meeting was finally adjourned, it was with brittle courtesies and shallow bows. The imperial court was a forest of smiling wolves.

Aurelius rose smoothly from the golden throne once all had left, his cloak trailing behind him. Eldoril and a detachment of eight Royal Guards moved to flank him, forming a tight escort as they made their way into the labyrinthine corridors of the Imperial Palace.

The Hall of Echoes - a long, vaulted corridor lined with ancient dragonbone pillars - stretched before them, empty save for the hush of distant footsteps. As they advanced, a sudden shudder in the air made Eldoril’s skin crawl. His instincts screamed a moment before the first blow fell.

3 of the guards fell with cut throats. Eldoril instinctually stepped back but felt a blade cut through flesh on his left arm. Only the training of the Royal Guard prevented immediate catastrophe; blades were drawn and shields raised.

Eldoril spun as he heard footsteps rapidly approaching Aurelius. He shoved a guard aside and parried the strike to his own surprise. The rasp cold steel skimmed along his gauntlet. Another assassin struck from the flank - and this time, Aurelius was too slow.

The dagger buried itself into his side with a sickening crunch. Aurelius staggered, collapsing to one knee, blood smearing the pristine marble beneath him.

“NO!” Eldoril roared, moving to shield him, he slashed in wide arcs to keep whatever attackers at bay. Yet even as the guards closed ranks around their fallen emperor, another two guards were taken out by the invisible blades.

Eldoril’s heart thundered in his chest. He tried to reach toward Aurelius but his body froze and his strength left him as his knees buckled. Poison.

A low rumble filled the corridor, deep and resonant, as if the palace itself were growling. Aurelius lifted his head. His eyes once golden and bright - now burned with molten silver, slitted and fierce.

The dragonmark that curled across Aurelius’s left arm, flared to life. Ribbons of silver and black light pulsed along his veins. Eldoril watched in awe as something stirred within his liege - something that had slumbered until now.

The poison was rejected from Aurelius’s body in steaming trails. His wounds knotted themselves shut with alarming speed. As he rose, the air itself seemed to buckle around him.

His gaze snapped to the assassins. And for the first time, Aurelius truly saw them.

Truesight.

The illusions that cloaked the killers were stripped away under the force of his evolved vision. To him, they might as well have been standing in broad daylight, their blades and magic laid bare.

Aurelius moved like a force of nature. No wasted movements and no hesitation.

The first assassin lunged - and Aurelius caught the dagger mid-thrust, crushing the man’s wrist with a brutal twist before hurling him into a pillar. The second tried to dart around him - but the Emperor pivoted, sweeping the assassin’s legs out from under him and driving a gauntleted fist into his throat. Bones cracked.

More came, faster, now desperate - but Aurelius was faster still.

The Emperor fought with a terrible grace, a fusion of martial prowess and raw instinct. With his truesight, the assassins’ patterns were plain, their feints transparent. One by one, he dismantled them - breaking arms, snapping spines, crushing windpipes with a single, precise blow.

Eldoril and the remaining guards could do little but fall back, forming a perimeter as their Emperor became a storm incarnate.

In the end, only two assassins remained, their resolve crumbling. They tried to flee and Aurelius stood there waiting. Moments later, at the end of the long hallway, Morimaethorin crashed into the ground at a terrifying speed. The dragon looked feral as it looked for who had hurt its master. Its eyes locked on something, and as its maw closed, the corridor was filled with blood and gore. The last assassin stumbled and dropped his invisibility. Weeping in terror on the floor, was Fenric Menvar. Aurelius closed the distance and, with a final, almost merciful strike, ended him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The Emperor stood amid the carnage, his cloak torn and blood-spattered, his silver-draconic eyes scanning the now-empty corridor. His breath came slow and measured.

Eldoril knelt beside him, lowering his blade. “Your Majesty…” he breathed, unable to find the words.

Aurelius turned, his expression grim yet strangely calm. “They sent daggers in the dark,” he said, voice filled with disdain, “I will give them the same courtesy they gave me - only I won’t hide.”

The guards around them saluted, their faces pale with awe. At that moment, Eldoril understood - Aurelius was not just a mere mortal emperor anymore. Whatever blood of dragons flowed through Aurelius Caldwell had now awakened.

And the world would tremble before it.