Prologue
Alaron stood atop a desolate mountain, overlooking the smoldering ruins of a once-vibrant city. "This world is a festering wound."
"Indeed," a woman said. It was Lyra, a loyalist of the Empire. "Another senseless slaughter. When will this madness end?"
"When will greed and ambition be quelled, Lyra?" Alaron countered, his gaze fixed on the smoldering wreckage. "Perhaps never."
Lyra placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There will be peace," she said. "One day, the hatred will dissipate, and a new era of unity will dawn. The Arcanum will be pleased. With this city under our control, the path to the southern territories is finally clear. We will have peace in the future, Alaron." Lyra said.
"Peace? Is this what they call peace? A world choked by the ashes of a thousand conflicts?"
Lyra frowned. "Once the Empire unites the continent, there will finally be order. No more petty squabbles, no more bloodshed. No more species that are a danger to humanity."
"Order built on a foundation of misery? That's not peace, Lyra. That's tyranny."
"You're too soft, Alaron. War is inevitable. It's in our nature."
Alaron, the last of his kind, the last Transcendent, looked up at the moon. "Then, perhaps," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "it's time for a different approach."