Lich for Hire

In the imperial capital of Lyon, on the vast plaza before the palace gates, a white-haired old man stood motionless.

This was William Garrison, the man known as Lyon's Mightiest Shield.

He had gone three days and three nights without a drop of water while waiting for the Emperor of Lyon to issue an edict of self-condemnation. If the emperor refused to acknowledge his failures, Garrison would stand there until he died on the spot.

In the recent battle against the Unholy Kingdom, this centenarian had led the paladins in repelling wave after wave of githark assaults. It was William Garrison's tenacity that had bought the emperor enough time to retreat safely to Lavarun.

Garrison had once been a staunch royalist. More than once had he come to verbal blows with the former High Inquisitor over matters concerning the imperial family. In his mind, the name "Lyon" meant King Arthur Lyon, and the heirs of that lineage were entitled to the reverence of all.

James Watson, that stiff, humorless old relic, had seen fit to rebuke the Emperor time and again over what Garrison considered trivial infractions.

The emperor back then wasn't the current one, but he had been equally young and unsteady, and prone to blunders at court. Yet Watson treated every small misstep as a capital offence. Where was the respect for Lyon in that?

On more than one occasion, Garrison had come very close to hurling a dueling glove at Watson's face. The only thing that stopped him was the awkwardness of a paladin challenging a priest. Garrison was one of the most celebrated paladins in the empire, second in renown only to the Silvermoon Knight. Picking on someone who couldn't fight back in kind simply wasn't his style.

So the two had never actually come to blows, even after Garrison's retirement.

Then came the battle against the Unholy Kingdom. Garrison understood that he had been wrong. The emperor himself was the one who had truly dishonored the name of Lyon. It had never occurred to Garrison that Lyon's soldiers would die by their own emperor's hand.

The githarks and the red dragons had killed fewer than ten thousand on the open battlefield. Of the remaining ten thousand casualties, two thousand had been crushed beneath the Emperor's dragon as he fled, and the rest had scattered from lack of morale, dying in the chaos, alone and far from home.

He couldn't blame them. Their emperor had run away. How could anyone ask those young men to find courage where none was left?

After the retreat to Lavarun, Garrison had spent a long time steadying the soldiers and holding the city against any further githark advance.

Once the githarks departed entirely, he turned his attention to impeachment. The young emperor had scrambled in panic ever since. He chose not to grant Garrison an audience, but Garrison was the kind of stubborn old man who had argued toe-to-toe with the High Inquisitor himself. He would not let this go.

So here he was at the imperial capital, standing before the palace gates in silent protest.

The guards would have dragged anyone else away, but Garrison's standing made that impossible.

Since the Silvermoon Knight's passing, no paladin in the empire commanded greater respect. And the moment the old man planted that great shield of his in the ground, there was not a soul in all of Lyon who could move him.

Lyon's Mightiest Shield was no empty title.

William Garrison stood like immovable bedrock. Even the Silvermoon Knight, restored to life, would need a dozen blows to crack his defense.

Every second the old man stood there, the emperor felt as if he were being slapped across the face, and there was nothing he could do about it. After the defeat, the Draconic Armaments would no longer respond to him.

When the ancient fogeys deep beneath the palace learned of the emperor's failure, two of them had died of fury on the spot. The rest had immediately convened to select a new emperor. There was no question of his wielding the Draconic Armaments anymore.

Thousands of candidates who possessed a trace of the imperial bloodline were now participating in a secret selection. By all accounts, a new emperor would be chosen within days.

When that happened, the current emperor would be required to compose a public edict of self-condemnation, surrender the throne amid the jeers and curses of an entire nation, and then be put to death as a disgrace to the imperial line. His very name would be struck from the historical record.

He could not accept such an outcome. Everything had been within reach. He had mastered the Draconic Armaments! The world was supposed to kneel at his feet. Lyon was supposed to become the sole nation on earth.

That was the ending he had envisioned for himself. How had it come to this?

He couldn't accept it. He refused to die without leaving so much as his name behind.

But he had no other choice.

All he possessed was the title of emperor, but even that title seemed to have lost its value.

As a boy who had little martial or intellectual skill, he didn't know what to do. He had been spending his days in hollow dread when, out of nowhere, he seemed to hear a voice.

"Come to me!"

He spun around frantically, but the room was empty. There was not a soul in sight.

He thought he had to be hearing things out of exhaustion and anxiety, but the low, unhurried voice came again.

"Come to me, boy!"

The emperor trembled and said nothing. He was already reaching for the guards outside. Then the voice added, "Would you rather die in obscurity, like the two emperors before you?"

His hand stopped. His mouth stayed shut.

It was common knowledge throughout Lyon that they had had three emperors within just a few years.

The reason for the change was always the same: bloodline resonance. Only those who could attune to the Draconic Armaments could wear the crown, and that attunement was not guaranteed to last. The moment it faded, the emperor was replaced.

The two predecessors had gone the same way. One day, the Armaments simply stopped responding, and that was that. Their reigns had been forgettable; their abdications even more so. Nobody even remembered their names.

The emperor turned toward the voice. "But what am I supposed to do? I can't do anything."

"Don't panic. Don't flinch. Composure is the first thing a king must have."

The young emperor drew several slow breaths and steadied himself.

"Tell me your name, boy."

"I—my name is Percival Lyon."

"Good. Percival, you have real potential. You've simply been held back. Come to me. I will teach you what it means to be an emperor."

He seized on those words like a drowning man catching a rope. "What do I have to do? In a few days, they'll have me quietly killed."

"It's simple. Become strong enough that they cannot. They can execute an insignificant insect, but how does one execute a dragon?"

"A dragon?"

"Become a dragon. Become the most powerful being in this mortal world, and you will be a true emperor."

The words kindled something in him. "But how? How do I become strong?"

"Simple. Come and find me. I am waiting for you in the treasury. I will show you the way."

The emperor startled. "The treasury? You—are you the Draconic Armaments?"

"Ha! 'Draconic Armaments'—how insulting. Remember this, boy: my name is Atros, Atros the Eternal."