For the first time since times forgotten the Empire stood before a difficult choice of picking the Imperial Throne Regent. There was nopony with claim strong enough to be given the Imperial Regalia with whole certainty. The situation was becoming even worse by the hour because the border- heavily fortified up until then- has been breached again by the attackers’ fury. Enemy banners were marching towards the capital, sacking and pillaging as they went. The decimated banners of the Empire have fled before them, hastened by fear of brutal and inevitable death.
In the moments of doubt the Regency Council has decided in favor of an unprecedented step that could have caused a great unrest among the subjects, but at the moment was met with cheers of joy. It was deemed necessary to pass the crown to the one, who stood by the Empress to the very end. The one chosen by Her heart, who, were the times more peaceful, would without a doubt have already ascended to the position by the right of marriage.
He, thought, declined, not being able to cope with bearing the very same crown that was worn by his beloved. After many a reasoning he accepted, assuming the title of King Regent and was ready to rule the Empire until kinder times, when the schooled genealogists could find the rightful heiress to the throne.
With his heart heavy with misery the King took the burden. Although the crown seemed to be cast from lead, he straightened up and went forwards to his subjects. Clad in plate armor and with an ermine cloak sweeping the floor and his dark mane flowing on his shoulders he seemed to be the only pony who could turn the tide of destruction marching towards the capital.
The soldiers, armed with lances, stood in formation yet again. The polished schischak all shined as the sun looked at oneself in their smooth surfaces. They were led by knights- unbroken and strong of will, yet few and decimated. Too little strength was left in their steel hearts to fight off the incoming enemy forces. The city was not fit for defending and the ornate crystal gates were but beautiful arches looming lonely over the roadways. The crystal houses were soon rend asunder and turned into fortifications the city lacked. The razor-sharp crystals, the pride of the Empire, were dug deep in the ground, creating rows upon rows of deadly palisades, soon to be dripping with the raiders’ blood. Everypony who could lift a weapon kept training to the loss of consciousness, learning the art of war.
It was still not enough. What a miserable army it was when compared to the one which marched to meet the enemy not so long ago! Surely the banners of citizens and peasants could not match the hardened troops closing in on the Empire, pushed forward by promise of battle spoils.
Upon seeing that the King went to the palace library at night, accompanied only by an elderly turnkey. Without a single word they have wandered along the sleeping corridors. They have crossed the doorstep of the Forbidden Chamber, which imprisoned power so corrupting and terrible that even the wisest sages feared to mention it.
But it was time to wake the entries from their slumber and to read the forgotten verses. Where they not concealed her from the sight of the foolish ones? Hidden behind the doors so thick that they should not be disturbed not to liberate the forces untamed, ready to consume the heart of the vainglorious who thought he could impose his will on them?
So it was.
But on that day it was not a power-hungry usurper who opened the leather-covered volume. It was a ruler of just cause and humble heart. Fueled by love towards his country. He would not let it fall, even at the price of his own soul. Let the innocence of his heart perish, submerged in the abyss so atrocious that it extinguished the flame of the turnkey’s torch. Darkness was no longer a liability for his pupils, his eyes running along the stanzas written by an unknown warlock.
Suddenly a flame came to being around him, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. The terrified turnkey fled from the gloom that kept pulsing with words, running away from the clawed talons of living shadows.
The King stood his ground without fear, with his head bowed over the lectern. On that frigid night he spoke his demand, one that he did not wish to hide from the entity emerging from the void. He now knew the price of his deed, but he was willing to pay it, to give his heart to the moonless and starless night. Everything in order to protect the legacy of the Emperors of old from the flames of mindless destruction. Even if madness was to consume his mind he would not allow a single raider to glance upon the lifeless form of his beloved.
Before the King’s eyes more and more images emerged, nebulous at first, impossible to make out, but with each moment gaining more of their terrible sharpness. His subjects, put in black chains, stripped of dignity, marching to the dark maw of a mine which was left by emaciated and attenuated slaves pulling wagons filled with crystals. Covered in mud, dust and open wounds, barely able to walk, they go back inside the entrails of hungering abyss, never to see the light again.
Cursed be these visions! He would not allow them to come true! Until the end of his life he would be the bedrock protecting the citizens of the Empire against any foe willing to force them, his serfs, to submission! Even if time itself was to call out for his soul, stopping its course, sending merciless minions to tear him apart, he would not let these images come true.