Ruins And Royalty

“The flames on Atlas glow brighter,” came a calm, lilting voice, “warm to the touch, yet they do not burn.” I turned to face my mother. She sat across from me, her jet-black hair sliding like silk over the carved back of her chair. Firelight kissed her striking features, casting her in the glow of a woman both mortal and untouchable. She was my mirror. Every line of her face reflected in my own, only softer, finer, older. The night sky shimmered above Emperos, the pale concrete moon pouring silver light through the tall window. Its glow spilled across the marble floor and caught on the fireplace where the young me sat, cross-legged before the flames. The fire cracked and hissed, throwing ribbons of orange and gold across my small, eager face. I stared, mesmerized, as if it was my first time beholding fire. I knew what came next. I had always known. This was my favourite story at the time, after all. “The Gods cannot burn, nor can they drown,” she continued, her dark eyes holding me still. “And the mortals blessed enough to glimpse Atlas do not burn either. They walk through its light unharmed.” My heart tightened. Every word wrapped around me like a spell. Nights like that, with cold winds pressing at the windows, my mother spun tales of Atlas: of palaces built of marble that no force could break, of diamond waterfalls and fields of emerald grass strewn with flowers brighter than stars. Atlas existed in the clouds. They were home to the world's divine deities. I closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat I was there, breathing its sweet air, feeling the rush of celestial winds against my skin. “Floating islands,” she whispered, her voice weaving visions into the atmosphere, “carrying temples and beauty beyond mortal imagination, each tethered by pearlescent marble arches that open into portals between worlds.” The snap of sap from the fire pulled me back. I blinked into the hearth, blinking at the burning logs, dazed by how quickly I had lost myself in her words. “I want to be there,” I chimed, desperation breaking my voice. “Can’t we go?” My mother only laughed softly, leaning forward to press a hand to my head. “The Gods do not simply welcome mortals into their haven. One must cross the sea to Athros, where the gates to Atlas stand. And only the strongest may endure the path. It is guarded by beasts of power you cannot yet imagine.” Her tone was firm, but to me it was not a warning. It was a challenge. “I will become the strongest in all the land,” I declared, leaping to my feet. My voice cracked with childish fire, yet the words rang like a vow. “I’ll train until my hands bleed, fight until my bones ache. I’ll walk until my feet blister and swim until the waves drag me down. I’ll fight my way through every beast, every trial. Nothing, nothing, will stop me!” My mother smiled faintly, not surprised in the least. “The road is long, and the trails are deadly,” she said, settling back in her chair, “but the blood of Emperos is strong. You are no exception, Aaron.” She rose, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. Her eyes glowed with something sharper than pride. “When the time is right, my son, you will enter the Game of the Gods. You will triumph. You will be crowned champion. And you will walk through the gates of Atlas. You’ll become a God.” I was only nine at the time when she ushered those honey-laced venom into my ears. I was naïve. Hungry. I would hold that memory close for years, treasuring it as proof of her love, her belief in me. But the years stripped the illusion away. That night by the fire had never been about warmth or stories between mother and son. It was a lesson. A seed planted, watered with saccharine words until it was the only dream that consumed me. Atlas. Glory. Escape. I saw it clearly now. My mother’s smile had not been born of tenderness but of strategy. My father had let her shape their children into weapons, pawns to gamble for power. Every 20th year, a glorious tournament takes place in honour of the Gods. Subjects from every Kingdom gather to take place in gruelling and ruthless trails. Only one prevails and with it bestows glory and fortune to their Kingdom. Then, for the next twenty years, the champion’s Kingdom is blessed with bountiful harvest, vitality, smooth weather when crossing the seas and such examples multiply without cease. The campion, however, becomes a God. Taking their place among the divine on Atlas. That sparked unruly conditioning into the children from the King and Queen of Emperos. One night, I overheard them talk: their voices cold, their resolve clear. They would watch every one of their children die, if it meant only one lived to ascend to Atlas. I was only thirteen at the time. The truth broke me. It sharpened me. If there was no love in this world, then what was left to hold me here? The heavens were not a promise. They were an escape. My escape. I would let them fatten themselves on the fruits of my labour for I would have it sweeter. I would rise higher. One day, I would stand in Atlas, crowned immortal. And from the heavens above, I would look down at them. All of them.