The Belharzareta V

By virtue of their close bond, it was expected by many that, without a natural child, Belharza would name Hathna his heir apparent. If indeed that was the Man-Bull s thinking, it sadly was never to be. In the thirty-third year of Belharza s reign, while on a diplomatic mission to the fledgling kingdom of Anvil, Hathna was caught in an ambush by elven devils and laid low by their sorcery. When news of the murder reached the palace, Belharza grew wroth, and in his fury gored a trio of ministers and had a score of visiting diplomats put to the sword before a score of his minotaurs could restrain him. By day s end, three offers of submission and a dozen declarations of war had been laid at his feet. It would be years before his kingdom would recover from this blow, but the Man-Bull himself never would.

In the years that followed, the king s brooding seemed to infect the very air of the Imperial Palace, filling his councilors with unease and misery as storm clouds gathered around the spire of White-Gold. Belharza s passion and easy confidence had been replaced by a gloomy countenance and wrathful disposition, and the palace servants murmured that the Emperor was never more than arm s reach from a flagon of Colovian red or a tray of Anequina moon-sweets. Any talk of fellowship with the Ayleids was silenced, and their ambassadors and diplomats who were not executed outright on suspicion of treason were quietly exiled to their homes outside the city. The Emperor s loathing for the devils that had brought down his most trusted advisor seemed to be the only thing that still seemed to animated his corpse pale and wan, he resembled more a draugr of the northlands, drained of all blood and vitality, than the gleaming warrior who had first strode under the Dragon Gate all those years ago. Taxes went uncollected, treaties were left unsigned, and the jungle took back the roads that had so carefully been carved through the jungle, veins to the beating heart of the Imperial City. The Empire so carefully won by Alessia was dying, and none could see a way to save it.

Things progressed in this way for some time, until one day, word reached the king s ears of a young seer who was gaining popularity amongst the lower classes, a beastman who claimed insight from divine Alessia herself, and spoke with fire in his tone at the treachery and low cunning of the mer. This was enough to rouse Belharza from his stupor, and on the 9th of Second Seed, he granted an audience to the strange, solemn prophet to hear his message. On that day, even the minotaurs could not help but snort and shake their horns at the stunted, hairy creature kneeling before the Ruby Throne with his strange, halting speech, but as he spoke, a spark long-forgotten was seen to flare in the Emperor s eyes. The prophet, who called himself Marukh, preached throughout the night, ranting of the ineffable, alien god whom mortals unknowingly worshipped through the veneration of their god-animals and patron spirits, and whom the elves, twisted and monstrous beneath their golden beauty, despised above all. On and on he spoke in this fashion, until the moons rose and fell and the sun broke over the horizon. When the ape s sermon had concluded, a resounding silence filled the hall. For a long time, Belharza said nothing, but stared at the Imga with a strange, unfamiliar look on his face. Finally, the Man-Bull raised his right hand and beckoned to his side, to the spot where fair Hathna had stood those years before and which had been barren ever since.

That same morning, as the sun crowned the tower of White-Gold, the Emperor appeared on his balcony flanked by the Prophet and eight of his acolytes, and thus spoke;

I have heard your stirrings these past years. You think me a fool, unfit for this throne and this Empire. You rend your clothes and gnash your teeth, cursing yourselves that you entrusted your Cyrodiil to a man such as me. Well, perhaps you are right.

For an Emperor must be righteous above all, yes? I am the rightful ruler of this realm, by birth and conquest. None can dispute my claim. But I have served you ill, because I was not a righteous man. But perhaps my heirs will do better.

You have troubled yourselves overmuch over the issue of the succession. Allow me to put your minds at ease. As I have told you many a time, Cyrodiil herself is my lady wife; thusly, all who live and love within her borders must be my natural children. But how to determine the succession? How else than by Virtue? Let the most righteous, most just, most pure among you step forward into the light of the One, that you may be weighed by His most faithful servants. May the most deserving among you be the one to guide Cyrodiil out of this darkness borne of my misery, and into a glorious new dawn!

Blessings upon the Marukhati! Glory and honor unto the One!

"Tam! RUGH!


As his words reverberated across the square, the people erupted in cheers. At the back of the crowd, an orphan waif named Ami-El smiled, and clutched a tattered scrap of red silk to her breast.