Behind a wall of flames, the plants saw history repeat itself. A man you might’ve heard of, Gulios Kaisar, walked around Amor and enjoyed the praise of the Commonfolk—a word which here means “those who weren’t rich and powerful”, not that they all looked the same.

Gulios had won them wars. Gulios was a handsome wolf, charismatic, and, obviously most important, had a singing voice that “wasn’t too shabby”. The skilled Consul succeeded at everything he tried, and he smiled and waved as he passed you by on his way to the Senate.

That’s why he had to die.

Through the wall of flames, the leaves had seen it all happen. Gulios became greedy. Gulios deposed of the other Consul, who was supposed to keep him in check. Gulios defied orders not to cross an important river, and not much later he declared himself dictator for life.

The Senate—a word which here means “those who were rich and powerful”—was supposed to have a say too. Increasingly, they didn’t.

Until this moment, Amor was founded on the best of principles. As they fought the First Conflict—the war against the gods—they vowed never to let “dictators” rule them again. That’s why two Consuls would always share power, and the Senate would share votes and influence over some hundred different animals. What a novel idea!

Gulios, popular and wealthy Gulios, was about to ruin all of that.

And so, peering through gaps in the fire, the trees saw how Gulios was betrayed, lured into the building on false pretenses, and murdered by his own Senate. Twenty-three stab wounds later, the Amor Republic lacked a leader and was thrown into chaos.

As it turned out, Gulios had named some distant, distant nephew his only heir: Augustos. When he arrived, he saw only one way to keep everything together: temporarily give all power to himself and defeat his enemies.

The twigs heard him say the words one day: “The Republic has failed. It needs but a spark to go up in flames.”

Exactly what the Senate had feared, they had made happen: the Amor Republic became an Amor Empire. One with only a single emperor at its head. They had returned to the very thing over which they’d fought the gids.

And, oh, dear reader, Augostos did his best. He was probably right to do as he did. Some beings whisper he was the best emperor they ever had. A compliment Augostos didn’t mind hearing. That, however, only made what happened afterwards even worse.

As soon as one emperor was crowned, the Senate already planned its downfall—a word which here means “poison, kill, betray or publicly shame them”. Following Augostos, behind a wall of flames, the leaves saw Tiberios crowned emperor.

He is of no interest to his story, dear reader. You can forget his name, as so many have. Yes, the First Conflict ended when he was around, and he did well winning that war. But his wife … she was another beast entirely.

Gatagrip was the granddaughter of Augostos. You’d think that was enough for her, being so closely connected to the line of emperors. But no—she wanted more. When Tiberios died, Gatagrip’s own brother became the next emperor. They say she killed her own husband, but not even the ancient tree Tresmo—located in the heart of Amor—has proof of that.

Being the emperor’s sister, in Gatagrip’s view, was as good as being empress. She demanded her face be added to coins—a flat, round face that made everyone confused about her age. She demanded special privileges, such as special seats at games. She even demanded that new soldiers swore oaths in her name too, not just that of emperor Kaligull.

But even that wasn’t enough.

One fateful night, she and two others visited Tresmo. They stepped through the cold flames that always surrounded him, an eternal curse from previous magical mishaps. Not many dared come here, which is why they nicknamed the area The Sneaky Spot.

They all assumed Tresmo had died long ago, or gone mad from the pain. But no, Tresmo was always listening, always watchful. The leaves saw, the twigs heard. And so he heard the Plot of the Three Daggers.

“It must be tonight,” said Gatagrip. “I can’t wait any longer. But Kaligull suspects me and is surrounded by guards.”

“It must be tonight,” agreed a male voice. “For I fear Kaligull suspects my sins too.”

“Then it must be poison,” said another female voice.

“No,” said Gatagrip, “we tried that already. It’s too subtle; it won’t work. We need to be inspired by what they did to Gulios Kaisar …”

All three of them wore the large white robes typical for the time. Very impractical for walking; very practical for carrying things. All three of them produced sharp daggers they’d secretly smuggled out of their homes.

“Then it is settled,” said Gatagrip, her posture taut and her eyes full of resolve.

I must remind you, dear reader, that this wouldn’t have happened if Amor was still a Republic. Killing one person wouldn’t do much, as that person had as much power as the hundreds of other Senate members. But now that they had one emperor … if Kaligull would die, surprisingly, then his favorite sister Gatagrip—because she was his only sister—would suddenly rule the entire empire.

Gatagrip jumped, reaching for the tree branches.

Tresmo instinctively drew his branches back, evading her touch.

Gatagrip frowned, but attributed it to a gust of wind. She tried again, and again, until she broke one of Tresmo’s lowest branches. His grunt of pain merely made them say “hurry up, sounds like thunder is coming!”

With her sharp teeth, she scratched messages into the branch. Inviting Kaligull to a special dinner. To come alone and spend some quality time with his sister. That two others would be present as well, but that he should pay them no mind, as they were just servants, obviously.

The problem with written messages, dear reader, is that they can live for longer than you want. Especially Tresmo’s wood was often used to create papyrus, a paper-like substance on which they wrote poems, books, or, most likely, vague insults hurled at their competitors in the Senate.

Somehow, the traitorous messages reached Kaligull that night. They reached him before Gatagrip could their plot.

Some say Kaligull showed no mercy. Tresmo believes he showed far too much mercy.

He didn’t kill Gatagrip. He didn’t punish her with a terrible death. He merely exiled Gatagrip, sending her to an island far away. No visitors, nothing to do, but she was otherwise free. To cuddle sheep, watch the ocean, or write more traitorous letters.

It was there, on a remote island and without power, that Gatagrip birthed a son. Her husband died just after learning she was pregnant, but not before supposedly saying: “I don’t think anything produced by me and Gatagrip could possibly be good for the state or the people.”

She decided it was no use hiding her ambition anymore. She wasn’t coy about it: she called her son Empero.

Every day of his life, she told him he was meant to be emperor. And Empero would smile and respond, in a naïve high-pitched voice, saying “Yes! I want to be the best emperor Amor has ever seen!”

She would tell her son that the evil Senators of Amor took her right away. That they caused this unfair exile. And Empero would agree, happily saying “They’ll pay for what they’ve done!”

Until Empero became old enough to walk, talk, write, run around the island telling everyone he was their king, or give involuntary singing performances to the sheep.

And Gatagrip received the surprising message that her exile was lifted, and she was to return immediately to Amor.

Tresmo wasn’t on the island, of course, so he didn’t know this part for sure. He only learned about it because historians wrote the story on papyrus from his wood. But he suspected Gatagrip was playing another game, and wasn’t surprised in the slightest!

For when she returned to Amor, the next part of her plan immediately sprung into action.

Tresmo, a sentient tree surrounded by eternal fire, was not just a hidden meeting place for sneaky plans. It was also seen as the perfect location for funerals. Tresmo wasn’t thrilled with that, of course, but he liked to look on the bright side—a phrase which here means “stubbornly ignore the downsides of always being on fire”.

He could oversee and overhear almost everything that happened in Amor. Whenever an important figure died, he was the first to know. As the family checked out Tresmo to arrange the funeral, and knocked on his trunk three times. For good luck, they said. Or possibly to check if Tresmo wouldn’t fall over during the funeral, causing another funeral near Tresmo, causing another funeral, and the loop would never end.

Now remember, dear reader, that currently Empero did not actually have … anything. He would inherit Gatagrip’s wealth if she died—though being exiled doesn’t really make you rich—but nothing more. He was nothing. Just a boy who truly believed he was made to be Emperor, and that he would be the best, even better than the beloved Gulios Kaisar.

And so, within weeks of returning, Gatagrip found the richest ex-Consul around and married him. Krispos.

Whose funeral are we attending at present? You guessed it: Krispos.

Mere weeks after marrying the “love of his life”, this strong and healthy man had suddenly succumbed to a strange disease. His entire estate, his piles of gold coins, would now be inherited by his son.

As Empero sang a sad song, as Gatagrip pretended to weep and squeezed his soft hands, the other funeralgoers sung a different tune. They were fed up—which her means “it was blindingly obvious that Gatagrip was killing them all and they should probably put a stop to it”.

“Seize her!” yelled Klaudios, the current emperor—and Gatagrip’s uncle. A fact you’d better forget, or the rest of this story tastes even worse.

Gatagrip turned around, wide-eyed, and briefly bared her teeth. “W-What for? Why? My husband just died, oh, pity me—”

“Your intentions are clear, foul woman,” said Klaudios’ wife, a fierce and powerful female wolf.

“You … you have no proof. Oh, may the gods be merciful on—”

“We have proof. Your letters from your previous attempt to murder emperor Kaligull.”

“But dear empress,” said Gatagrip in her sweetest voice, “surely you can’t punish me again for old sins? I did my time! I wasted away for years on an empty island!”

Everyone looked at Klaudios. He stayed silent for a while, giving everyone his iron stare, even as his wife snuggled up to him for support.

“Gatagrip speaks wisely,” he said finally. “The law is clear. Once punished for a crime, you are clean again. Until we find proof of Gatagrip—”

“You’re a fool!” yelled his wife. As Gatagrip lifted her own son Empero, and clutched him to his chest, the empress did the same thing with her own son. They were roughly the same age. They even looked the same, as all these people were each other’s uncles, nephews, aunts and other not-so-distant relatives.

The funeral continued without the empress. Not another word was spoken about the suspicious death of Krispos, even though everyone was still thinking about it. Tresmo was a magical tree, yes, but he couldn’t read thoughts. He was ancient enough, though, to still be in touch with the old nature of the gods. He could feel the anxiety, the hatred, the thirst for revenge among the people of the Senate.

Gatagrip’s late husband had spoken the truth all those years ago: nothing that involved her could ever be good for Amor.

Three days after the funeral, Gatagrip tucked Empero into bed. And she tried to, slowly, explain to him how abundantly wealthy he’d suddenly become.

“But why doesn’t the money belong to you, mom?” The four year old wolf struggled to stay awake.

“It’s … it’s hard to explain,” said Gatagrip. “Men and women are not viewed on equal footing. Almost all belongings of your step-father went to you. But that is a good thing! Not the part about inequality, of course, but the being rich thing.”

“Why? You always said you can’t just buy the throne?”

“No. But you can buy almost anything else.”

Gatagrip spoke softly, motherly, whispering in his ear as if spies were always nearby. And she was right, in a way. Tresmo stood nearby—the wooden spy that was ever awake. He heard all this, and that’s why I can tell this story now, and be sure it is true.

“Starting tomorrow,” she said, “you will get a tutor. Sinnika, the best I could find. You’ll learn history, languages, mathematics, politics, economics—everything. Everything you need—”

“—to become the best emperor ever!” The realization made Empero wide awake again.

Gatagrip turned around. With her teeth, and great difficulty, she opened a drawer and took out a leather object.

During the First Conflict, they’d enslaved many Bearchitects to build their pretty homes and furniture. They had delivered fine work, of course. Especially Bunjo was incapable of creating an ugly table. But everything they made was tailored to animals with hands, or at least the ability to stand on two paws.

“We killed this snake today. It’s a rare one.” And extremely poisonous, Gatagrip knew, but she didn’t want to scare her son. “I’ll have it mixed with gold and made into an armband. When you wear that band, know that it will protect you, and that you are safe.”

“Isn’t it against the law to kill other beings?”

“Not if you have the right reasons,” said Gatagrip confidently.

Empero nodded, though his mother could see he didn’t truly understand. In his eyes, he was always safe, because the Commonfolk would love him. That’s what Gatagrip had always said.

She rolled up the dried snake skin and put it underneath his bed.

Gatagrip left, and Empero instantly fell asleep.

That night, just as clouds covered the moon and light was at its scarcest, his bedroom window suddenly opened. Two black cats climbed over the windowsill. One of them held a thick rope, pierced by their long nails to stick it to their paw. The other cat held a message written on papyrus in their mouth. Their nails were sharpened and readied like knives.

Tresmo knew exactly what had been written on that piece of paper, made from his wood.

I will not wait around until you kill me, my husband and my son to claim the throne. Consider this preemptive justice.

Preemptive justice, in this case, means something along the lines of “punishing someone for crimes they haven’t done yet”, which is similar to “very very illegal”.

The message didn’t need to be signed. Which was a silly move anyway, when you tried to secretly assassinate someone else.

The cats tiptoed towards Empero’s bed. Empero slept on his belly, curled up, as wolves tend to do. One might have thought a blanket covered him, but it was just that white cloth—a toga—that everyone wore all day.

The cats pulled the blanket off of him. They nodded: yes, this was Empero, they were sure.

The larger black cat sharpened their nails a final time. The smaller one already placed the message on the table. Empero slept peacefully, innocently.

Sharp nails shot towards Empero’s throat.

The smaller black cat shrieked.

Sharp nails narrowly missed his throat.

The cat pointed feverishly below the bed.

“Snake,” they hissed.

In the dark, they could only see its yellowish eyes. Moonlight had returned and illuminated the poisonous fangs.

The smaller cat bent over backwards to escape. The larger cat wasn’t afraid, at least not outwardly so, but they still didn’t want to finish the attack.

“A … a bad omen,” they whispered, a word which here means “I believe that if we kill this boy we’ll start fifty years of bad luck, plagues, and magical curses”.

Gatagrip ran up the stairs, which are mostly a suggestion to a powerful large wolf like her, and kicked open the bedroom door.

The cats escaped just then. But they forgot the message they left behind.

Gatagrip was quick to act. She left Empero sleeping and brought the evidence to emperor Klaudius. Tresmo can’t tell you what happened then, as he wasn’t close enough to the Emperor’s Palace to hear.

When Empero woke up, he didn’t even know he’d almost been murdered. The house was empty. He felt cold, unsafe, and alone. He ran through the streets, yelling if anyone had seen his mom.

At some point, they all started pointing him towards the same place.

The largest forum of Amor, where Klaudius had dragged out his current wife—the empress—to shame her for her deeds.

And so, the leaves observed sadly, the cycle repeated. Precisely what the empress hoped to avoid, happened because of her: Klaudius pushed his current wife aside, though he really did love her. He thanked Gatagrip for bringing this proof to him, and became more and more friendly with her.

What happened next should be no surprise. At least not to a tree that has been seeing these things for thousands of years now.

Gatagrip married the new emperor Klaudios, even though he was her uncle. The Commonfolk hated this with all their heart, as they hadn’t forgotten what Gatagrip had done. The Elite—which here means the Senate and everyone who thinks they belong in it—supported the marriage. They said it was because it unified two families that had been fighting for years. In reality, they simply liked it because the Commonfolk hated it.

And so it happened.

From humble beginnings, literally in another part of the world, Empero was only a small step away from achieving his destiny. He would inherit the throne … if something “unfortunate” were to happen to Klaudios …

As Amor had grown, the eternal fires around Tresmo had acquired a third meaning—besides Sneaky Spot and Funeral Fires. Whenever anything official had to happen, anything that required the “eyes of the gods to witness”, they would do it in front of Tresmo too. They both believed he was dead as well as a god, at the same time, and it confused the tree a lot.

Nevertheless, looking on the bright side again, he was able to oversee all these official events too. Of course, the attendants didn’t actually walk through the flames. They would stand in front of them, barely, and use them as a nice backdrop to radiate power and strength to enemies and allies.

And today Klaudios did so again, as the monkeys from Casbrita came to visit Amor.

Not long ago, Klaudios had launched a campaign trying to conquer their island. Several emperors before him had tried, most notably Gulios Kaisar, but he was the first to be successful. Or, well, the monkeys had a different view …

Their messenger greeted Klaudios as he should. He spoke countless words of praise and bowed so deeply that the guards had to scrape him off the floor a minute later. Gatagrip sat next to the emperor, her husband now, but the messenger barely spared her a glance. In fact, he stuck out his glass, expecting her to refill it with wine.

“You’re obviously not going to get further,” said their messenger, reading from a papyrus scroll. The Casbrita leader, whom they called Ape Lord, had written this message. “So let me state the Ape Lord’s demands—”

“Nonsense,” said Klaudios. “We invited you here to discuss a deal, to think about becoming … allies. After the First Conflict, that terrible war, the Companionship demands it of us.”

“You know the monkeys are the only split species,” said the messenger, surprised. “You know half of us will never accept your rule, and half of us will always love Amor.”

Klaudios pursed his lips. “This is why I invited the Ape Lord himself, not some puny messenger. You can’t see further than your own toes. Well I see a grand future in which Amor has united all beings! Go away! And return when you’re serious—”

The Senators standing around shouted with him, or at least nodded their approval.

Gatagrip coughed, loudly.

“But love,” she lied, “shouldn’t you warn them?”

“Warn … warn about what?” asked Klaudios, annoyed.

“Oh … oh no … I really shouldn’t say this,” said Gatagrip. She turned her head away with a dramatic flair.

“Speak up, woman,” demanded the monkey messenger. “Or confirm your uselessness.”

Gatagrip pretended to weigh the options, then lazily stepped forward to join her husband.

“I’m afraid I found evidence of someone using dark magic,” said Gatagrip. “Someone close to our family.”

The gathering fell silent. Ever since the First Conflict, magic had entered their world. More and more creatures appeared that were the son or daughter of a god, and acquired fanciful powers as a result. Some of those powers, however, were deemed “unholy” or “dark”, and if you were seen practicing them, you were sentenced to death. Unfortunately, nobody had bothered to define exactly what “dark magic” meant.

Klaudios looked worried. “We’ll talk about this later. Let’s first finish our meeting with the—”

“Oh but Klaudios,” said Gatagrip, “don’t wait! Don’t allow her to cause a catastrophe! You must act now!”

“Her? Who is it then? I will send guards to the home right now and arrest her!”

With a fake lump in her throat, Gatagrip spoke the name of Kaligull’s wife. She was still alive, and had been empress for some time, which made her a competitor for the throne.

Klaudios was lost for words. If he didn’t act now, he would be ignoring a heartfelt plea from his wife. Even worse, he’d look weak in front of the powerful monkeys. If he did act, it would mean removing a wise and beloved family member based on no evidence at all.

“Please, dear,” said Klaudios. “Let me finish negotiations with our … allies, and don’t interrupt me—”

“Oh, I just can’t help myself,” said Gatagrip, cheeks flushing red. “There are so many rumors that trouble me. But you’re right, I should not say a word—”

The monkey messenger stepped up to her. Finally, she was worth more than a glance.

“Rumors? Troubles? Speak up, woman.”

Gatagrip spoke about an arranged marriage that was soon to happen. One of the prettiest and wealthiest young women in Amor, to be wed off to some other young man—instead of her son Empero. Of course, as you expect, Gatagrip had a “trustworthy source” that told her the young man was secretly married to someone else. They had to act now, before the wedding was over.

Klaudios’ paws started shaking, as his tail fell flat and limb to the stone floor. His mouth started many questions for Gatagrip, but didn’t finish any of them. If he didn’t act, he’d look even weaker in front of the monkeys, having no control over his own citizens.

So Klaudios acted.

Gatagrip entertained the messenger and tried to gain their friendship. The monkey didn’t seem entirely convinced. She promised him that the next time they’d visit, he’d barely be able to see the palace through the statues in Gatagrip’s honor.

Her husband evicted the “black magic witch” from her home and forced her out of Amor. They raided the young man’s home and found evidence of his secret activities. He was lucky to get away alive, merely losing his wealth, his status, and the love of his life.

Since that day, Klaudios asked Gatagrip for the latest rumors and advice every morning. Until she was known as the “partner in the empire”.

In the years that followed, Empero was confused. He had never seen his mother this happy. He hadn’t even realized how stern and serious she was before, how she had always been busy scheming or talking to him about politics. How her rare smiles had actually all been fake.

Now she would often join Empero in singing a tune. They shared the same gift of a beautiful voice, and it was said Klaudios would stroll through the garden at night and simply revel in the beautiful sounds coming from the palace.

Though Empero was perhaps growing too old for it, Gatagrip suddenly had more time to read him bedtime stories. Or play games with him. Not every conversation was about power and thrones anymore.

As Empero met his tutor more often, this confusion slowly made place for understanding.

“Your mother is like … like fire,” said Sinnika. The older man was a giant fox. He looked like he lived in a cave and ate bugs for breakfast, but his body was strong and his mind was sharp. “She acts. She gets what she wants now. No matter … no matter the cost.”

Sinnika kept shaking his head as he explained the latest events. Empero always missed this, because his mother kept him locked up inside and told him to study, study, study.

“She has convinced Klaudios to give her the honorable title of Augusta. As if she were as good and wise as first emperor Augostos! Foolish! And then Klaudios named a new colony in her name, as if she lead the army and conquered it!”

Sinnika turned around and pointed out a few mistakes in Empero’s handwriting.

“Well, boy, I think your mother realizes she has what she wanted. Power. A seat beside the emperor, a man whom she loves and who listens to her. Equal rights.” Sinnika drifted off, mumbling. “Or, well, something close to it.”

“And I must be like fire too?”

“No!” Sinnika grabbed another sheet of papyrus and asked Empero to draw circles again. “You’re not dumb, boy. You know what your mother did.”

Empero grew to his full height, furious, briefly standing on his hind legs. “Are you accusing my mother of—”

“See what I mean?” said Sinnika calmly. “You mustn’t let emotions rule you, boy, if you want to be the best emperor there ever was. An emperor has to be calm. Wise. Listen to advice and make a rational judgement.”

Empero shrunk to his boyish size and focused on his work again, taking a writing feather between his jaws. “Sure. Then I’l be as boring as you. You never broke a single law in your life, or, you know, achieved anything.”

“I was sentenced to death,” said Sinnika, staying composed. “But Klaudios was merciful and made it exile instead. And then Gatagrip convinced him to give me a second chance. And I do believe she was right—you still have much to learn, boy, and I am the only one who can teach you well!”

Empero dropped his feather. “You were … why? What did you do?”

“I wrote things that were true, but which nobody wanted to hear,” spoke Sinnika sadly. But then his eyes lit up. “You must not be so foolish, Empero. You must become a philosopher, a free thinker, who accepts all opinions and charts a true course for the Amor Empire!”

Sinnika took Empero by the shoulders. He’d been tutoring the boy for years now, watching him grow up from a silly little boy to a, let’s be honest, silly little young man. He embraced Empero as if he were his own son, which is obviously a metaphor as Sinnika was a fox and Empero a wolf, but the idea stands.

“If your mother is fire and heat, well …” Sinnika said, as noise came from afar. “Then you must be the calm light that guides the way.”

Tresmo would like to say that this was the start of something good. But he had seen this again and again. He had seen the angels of history who tried to spread hope and good, and he had seen equally many devils to break them down.

Lately, Gatagrip was leading the pack.

Sinnika and Empero left their study hall to approach the noise. Empero remembered that the monkeys were to visit again, this time bringing the Ape Lord for serious negotiations. The Companionship was a brittle idea, but it was holding for now. All the animals tried to work together and prevent more world-wide wars.

When the Ape Lord approached, shadows seemed to grow four times as large, and even the bravest of wolves cowered in his presence. His black-furred head was even visible over statues of Gatagrip, making it seem as if those sculptures suddenly had two heads.

He bowed to Gatagrip. He bowed as deeply as the messenger had done all those years ago.

Then he bowed to Klaudios in equal measure—or was it slightly less deep?

He praised Gatagrip’s energy, decisiveness, and support for the emperor. Then he praised Klaudios’ hairdo, which felt like a lesser compliment somehow.

The Senate had often called Klaudios “infirm”. He was easily swayed by the whispers of his wife, or the love for his son from the previous marriage. He could change opinions based on his mood, and that made them doubt his leadership.

He was infirm, yes, but he was not stupid. In that moment, Tresmo saw Klaudios shiver, he felt Klaudios’ heart rate shoot to dangerous levels, and he sensed a dangerous idea brewing in the emperor.

The sudden, sharp realization it had been a mistake to marry Gatagrip. And that he wanted his son on the throne—not Empero.

He played along as the Ape Lord talked, and talked, and told stories about their island and showed off their inventions with no lack of arrogance. But later that night, when the meeting was over and everyone had gone, Klaudios braved the eternal flames and touched Tresmo’s bark to make a whispered confession.

“I will remove Gatagrip, the woman who has plagued Amor for long enough, and I will do it tonight, or I’m not worthy of the title emperor.”

If there was one thing the Elite loved, it would be their lavish banquets. Adopted a cat? Time for a feast! You’re down with a fever? Here’s a lot of food to cheer you up! You’ve recovered from the fever? Why, that’s cause for a banquet!

And so Gatagrip and Klaudios lay beside each other, behind a low stone table. It was so long, and covered with foo,d that they could barely see their guests on the other side—and their guests could barely see them. Just as Klaudios wanted.

“My love,” he said, his voice trembling and his tail wrapping around her shoulders. “I prepared a special treat for this evening. Please, try the mushrooms.”

Gatagrip smiled and reached for the plate, then retreated. “I … wanted to confirm a rumor, emperor. I heard you were thinking about putting your own son on the thr—”

Just then, Empero barged in. He held several slabs of meat in his jaws, as if he had been forced to sample all food at the banquet. He smiled at his parents.

“Banquets are the best!”

“Yes, dear, but please act a little more—”

“And you are the bestest parents in the world!” he said, giving both Klaudios and Gatagrip a friendly nudge on the cheek. “I can’t wait to be emperor. My banquets will be just as good! If not better!”

Klaudios sighed, but couldn’t suppress a smile. He let himself enjoy this little family moment, just for a few seconds, as he looked in the sparkling eyes of his stepson.

Then he looked at Gatagrip and shoved the plate of mushrooms a bit further away, to make space for a family embrace. As he did, however, they say he looked at his son from his first marriage, seated nearby, and nodded gravely.

Tresmo couldn’t be sure about this part, again, for he wasn’t there. The tree could see much, but he couldn’t see through the thick walls deep inside the Emperor’s Palace. The massive estate had many other trees in the gardens, but none were descendants of Tresmo. This part of the story is only known to him because it was written on papyrus made from his wood.

Somebody called out for more wine.

Empero responded immediately. He accidentally pushed over an actual servant as he ran to the boar who requested more.

“Erm, love, what are you doing?” asked Gatagrip, wiggling out of Klaudios’ embrace. He picked up a mushroom and moved it to her mouth, encouraging her to try one.

“An emperor is a servant of their folk! I shall make sure nobody here goes hungry or thirsty,” said Empero, reciting something Sinnika had taught him. His tutor was at the banquet too and tried, without success, to teach Empero some more manners. Still, the fox’ face beamed with pride as he saw his lessons put to good use.

Happily, as if this work was the greatest gift in the world, Empero served the guests. He was a young man now, almost an adult, although this was hard to judge in these times when the Magic of Longlife still existed. He was one death away from becoming emperor, but he acted as a servant to the others.

And one death would be served up soon, yes, but not the one that was planned.

Empero even spoke about improving the delivery chain of the food and inquired whether the servants received high enough wages. That’s how he learned they weren’t paid at all.

He approached Klaudios to angrily demand the reason of this, but found a confusing scene.

His mother had tears in her eyes, though she desperately tried to hide them.

His father had no clue. In fact, he acted a bit childish. He gobbled up half the mushrooms on his own plate, mumbling things like “very very tasty” and “see, not poisoned at all”.

It should come as no surprise, dear reader, that the following morning, a fever had struck Klaudios, as terrible as it was mysterious. By nightfall, the emperor was dead.

Gatagrip, no stranger to the look and smell of poison, had switched the plates when Empero helpfully created the distraction.

Nobody knew the emperor was dead, though. Gatagrip convinced everyone to keep it a secret for now, to prevent chaos. And to prevent weakness of the crown—imagine if disaster struck and an enemy attacked now!

All of Amor’s gates were closed, the capital sealed.

Then she introduced Empero as the new emperor. First to the soldiers, then to the Elite, and finally to the Commonfolk.

They loved him immediately, as word of his good deeds and good looks had already spread. And, most importantly, his singing voice that wasn’t too shabby.

His mother didn’t notice. She went into mourning for three months, and when she returned, she would not leave the palace much. She stayed close to Empero, whispering advice and warnings in his ear.

For the first time in months, since becoming emperor, Empero had a free evening. He decided to visit the only father figure left in his life.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Sinnika deftly wrote messages with his claws. The pile of papyrus revealed he’d been doing it for a while.

“Writing down what happened the past few months,” he said, not stopping or looking away from his work.

Empero’s face darkened. He stepped into the room and tried to read over Sinnika’s shoulders, but the massive fox—as well as a massive book to the side—obscured the text.

“I am sure you’ll write down all my good deeds,” said Empero with a fake smile. “And how everyone loves me.”

“I write the truth of history,” said Sinnika. He affectionately tapped the emperor on the head, which he could do because Empero was still quite young and small. “Fortunately, the truth is that you are being a good emperor.”

“And … and you’ll write that Klaudios died of natural causes?” said Empero, his voice less certain. “Just like previous husbands of Gatagrip. Oh, how unfortunate mother’s life has been …”

Sinnika finally looked up from his work, adding a nasty horizontal line straight through the final sentence.

He picked up the heavy book.

“I think you’re ready for this,” he said. “Though, I’m not sure anyone can ever be ready for the wisdom and genius it contains.”

Empero took the heavy book, misjudged its weight, and fell over. It felt magical. It felt as if there should have been some grand ceremony around receiving this book, but instead it pinned him to the floor of a dusty workroom.

The cover read Studies of the Universe, by Alix the Alchemist.

“Alix? The real Alix?” asked Empero. “I almost thought he was just a legend, made up by goddess Feria to make the gods seem special and all.”

“No, he was certainly real. And I inherited his work, as his eldest remaining grandchild. But I haven’t lived long enough to read the whole thing once! I need your eyes on it too. Especially the back half, which I’ve barely skimmed.”

Empero had managed to push the book off of him. With a grunt, he placed it on his back, ready to carry it away to his favorite place of studying: the highest palace tower. He nodded to Sinnika, a nod with as much ceremony as he could muster, accepting this important task.

“What … what exactly do you hope to find?” asked Empero.

“Ah! I have trained you well,” said Sinnika, who continued writing his account of that fateful banquet. “Alix believed all problems came down to energy. Too little food? You need more energy to grow it! Too little space? Use energy to transform a wasteland into homes and gardens.”

Sinnika drew a zigzag symbol at the edge of his paper. “Focus on the chapters about lightning. Alix believed you could capture it as an endless source of energy. It might an endless food supply for Amor.”

Empero’s face turned a mixture of sad and hopeful. “Maybe I’d never have to turn away starving children again …”

“Yes. But be cautious, boy. Alix’ obsession with studying the universe caused his untimely death. I would not see the same thing happen to you, my so—my apprentice.”

Empero trotted out the door. As he heard the scratches of Sinnika’s writing claws, however, he stopped and turned around with fire in his eyes.

“My mother did not kill Klaudios. She loved him. I … I want to read your writings before you publish them,” said Empero sternly.

Sinnika sighed. “You will read them at the same time anyone else reads them. When I make the truth public.”

Empero turned red and stomped his foot. “Then I demand, as your emperor, that you stop writing these lies—”

“Foolish boy!” scolded Sinnika. “Your mother is the fire, you can’t change that. But then you must be the light! Have all those years been for nothing? All the time we spent together?”

The emperor seemed twice as small as his tutor, and the large book on his book wasn’t helping matters either.

“Don’t ever tell me to stop writing the truth again,” said Sinnika. “Or I will leave this court and never return. One cannot achieve wisdom if one is not allowed to explore everything.”

If the book hadn’t fallen off his back in this moment, who knows what Empero might have done. But it did, and it opened to a page with a secret message by Alix.

I might have cracked the code of eternal life. If you read this, you are my only hope at revival. If you follow my steps, and solve the fascinating Thunder Problems, you’ll help me come back to life. Please!

As Empero grew up, he was taught to adore the very idea of a throne and being the one to sit on it. Or lay, or stand, or hover, whatever an animal could do. Still, he couldn’t have imagined how ludicrously much time he would spend on a big chair, hearing the requests of the Commonfolk.

“If I may speak honestly,” said a female pig, wearing clothes with more holes than cloth. “It is unfair. If you accuse my husband of a crime, then this must be done in the open. Let everyone see that justice is done, let all witnesses come forward.”

Empero considered this for a long while, discussing with Sinnika to his left and Gatagrip to his right. That was just for show. He didn’t want to look “infirm” like his father, easily swayed by whatever people around him said. But they had already discussed this yesterday and formed an opinion.

“We agree,” said Empero. He grew taller and sounded more royal with every passing day. “From this day forward, secret trials are banned. Everyone gets a fair trial, and the eyes of the Commonfolk will ensure it is fair. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

The woman bowed again and again, snorting and mumbling “thank you, thank you, thank you”.

“Next!” yelled Empero.

An elephant, who barely fit inside the room, towered over him. Or so they say—Tresmo obviously couldn’t observe these events himself.

Still, this was one of the smallest elephants they’d ever seen, as all the large ones had joined the gods during the First Conflict—and many had died.

His trunk held up an array of leaky buckets, dripping on the tapestry before the throne.

“I recently returned to this city, where I was born. My ancestors from Toxotes created the first thing close to a fire brigade,” he said. “Granted, the curse of eternal leaky buckets made it hard to continue this practice. Still I am disappointed that Amor has forgotten the threat of fire.”

“We have the Vigiles,” said Empero proudly. “They stand watch and respond to any emergency as quickly as possible.”

“It’s better to prevent it in the first place,” said the elephant. “Amor is a city of kindling. Wooden homes, shoddily built against each other. No space, too many beings, water trapped in aqueducts from the hills. It needs but one spark to turn to ashes in less than a week.”

“Don’t waste gold on it,” whispered Gatagrip into his ear immediately.

“There have only been a handful of small fires since you were born,” whispered Sinnika. “Nothing to worry about.”

Empero listened to this with a straight face. To those in the room, he’d look as if he were thinking really hard, and very independently too.

“Nothing will ever break the beautiful city of Amor,” he said confidently. He leapt off the throne and took the leaky buckets away before all of them were holding meetings inside a pool. “Nothing will harm Amor as long as I’m emperor.”

“Hear, hear!” responded the crowd, who were always quick to smile and applaud.

The elephant trumpeted in frustration. “Then I’m not returning again. I don’t particularly enjoy burning to death.”

“Next!” yelled Empero.

His applause never stopped in the weeks that followed.

First, he banned capital punishment—otherwise known as the “death sentence”. He considered it inhumane. Murder by law was still murder. A good emperor—the best emperor there ever was—did not murder. No, he lets his mother do it for him, Sinnika had whispered. Empero had wisely ignored the remark, staying calm and composed at all times.

After a long debate with Sinnika, including many calculations, they concluded they could lower taxes too. A phrase which here means “make poor people pay a little less to the rich people”.

Even slaves were allowed to come to his palace and make demands. That’s how he became one of the first emperors to give slaves certain rights. If their owners were unjust or cruel, they were allowed to sue them now.

It was a demanding job, being emperor. Empero barely had time for anything else, and he’d sometimes fall asleep halfway Senate hearings. That’s why he gave the Senate more independence too—which here means “allow them to settle small matters without bothering him about it”. Although he sold the decision to the Elite with words like “necessary freedom” and “wise independence”.

To keep himself entertained, he arranged many open competitions in the arts: poetry, drama and athletics. The fact he always participated himself, and won first place in singing, didn’t seem strange to him at all.

Empero relished the time alone with Sinnika. Back to studying, back to his younger years, back to Alix’ book and the secrets it contained. Away from the endless politics in the palace. Just him and wisdom on the page.

Although, increasingly, he wanted to move away from the page.

“The theory looks sound and all,” said Empero to his fox tutor. “Alix says that everything is made out of smaller things. And that those things are charged: either positive or negative. Either yes or no, +1 or -1. That’s why, when you combine them, everything is still neutral—or 0. Otherwise we’d be attracted to everything like magnets!”

“And?” Sinnika asked curiously.

“Thunder, Alix thought, happens when there is a difference. The sky is charged one way, and the ground another. To solve this problem, and get everything neutral again, thunder happens. Like … like a river of light, vertical, to bring the positive to the negative. Back to harmony. As I said, it all seems to make sense … in theory.”

Sinnika was writing again about “what happened here”. Empero had decided to allow it, whatever the tutor had to say. That’s what a good emperor would do. Being kind and generous has only had good consequences so far!

And besides, the nasty things they said were about his mother, not him.

“But we need to actually do it now, test it, go further,” continued Empero. “Our best forecaster has predicted a thunderstorm soon. We need to try and catch the thunder.”

“We? Please, don’t endanger yourself like that. Thousands of Amori are standing in line to help their beloved emperor with anything he wants.”

“They’re no alchemists or philosophers. They wouldn’t know what to do. I’ll do it myself, yes, alone, to make sure nobody else gets hurt. That’s what a friendly emperor would do.”

Sinnika frowned, putting his writing away. “There are some … who aren’t pleased with how friendly you are with the Commonfolk.”

“Tell me who they are,” said Empero immediately, “so I can make them see sense.”

“You already know, boy,” said Sinnika. He breathed out a long and deep sigh, as if suddenly remembering he was very, very, very tired. “Nothing is ever going to change, is it? The ones in power, the Elite, are the only ones who can change the law. Because, well, they have the power. But those are exactly the people who do not want to lose power! So they’ll never change, the system never changes.”

“All of the Elite?” asked Empero with a small voice. “They all hate that—”

“Not hate necessarily. But every right you give to the Commonfolk, feels like losing that special right to them. Every coin spent on some poor pig with a problem, means coin not in the purse of the Elite. If the emperor is thinking about how to help Commonfolk, well, he surely is not thinking about how to help the Elite!”

“So?”

Sinnika’s leather face, and long whiskers, wrinkled in worry. “I would be a bit more hesitant in your generosity the coming years, if I were you.”"

Empero shook his head, his fur, his entire body. “Then I will prove you wrong. I can be kind, and generous, and give power away, and remain emperor of a prosperous Amor at the end. The Elite will just have to accept it.”

Empero could scarcely leave his throne. He was swamped with requests from Commonfolk, and he tried to say yes to them all.

“You don’t have time or money for this,” Sinnika would whisper in his ear.

“They looked at me funny once,” Gatagrip would say, “don’t give them what they want.”

“That’s not a strong argument,” Sinnika would say. And before long, Empero would barely be able to hear the request over the angry whispered debate between his left ear and his right ear.

Until everyone had to step aside as a large party entered. A weird assembly of different species, nationalities and uniforms. Some soldiers, some nobles, a poet, and even some Jurads.

“Empero! We rely upon your kindness and grace!” said the nobles. “Our city, the second largest in the Amor Empire, has suffered disaster.”

“And the Jurads near your border are being viciously attacked for our faith!” said a religious woman.

Empero’s face scrunched up in worry. “That is terrible news. I will send aid at haste and—”

“We don’t have any soldiers left to spare,” whispered Sinnika in his ear. “And the Jurads are not part of our empire.”

“Let them die,” whispered Gatagrip. “Disaster is disaster. And the Jurads believe in fairy tales, of course they’re attacked.”

“No, no,” Empero said out loud. The whispering in his ear had become so loud, so insistent, that everyone else could hear it too. “I would not be a proper emperor if I didn’t—”

“You can’t do everything, or be everywhere,” whispered Sinnika. “Spare your energy for the things that matter most, and that is the capital of Amor.”

“I suddenly remember that noble speaking up against me,” whispered Gatagrip. “Kill him.”

Empero shuffled on the throne. Hundreds of eyes stared at him, their paws already in the right position to start applauding.

The young man stepped off the throne and gently placed his paw on both the religious woman and the worried noble.

“You will receive whatever aid you require. That is my final decision.”

“You idiot!” hissed Gatagrip.

“I’ll start making the calculations again …” mumbled Sinnika in frustration.

His mother yanked him back to the throne and nearly deafened him with her whispers. “I am your mother. I am the reason you’re on this throne. You will listen when I demand something. Kill those two nobles for, I don’t know, conspiring to kill me.”

“I will not—”

“Send all Jurads out of this room. No, out of Amor entirely. We believe in the Amori Gods here, none other.”

Empero struggled to break free from his mother’s iron grip. This didn’t look good, he immediately thought. This ruined his reputation with the Commonfolk.

All the whispers, all the demands, the endless chattering in his ear—he was done with it. He could see now how his mother had gotten what she wanted with all her previous husbands, emperors, or family members. With clarity like a lightning bolt from the blue, he saw how his mother was doing the same to him now.

He finally applied his full strength as a young male wolf. His mother was pushed aside with no hope of preventing a hard crash on the floor.

He addressed everyone watching.

“My mother is unwell. She has served us honorably all these years, but it is time for her to retire. You will receive your aid; Gatagrip will leave the palace ground for good.”

This received applause and “hear, hear”—but only from the Elite.

Empero stood in the midst of the harbor. He enjoyed a gentle summer’s breeze, chatted with the Commonfolk who worked around him, and joined in when they sung sea shanties.

His mother was supposed to leave today. Instead, her figure appeared on the horizon again. With a thunderous expression, she walked back to her son.

“Is this a joke? Are you playing with me—oh, no, of course.” Gatagrip smiled and embraced her son, standing at the edge of the docks. “I knew you’d see sense! You don’t really want me to leave, do you—”

“I thought I was clear about not hugging me in public,” said Empero, disliking how whiny and childish he sounded. “And about you leaving. Why are you still here?”

“My ship just … wasn’t there.”

Empero sighed, then turned to face the horizon. “Here. You can borrow my ship. As long as your whispers in my ear are gone for good.”

Gatagrip’s face turned dark and sour again. She huffed, and puffed, and growled, and howled, but he was the emperor and she was disliked by everyone—at least, everyone who was still alive to hate her—so she obeyed.

Empero’s ship was a new one, still covered in the scent of fresh paint and shaved wood. A small vessel in his honor, for short trips, or so the name Empero’s Quickdive implied.

Gatagrip made herself comfortable. And without looking back at her son, she left the city of Amor for good.

Sinnika joined Empero in watching her leave. Until their eyes were blinded by the summer sun reflected on the sparkling blue waves of port Ossia.

“It will work?” he whispered in his ear.

“I designed it myself,” whispered Empero. “Of course the contraption will work.”

They spoke no more of it, especially with so many Commonfolk around.

“The Senate is waiting for you,” insisted Sinnika. “And we seem to be entirely out of wine and snacks.”

“Oh yes,” said Empero. “I gave those supplies to the Commonfolk. We have enough to eat as—”

They passed a ship filled with screaming animals. The bright sun had set it aflame, and now the crew tried to get off and extinguish the fires. This was quite a common occurrence on the hottest days of summer. In most cases, the ship was simply pushed away from shore to prevent the fire from spreading, and that was that.

The curse of the eternal leaky buckets made it very hard to actually beat a fire in Amor.

“Maybe it’s time we start taking more precautions—” started Sinnika.

“Really? Not so long ago, you convinced me fires were a rarity.”

Sinnika stroked his beard. “A wise emperor is able to change his views when new evidence presents itself. You’ve read Alix’ work. When he started writing Studies of the Universe, he believed a little being lived inside us all. Ten pages later, he corrected himself and proposed a better theory. This goes on and on and on, and that’s what made him so clever.”

And that’s why Empero would like to be the one to revive him. If Alix’ notes are correct, and Empero read them correctly, he knew how to do it. He would go down in history as the good emperor who brought back the smartest mind that ever lived.

The pair of them stopped near the heart of Amor, where Tresmo’s leaves were enjoying the sunlight. The eternal flames around him reached quite high, but Tresmo was even taller. Some birds were strong enough to reach such heights too, which always gave him a canopy of roosting—and exhausted, potentially vertigo-suffering—birds.

“Don’t worry,” said Empero. “Nothing will harm Amor while I rule. Nothing can destroy this beautiful city, certainly not some tiny fires!”

“But—”

“Where would we find the funds? I’m not going to raise the Commonfolk taxes again. And you convinced me not to anger the Elite by reducing their income.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Sinnika, lost in thought. “Years of giving everyone whatever they asked for has put is in a bit of a bind, boy.”

“I’m not a boy anymore. I’m the emperor. You can write in your little history books that I listened to your advice but wisely decided to prioritize more important matters!”

“You know, I’m not the only one writing about events,” he said. “We have many historic writers in Amor, which is how we ensure none of us is lying.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yes,” said Sinnika honestly. “A good emperor is surrounded by people who are not afraid to speak their mind.”

Empero stopped walking. He was tempted to touch Tresmo’s bark, but today he didn’t dare step through the eternal flames. He waved at some Senators, who glared and didn’t wave back. He was able to tell a bear, who was repairing a ship, the right measurements for a sail.

“Then speak honestly,” he whispered. “Am I a good emperor? Will your history book talk about me?”

“You are on the right path. Removing your mother’s terrible influence will help too. But a few years is not enough to judge. That’s the thing, boy: caring for your folk never ends.”

“I worked so hard for so long.” Empero’s shoulders sagged. “But you’re right. I need something extra to really be the best.”

“It’s not a competition. It’s about placating the Elite so you keep your job as emperor, while being kind to the Commonfo—”

Empero was already gone. Dark clouds formed over Amor. Thunder had been predicted. And although weather forecasting was a bit more wishy-washy in these times—mostly involving educated guesses, sacrificing goats and other rituals—Empero had studied the universe enough to know he was right.

He traveled to an empty plot of land outside the walls of Amor. He let everyone know where he was, but also that he was not to be disturbed. Nobody lived near enough to be hurt if anything went wrong; the empty plot of land contained only one building, and it was a tall but abandoned watch tower.

As per Alix’ instructions, he’d built a complex device. All his years of studying math, construction, and more paid off. He had Sinnika to thank for it all. Could he promote him? Could he make him his partner in the empire? It would be well-deserved for the fox.

Evening fell and turned the landscape into a gray haze. The first lightning struck, some miles further downriver.

The device seemed to work. Even with lightning so far away, it gave Empero a reading of the energy within. A number that … didn’t tell him anything yet. He had to wait for thunder to strike again, closer to him. The number doubled. Yes, the device worked.

One version of the device stood on the ground. One version was attached to the watchtower and raised to maximum height.

This allowed him to measure the energy both in the sky and on the ground.

Thunder struck again. Very nearby. Empero assumed the next one would strike the tower, and made sure to hide somewhere safe. But he could barely hide, because he was jumping from joy.

Alix had been right. There was a difference between positive and negative, which is why a bolt of energy traveled down. The thing we call thunder.

One thing, however, did not make sense. Sinnika had said that energy was never added or removed. Energy never changed. All energy there would ever be, was created when the universe started and that was that. It only converted to different things, to different places.

And so, Empero had expected to see exactly the same energy both on the ground and in the sky. The thunder was created, then simply traveled to the ground.

But it wasn’t the same. On the ground, the energy was far, far weaker. Barely enough to make Empero scared, which is why he crept out of his hiding place to double-check if the contraption really worked.

At that moment he heard hoofbeats.

He turned around and saw a messenger approaching.

“Empero! Empero!” said the young boy naïvely. “Disaster has struck! Your mother’s ship mysteriously sunk!”

“Oh no. What a surprise. I checked the boat myself, it surely wasn’t one of those self-collapsing boats! I thank you for braving this weather and giving me the message, and I will mourn my mother—”

“She isn’t dead. She survived, though she had to swim for quite a while.”

“Oh. What a surprise.”

Thunder struck again. Exactly where Empero and the messenger stood.

They both stumbled backward, but not for long. He was too interested to see the readings on the devices. Again, energy seemed to have been lost. How could that happen? Thunder was just a bolt of light moving from here to there.

Or maybe …

The thunderstorm passed him by. It made for Amor with terrifying speed.

Empero asked the messenger to give a cryptic message to Sinnika: Make sure the mission succeeds, whatever it takes. His tutor supported the plot against his mother, and he hoped he’d understand the message too. If Gatagrip survived this, who knows what damage she could do as she clawed her way back to Amor.

The messenger—who, let me remind you, was himself a horse and not sitting on horseback, as only humans did that and they didn’t exist yet—frowned. But he accepted the message and returned to Amor, as if chasing the thunder.

Empero continued writing down measurements and trying to complete Alix’ plan. But with energy being lost, there was no hope of reviving that Alchemist.

With a mixture of joy and disappointment, he trotted back to Amor.

There, he found a city engulfed in flames.

Many things have been written about the Great Fire of Amor. It was the worst fire the city had ever seen. The worst fire any city had ever seen.

Of the fourteen districts, ten were completely destroyed. It was easier to count the things left standing, than whatever the citizens had lost.

The more poetically inclined described it as a “sea of flames” that dwarfed those of Tresmo. The sentient tree himself, perhaps thanks to his enclosure of magic fire, escaped completely unharmed. Being one of the few trees left standing, this caused most papyrus in the next years to have been made from his bark.

The more practically inclined made statements such as “AAAH” and “NOOO” and “GET AWAAAY”. They were too busy saving themselves to think of metaphors and rhymes. Only Sinnika had the time to do so, as upon receiving Empero’s message, he had immediately put the plan into action and was safely outside of the Amor walls.

When Empero returned, he immediately barked a long list of orders.

Water was to be gathered from the aqueducts and brought to the fire.

Unfortunately, no matter the container they tried, it was leaky. The animals would arrive at the fire with barely any water to spare. Empero send out a search for the Toxotes elephants, grandchildren of the first firefighters, but could not find them. If he hadn’t sent them away, maybe the Great Fire would have been a Mini Fire that lasted for barely an hour.

But he had sent them away. Just as he had cut almost all funding from the Vigiles. This group of slaves was meant to be both their police force and their fire brigade at night, an invention by emperor Augostos.

Instead, when Empero finally found them, they were actively setting more things on fire. The Vigiles took advantage by looting shops or demanding payment before they’d save your home. Empero ordered several of them arrested, but no soldiers were left to carry out the command.

Hopeless, overwhelmed, and choking on fumes, Empero struggled to find a course of action.

This was the moment, he thought over and over. The moment that defined him as emperor. If he failed to do the right thing, he’d be in Sinnika’s history books, yes, but as a massive failure. The worst emperor, a title that chased him around the palace in his worst nightmares.

Because of the curse of the leaky buckets, their most effective way to combat the fire was to create firebreaks. Purposely demolish buildings, cut trees, remove anything flammable in an entire area. Because a tree requires energy to grow, you could say that energy is stored inside its wood. That energy is the fuel that allows a fire to keep burning—take it away, and it has to die out at some point.

And so Empero ordered his soldiers to strategically demolish homes all over Amor.

Then he opened the doors of all his private residences and monuments. Not the palace, even though it was the largest building and lay at the heart of the city. For the simple reason that it had already been reduced to ash.

He ran over the cobblestones of Amor and told anyone where they could find refuge. He made available all food supplies, for free, and vowed that none would be homeless if he could help it.

Tresmo saw it all happen. Many Amor residents visited him in this time of need to pray or ask for guidance, as if they considered Tresmo an expert on all things fire.

When Empero was out of ideas, he retreated to his favorite tower. And he began to sing. He sung as loud and as well as he could. He sung all the songs he knew, all the beautiful and hopeful songs, to give every wolf, boar, bear, fox, or other animal in Amor the strength to fight the fire.

The Great Fire raged for a full week.

And then, when they thought it was over, some Vigiles started it again. It took three more days to extinguish it a second time.

Clearly, the corrupt Vigiles were not the answer.

Some days after the fire, a new throne was hastily built on top of the ashes. Now that the palace had a distinct lack of walls and roofs, Tresmo could actually see and hear what happened in the throne “room”.

As Empero lounged on his new throne, he rapidly declared new laws.

“I will amend the building codes,” he said formally. “No homes shall be built too close to each other. Materials used are not allowed to be too flammable. And I want a maximum distance of ten streets to the nearest source of water. And I shall create a proper fire brigade, well-funded, to ensure an accidental spark can be stopped before it becomes a disaster.”

Nobody could protest that. Sensible changes. Changes he should’ve made before a Great Fire destroyed three-quarters of his beloved city, and he knew it. Tresmo saw him shed a tear every single day that the fire raged.

“And most of all,” said Empero, “we shall rebuilt my palace, five times as large as before!”

Because of the fire, the area needed for this had become available. And that’s when the tides of his popularity truly changed, as the first false rumors reached his ears.

Night had fallen on the shores of some distant island that you can forget about. In fact, you’re encouraged by the Amori emperor to forget about it, as it’s the island to where they exile everyone they don’t like.

It’s not the island that’s important, but the soaked and exhausted being that washed up with the waves.

Gatagrip took one more step. Then she sunk into the sand, the breath sucked from her lungs. She would have stayed there for days if one of her most loyal servants hadn’t been exiled to the same island and came out to help her.

Her ship had suddenly, mysteriously, collapsed at sea. One moment it sailed smoothly, and Gatagrip had even remarked about the craftsmanship and love poured into the vessel. The next moment, the sails suddenly folded, the bow split off, and her captain was easy dinner for some octopus below.

Wolves are fine swimmers—for short distances, and if they really have to. How Gatagrip had managed to reach safe shores is a topic on which all the history books disagree. Some say the gods shone favorably on her. Some say the ship collapsed much closer to the island than planned. Some say the massive octopus liked her and brought her to the beach.

But swimming happens at much slower speeds than sailing, or running over land.

As her servant helped Gatagrip to her paws, they heard hoofbeats in the distance. As soon as they left the beach, the hoofbeats were right next to them.

“Sinnika!” cried Gatagrip, overjoyed. “I am glad you found me. We know much better how to rule Amor than the young emperor, don’t we? Bring me back to Amor at once and help Empero see sense. Let him reunited with his beloved mother.”

“You … misunderstand the reason for our presence.”

In the span of mere seconds, Gatagrip’s face displayed all possible emotions, ending on disappointment. Not the kind of disappointment that a parent feels when their kid has taken from the forbidden cookie jar. The kind of disappointment that makes a female wolf wonder if her entire life—all the murder, deceit and faking—had even been worth anything.

“Then you’re not as bright as you once where,” said Gatagrip. She eyed the soldiers around him, swords at the ready. Her loyal servant, a rabbit, threw herself before her, but was obviously a meager shield for the much larger wolf. “You know what this looks like.”

“It looks like your final night on Somnia. I do not intend to give you a chance to poison me too—or any other Elites that speak ill of your beloved son. Do you have any last words?”

“The Commonfolk will not stand for it,” said Gatagrip, regaining some strength. “Killing your own mother … I can barely imagine a worst sin. All of Amor will frown upon matricide. Not to mention that it’s highly illegal. Did Empero even think this through? Was it not enough to simply banish me?”

Sinnika nodded to his soldiers to finish the job. “Who said Empero sent us?”

I will not describe the rest of that night, dear reader. To keep that dark stain out of your heart. Gatagrip was a foul being with a lust for power, yes. But murdering her was still murder. Something Tresmo had seen happen again, and again, and again, and again for centuries now. He is tired of telling the same old story. Maybe history doesn’t exactly repeat itself, but it certainly rhymes.

The next time Empero showed his face, far less Commonfolk animals approached him. In fact, they shied away. He received scowls, glares, furtive glances and gossip behind his back.

Soon it was all over the papers. It was the gossip of the Senators before Empero had arrived to lead the meeting, and it was their gossip after he had left. A certain being called the Tattlerat was quick to spread this rumor, adding more and more details as he went.

His mother was dead. They all said he murdered her himself.

He didn’t understand.

Hadn’t he only done good? Hadn’t he vowed to never murder anyone? How could they treat him like that? Where were the smiles, the praise, the applause now?

He didn’t understand.

Sinnika stood behind his desk and wrote the recent events into his history books. He tried to be quick about it, worrying that Empero might enter and read it. Since losing popularity, the emperor wasn’t in a particularly good mood. Sinnika’s whispering fell on deaf ears.

I told Empero not to rebuild his palace larger, and certainly not on the ashes of other animal’s homes. And CERTAINLY not including a “singing hall” that was larger than all temples in Amor combined. It was rude, it was extravagant, it was selfish. But he didn’t listen to me anymore. This was how it started with Gatagrip too: he started ignoring his mother’s whispers, and not long after he gave the command to murder his own mother!

Yes, I spoke with the messenger. The one who delivered that dreadful message. The one who saw, with his own eyes, how Empero’s experiments with thunder caused the Great Fire. One of many who heard the mad emperor SING, as if nothing was happening, while the inhabitants of Amor struggled for their lives!

I have been a tutor, a mentor, maybe more to Empero almost his entire life. As can be read in my earlier writings, I care for him like he were my son. But I fear I have to move against him. They offered me the throne, but I am not worthy and I honorably declined. Still, we need to act against this mad tyrant—

The door opened. Empero barged in; Sinnika instantly turned around and shoved the pile of papyrus away.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” said Empero with a smile. “Oh, Sinnika, you will love this.”

“Figured what out?”

Empero frowned. “Why the energy was different at the top and the bottom of the thunderstrike. Why, Sinnika, it’s all I’ve been thinking about these past few months!”

He slammed Alix’ heavy book, which he could carry much more easily now, right on top of Sinnika’s writing. “Alix talks a lot about heat energy. About fires. About how those tiny particles, which make up everything, vibrate faster when something is hotter.”

“Yes, yes, I read it myself.”

“Well, the Great Fire of Amor was caused by thunder, wasn’t it? I redirected thunder straight at homes of innocents, and watch how easily they burn! Ha ha!” Empero’s tail pointed at the candles hanging from the wall, the only light in the room. “I thought that thunder was just light energy. But no, it’s also heat! Once the thunder has reached the ground, a lot of its energy has evaporated as heat, perhaps scorching the grass. That’s why the energy left is less on the ground.”

Sinnika stroked his beard. “Alright. And what does that mean?”

“It was as you always said. Oh Sinnika, you’ve always been the wisest person I know!” Empero presented his theory with a flourish. “I propose that heat energy and light energy always appear at the same time.”

“Hmm. But if they always appear together, aren’t they just the same energy? Light-heat energy? A mixture?”

“No. Maybe. Light and warmth certainly feel like different things, right? I don’t know, I need to do more experiments. For Alix. For progress! I’ll make everything right and be the best emperor ever!”

“Good work, boy. Please don’t set Amor on fire ag—”

Empero left. Sinnika finished his writings, then immediately moved to distribute them among the most powerful Elite.

With most of Amor either ruined or being rebuilt, Tresmo received a fourth functionality: meeting place. It was the only location mostly untouched by the fire. It was in the middle of all the destroyed districts, and close to where Empero was rebuilding his larger palace.

He woke up early each day from Commonfolk sharing food, materials, or advice on how to build a stronger home. He fell asleep late each day surrounded by homeless animals.

It had been a while since he’d interacted with so many animals. The cage of eternal fire around him had isolated him for too long, and he enjoyed the flocks of birds settling on his branches now.

“A little birdie told me,” twittered a bird, “that it was Empero who set Amor on fire himself!”

“We mustn’t stand for this,” chittered another bird. “An emperor who burns his own city? And is laughing and singing as it burns? He can’t be trusted anymore.”

“We should’ve seen it coming,” replied another. “He murdered his own mother! He is clearly mad.”

“What will he do next? Poison all the Senators? He is just like his mother. Only out for power and vengeance.”

Tresmo was appalled to hear this. It did not match all that he had personally seen from Empero. He wanted to interrupt, but couldn’t get a word past the hundreds of chatting, tweeting and chirping birds.

“Well,” whispered a larger bird conspiratorially, a word which here means “he whispered to make sure nobody overheard, not because he had a sore throat”. He continued: “A little birdie told me that we’re not alone in our thoughts. We have found a soldier among Empero’s staff who shares our concerns. We plan to convince him to … you know … remove the emperor tonight.”

“You mean to … make the emperor permanently sleep?”

“Yes … yes … Empero shall be dealt with …”

“He will be … struck off the list?”

Tresmo wanted to interrupt again. The same thing as always. Another plot. Another assassination. Another emperor kicked off the throne through foul means. It was never going to change, was it? He had seen the cycle for a thousand years, and he imagined he’d see it happen until he died. Or could he stop it?

But no, his interruption was lost amongst the clouds. His slow and deep voice was no match for hundreds of birds singing over each other.

“But who will take his place? He has no children. Gatagrip has murdered all close family.”

“Oh, the Senators are fighting it out,” said the very conspiratorial bird. “A little birdie told me that their eye has fallen on Empero’s tutor, Sinnika. A wise fox. Served well all these years. We have his writing to thank for the truth coming out. He always listened to the needs of the Elite, and you might even say he is one of them himself.”

“A little birdie told me,” said another species of bird, “that he already accepted! And I think he’s a great choice, yes, yes. Finally a good emperor.”

“Then let’s wait no longer.”

From all that Tresmo heard, he concluded that this plot against Empero was not actually a secret plot. The Commonfolk had quickly changed their opinion of their beloved emperor. The Elite didn’t even need to do anything!

That night, a band of very Common boars, badgers and birds planned to deal with Empero. They didn’t want a mad wolf on the throne any longer. They really, really frowned upon killing your own mother and your own city.

They were all slaves, but they were freed slaves. A phrase which here means “thanks to Empero’s laws they were able to sue their owners and gain freedom again”. Freedom that would now be used against him.

As the moon hid behind Empero’s favorite tower, perhaps scared of what they might see tonight, the beings snuck towards the entrance. The emperor could be heard singing high above. The corrupt soldier, a massive wolf in plated armor, stood guard.

“Step aside,” said the birds impatiently. “And pretend you didn’t see anyone enter tonight.”

“What’s in it for me?” responded the guard.

“Justice. An honorable mention in Sinnika’s history books.”

The wolf shifted on his feet. He focused on cleaning and sharpening his sword. It was a bite-sword, a common weapon for quadrupeds. The middle was made of tough rope and leather, while both ends were sharp, and wolves could use them by taking the middle part between their teeth.

Empero’s singing suddenly stopped. Everyone held their breath. Then he continued.

The guard looked at the assortment of Commonfolk. They were so Common that they carried no weapons, except for some sharp twigs and random pieces of metal they could collect. They relied on the guard to actually murder the emperor—without that, they were powerless.

“I wonder …” said the guard slowly. “Will history speak of me honorably if I kill the Amor emperor? Or will it mention me favorably if I uphold the law and do what I’m paid to do?”

“They don’t pay you enough,” tried one of the freed slaves.

“Gatagrip murdered all her rivals, and look how often she’s mentioned in Sinnika’s writing,” tried another.

“You will help us,” tried a bird more soothingly, “you know it’s right in your heart. Empero is not a good influence on Amor anymore.”

The guard raised his sword. It was unbelievably sharp now, evidenced by its glint in the returning moonlight. He shifted before the entrance, silent for a long while, until he waved and went inside. “Follow me.”

The freed slaves grinned at each other. They were quick to race after the guard, up the stairs, up again, as the guard tapped the walls with his sword.

In the end though, dear reader, the guard was right. The reason he’s mentioned in this story is because he upheld the law and did what was right. If he had murdered the emperor that night, this story might not even have been written.

On a higher floor inside the tower, more guards were stationed. As soon as they entered the floor, the “corrupt” guard jumped and positioned himself behind the group. They were now trapped on both sides by armored guards, high in a tower, and their only defense was a bent metal pipe.

Needless to say, they were captured and punished.

Empero did it himself. He had heard it all happen and came down the stairs. When he saw how close he’d come to being assassinated, something snapped inside of him.

“I didn’t set Amor on fire!” he yelled. “It’s a lie! Someone is trying to hurt me, to get me murdered, to get me off the throne! What did I ever do to you? Have I not been a good emperor?”

Silence.

He studied the freed—but now recaptured—slaves. They wore pendants, necklaces, or clothes that marked them as Krystians. Ever since the incident with Krystians, the one that caused him to finally exile his mother, he’d hated their guts. He’d expanded the area of the Amor empire where only one faith was allowed, namely that of the Amori Gods.

“I will tell you who set Amor on fire,” he said, slurring his words in anger. He ripped the bite-sword out of the guard’s teeth and walked away, as if he were marching into war himself.

“It was the Krystians! They believe their fake gods told them to set Amor on fire! They have been a plague to Amor, and this is the final straw! Yes, yes, I would never hurt my beautiful city, but Krystians would. And look at the devastation they brought! A city in ashes!”

As he left his favorite tower, he barked one final order. “I want all Krystians rounded up, dragged from their bed, so I can publicly execute them before the week is over!”

Accounts about this dreadful period vary. Tresmo didn’t experience most of it.

Some historians, like Sinnika, write that Empero went on a mad spree. Whenever asked about anything, he now decided to blame the Krystians. This new religion had never been particularly liked, but actively murdering innocents because of their belief was unheard of for the Amor empire. It was a disgrace. It was terror.

Other historians however … go even further. They continue the narrative of Empero as a mad scientist, who merely played with fire—and lives—to continue his experiments.

As he paraded through Amor, he sent soldiers to search all the homes and drag out any Krystians. Several thousand of them lived in Amor, but many had wisely fled the city months ago.

And when the soldiers came back, dragging with them a rabbit child, or fox parent, or hedgehog grandfather, Empero would do the unthinkable.

He set them on fire.

Along Amor’s main road, which stretched from one end to the other, Empero placed his “living torches”. Burning animals, neatly spread out, to light up the night. He was immune to the screams and pleas of his citizens, Krystian or not, and laughed gleefully as he created the Lane of Living Torches.

Entire districts of Amor fled the city, afraid of what Empero might do next. Even faraway cities within the Amor Empire heard of this dreadful event and declared that “Empero was not their emperor anymore”. The northern territories were the first to cut themselves off, and even march on the city to kick out Empero themselves if needed. The Elite in the Senate, all of whom were rich and owned their own provinces in the empire, were preparing to do the same.

As Empero cannibalized his own city, he was mumbling and muttering. Theories. Realizations. Accusations.

All his life, he’d been controlled by others. His mother Gatagrip had whispered her own plans and wishes in his ear. She had groomed him since birth to want that throne, whatever the cost. Then Sinnika came, and pretended to be a tutor and guardian, but he whispered in his ear all the same! All that talk of freedom, and moral code, and giving slaves more rights—only for those slaves to plot to kill Empero based on false rumors!

Whatever Empero tried, Gatagrip would be there to pull him back in line. Whatever Empero tried, Sinnika would be there to yank him back into a jail cell of “morals” and “being a wise emperor”. It was exhausting. Those days, as he created the Living Torches, he felt as if he could finally let go. Be himself. Be his true self, and enjoy the power of the emperor. No more yanking back. No more trying to go one way, only for whispers to pull him back in line. Like … like a dog on a leash! Empero was no dog!

He wondered … he started to see for the first time …

As the final Krystian burned, the number of torches reached one thousand. One thousand. One thousand innocent lives gone. If anyone had floated through the atmosphere then, an unfortunate alien or surviving godly bird, they might have seen Amor as the brightest speck on Somnia.

And Empero stood next to his victims, and watched them die. Muttering. Eyes glazing over.

Heat and light. Light and heat. Always together. By setting something on fire, you received light for free.

Indeed, dear reader, even as Empero unleashed terror on his own folk, his mind merely saw it as an experiment and was drawing conclusions. Perhaps it was this fact, the casual nature with which he killed others, that pushed the final Elite over the edge.

Empero noticed that his Living Torches burned in different colors. They were orange and red—mostly, magical beings could burn in different colors. But thunder was bright yellow, as was the sun.

But … different things burned at different temperatures. The heat seemed to determine the color and intensity of the light. As Empero unleashed terror on his own folk, his curious mind made a connection. All things have a temperature. So, logically, shouldn’t all things always be emitting light? It’s just that much of the light is in a color that they eyes of wolves and foxes can’t see.

“Eureka!” he yelled. “Call Sinnika here. Tell my teacher to come—I have new knowledge for him!”

His soldiers were quick to obey, despite their growing dislike of the emperor. They didn’t want to be added to the Living Torches themselves. The Elite still listened to him as well—there weren’t Krystian, so why would they care?—and had no trouble fetching Sinnika.

As his tutor approached, slowly, his beard sweeping the floor, Empero saw him as he was for the first time.

Old, yes.

Also a slave-loving, fire-setting, Krystian-helping, lie-writing traitor.

“Oh Sinnika,” said Empero with a soothing voice. “I’ve improved my theory of heat and light. Come here, let me show you.”

“That is great, my boy,” he said. His words were calm and calculated. “But I refuse to discuss this further unless you stop this madness!”

“What madness? I have punished the ones responsible for setting Amor on fire. A good emperor doles out justice.”

“Where is your proof?”

Empero’s smile dropped. With one leap, he was in Sinnika’s face, and his old guardian was too slow to respond now.

“Where was your proof,” he whispered, “when you accused me of setting Amor on fire on purpose?”

“I did no such thing. I merely write—”

“Your truth. Not the truth.”

“If that were so,” said Sinnika calmly, “why would I ever write any ill words about myself? Why would I ever go against you, knowing it might cost me my head?”

“Perhaps …” Empero looked at the man who had been his guardian for all his life. The one who taught him the sciences, taught him to philosophize and explore, taught him how to be a good emperor. The one who would sit in father’s vacant chair during banquets, and who would help him escape from Gatagrip’s foul clutches. “… you are far more stupid than I ever could have imagined.”

“My boy?”

Empero ripped the final Living Torch off of its wooden post, and threw it at Sinnika.

The old fox ducked away just in time. He fell on the floor and rolled to the side, snapping a bone and struggling to get up.

“Help! Someone help!” yelled Sinnika, but the soldiers were still far away.

“Your whispers have soured my reign long enough!”

A solder approached Sinnika to help him, but Empero used his strength to push the soldier away and steal his sword.

“My whispers made you blossom!” cried Sinnika, his face contorted. “For just a little while, you were the best emperor we ever had! But the moment you stopped listening to my … advice, was the moment it all went wrong.”

Empero could not hold Sinnika’s gaze. Somewhere in that mad heart, a spark of love for his tutor was still left. He raised the sword high, but couldn’t make himself bring it down.

“Please! Help!” yelled Sinnika again, crawling backwards over the cobblestones. Only the Living Torch gave light, and it took only several steps to vanish into darkness. “At least give me tablets on which to inscribe my will. My considerable wealth should go to my wife—”

“I will not give you anything any longer!” screamed Empero. “I am emperor, not you!”

Several soldiers had now arrived, but they kept their distance. A wide semicircle around Empero, as if they were more likely to protect him than Sinnika.

“Where,” asked Sinnika again and again, to everyone around him, “are your morals now? Your maxims of philosophy? So many years’ study against the evils to come? Who knew not of Empero’s cruelty? After his mother’s murder, and all other family members …”

Sinnika was out of breath. His old body gave way and he sunk deep into the cobblestone street. His voice was a sob held back. “… nothing remains but to add the destruction of a beloved guardian and a tutor.”

Empero swung his sword. But he couldn’t bear to kill Sinnika himself, at least that’s what the soldiers later claimed. It became an awkward swing, misplaced, the sword rolling out of Empero’s jaws, which merely gave Sinnika a nasty cut.

Sinnika would bleed to death, but very slowly, and Empero didn’t have to see it happen.

Before Sinnika passed away, he scrambled to write down what happened here tonight. He finished his current work, creating an impressive legacy of writing and philosophy. He tried to steal back Alix’ book Studies of the Universe, as Empero was not worth it anymore, but the emperor had the book with him at all times.

In the end, his final achievement was one of revenge, a major stab in Empero’s heart. His writing spared no page in describing how Empero was the worst emperor there ever was, and certainly had to be either reviled or forgotten.

As Empero slept that night, seemingly unbothered by what he’d done, the Senate called a secret meeting. Without lighting any torches, speaking in whispers, purposely not inviting the clumsy elephants, they discussed their course of action.

In truth, it was not much of a discussion. Tresmo saw them go into the building and come out again before the moon had even moved.

As dawn broke, they had already spread many tablets across the city with their new decision. A decision they were allowed to make because Empero had given the Senate more independence.

To make sure everyone heard it, though, they loudly proclaimed it on the forum too.

“From his moment forward,” yelled a large wolf, “Empero is declared … a public enemy.”

Shock traveled through the crowd of Commonfolk, which here means “those who had wished for this day to come, but hadn’t dared believe it would actually happen”.

Shock traveled through Empero, who was on his way to the forum. He cut off the careless tune he was singing with a harsh discordant tone.

The crowd quickly spotted him further down the street. The Commonfolk ran at him, screaming. Several soldiers tried to get in a surprise attack.

Being a public enemy, dear reader, means anyone is allowed to kill or harm you without consequence. In practice, what the Elite had said, is “we are too cowardly to act against Empero himself, so one of you can do it and we’ll promise not to be angry about it”.

Empero knew this of course. He was smart enough to prepare for the possibility.

He ducked into a side street, leapt through narrow alleys and dark passageways, and arrived at the harbor. The dockworkers hadn’t received the message yet. They merely gave him a formal greeting and prepared his private ship. The sun was shining, the waves were beautiful, and Empero wished he didn’t have to leave.

But the earth tremored from the angry footsteps of Commonfolk chasing him. He could already see their faces in the distance.

He stepped on the ship, checked to make sure it wasn’t a self-collapsing one, and went to untie it from shore.

He paused.

The ship gently rocked back and forth. The waves kept carrying the ship off-shore, but the rope—one end tied to the ship, one end to a wooden pole in the sand—yanked it back. This could continue forever. Ship is pushed away, ship is pulled back. Ship moves in a positive direction, ship moves in a negative direction. Wave after wave after wave …

Empero had his final Eureka moment right here. An inkling about how light energy worked. He knew that all things were made up of tinier things. The faster these vibrated, like the tremors below his feet from the coming stampede, the hotter that object was. But what is vibration? It’s something moving back and forth. Swing this way, swing that way. Go up, down, up, down, really quickly.

This movement was just like waves. No, it created waves. Waves were energy.

He was right: all objects with heat are also emitting light. And that light must be a wave. The faster those particles vibrated, the faster the wave flipped between positive and negative, between up and down. That must be what changes the color of light.

It’s just that, dear reader, most of those colors can’t be seen by regular animal eyes. Some animals are better at it. Humans are quite terrible and only recognize a small range of colors. Gods and demigods saw ALL the colors, which is why their way to view the world would never even remotely resemble how you see it.

He had no time to enjoy this final realization, though.

The angry masses had arrived on the harbor. A brave soldier threw his spear a massive distance. He missed Empero, but punctured his boat.

Empero waved goodbye, tears in his eyes, as he left Amor for good. Being a public enemy, he had no other choice than to exile himself to a famous remote island where he’d meet several other Elite he had sent there over the years …

Empero had left no heir to the throne. Sinnika had positioned himself there, but had died not long after he left. Sinnika received the largest funeral Tresmo had ever seen, with the most people attending, and all of them talking about his wisdom and loyalty.

This meant the Amor Empire was, again, suddenly without a leader. Just as it had been when Gulios Kaisar was murdered, back when it was still the Amor Republic. And roughly the same thing happened as back then: after a brief civil war, one emperor landed on the throne and gave himself even more power—just like Augostos—to be able to clean up Amor and get things done. This would continue for a while, with every emperor after Empero trying to become more of a dictator. They saw Empero’s reign as an example, not as a warning.

A century has passed, Tresmo thought, and we’re right back where we started.

Or where we?

Tresmo was a moral tree—which couldn’t be said for all his Gigant children—and devoted to the truth. Everything he’d personally seen, all those funerals, meetings and more, was absolutely what happened.

The other parts? Tresmo only knew them because they were written on papyrus made from his bark. He only read Sinnika’s writings, as well as those of other philosophers and historians, because their books were slightly magical Tresmo matter.

He could not verify their truth. He could only tell those scenes, that story, as the others told it.

The Lane of Living Torches happened for real, Tresmo could see that of course. But what was the cause? Could an emperor with such good intentions, who had studied the universe, really be so cruel as to set a thousand Krystians on fire?

And so he learned of the final writings by Empero himself, just after he arrived on his remote island.

He wondered where it all went wrong. Had he not been a good emperor? Had he not reacted to every emergency with kindness, generosity and swiftness? Yes, he had been as “infirm” as Klaudios at the start. But when he realized he was being controlled by Gatagrip and Sinnika, he stopped listening to their whispers and made his own decisions.

He’d learned so much, advanced science so much. The fires of Amor had absolutely nothing to do with him—how could they say that? Why would they want to hurt him like that?

Why … why did it play out like this? He didn’t understand. He tried to remember his entire life, but found only small hints at what was to come.

He had never been particularly fond of Sinnika. But he accepted his wisdom and lessons, and had always respected him. Why had his tutor written about their relationship as if they were father and son? Why had he advocated that Gatagrip should be permanently dealt with, when Empero was fine with just exiling her?

The only thing that became clear to Empero, after all that remembering and philosophizing, was how just about everyone he ever knew had only been out to steal his throne.

As he tried to be the light, everyone else had set him—and Amor—on fire.

Yes, dear reader, light and heat always come together. Wherever history talks about someone doing immense good, there are always people waiting in line to turn it all to ash.

Or, maybe, Tresmo thought, it’s the other way around. Wherever there’s fire, there will always be light too. If history was always going to repeat itself, then let this be how it is. For every mad emperor, every injustice, every war, you can find the beings standing up, trying their best and giving everyone hope.

Not long after exiling himself, and making this sad realization, Empero committed suicide.

And so, in the end, was Empero a good emperor? Was the saga of Gatagrip, Sinnika and Empero one that was positive for Amor, or negative? Or was one half of it positive, and one half negative, leading to a neutral emperor? Did Empero actually set Amor on fire, kill innocents, and murder his own mother? Or was this the view of events that suited the Elite best?

History is written by the victors, as they are alive. And by the Elite, as they are the only ones who can read and write.

They cannot be trusted to tell the truth, like you can trust sentient trees. A large dose of common sense and a critical eye seem necessary before making any judgements.

In fact, enraged by history repeating itself over and over, Tresmo managed to apply his magic in an unusual way.

From that day forward, anyone who wrote something on his bark would find that they were unable to tell lies.

And so it was that life continued …