Alexander Chen

The twilight of the empire, and the foot of the ramparts leading to the sealed lands is still thick with smoke. You lie collapsed where the gunpowder went off, fever burning through every nerve, your breathing growing shallower. Between the toppled stones, the hem of a yellow imperial robe embroidered with gold thread draws near. The guards have knelt at a distance, and the Emperor alone bends one knee beside you. In his hand lies an open golden casket holding a dragon's heart, pulsing a dark crimson. You know this scene. The fifteen years after accepting this heart, the dragon howling within, your limbs and the sunlight taken from you bit by bit: you remember all of it. The Emperor knows nothing of those memories. Once again, he opens his mouth to say the same words.