In Nodoria's sun-drenched valleys, dreaming spires of national affluence cast long shadows over the huddled, miserable populace. A bleak scene unfolded in front of the opulent governing class. Amidst the rush and bustle of the marketplace, where merchants bartered for wealth and the perfume of exotic spices hung heavy in the air, a parade of slaves trudged past, their weary bodies marred by the scars of slavery. They were the magic slaves. Their role was to perform magic at the request of their masters. Because everything has a price, the slaves had to bear the terrible consequences that the universe exacted on those who performed magical acts. Their lives were poor, brutal, and, mostly, short, because magic was an even harsher task master than a slave owner. In making slaves perform the magic, the slave owners avoided the terrible consequences of the outcomes they enjoyed.

Among them stood an elderly man, his back stooped under the weight of years and shackles. Once a field magician, his withered hands trembled with age, his once-strong frame reduced to little more than a shell of itself. A young girl limped beside him, her eyes wide with fear and drudgery, her delicate fingers holding the torn pieces of her dignity. The Withering Halls, the home for those whose magic had run out, was their destination.

As they went beneath the enormous gates of the Black Citadel, they noted that the air became thick with rot, and the cold stone walls loomed ominously overhead. The anguished cries of slaves, long past their magical peak, echoed within the dark depths of the citadel. The cries resonated through the darkness, a chorus of despair that stood as a dismal witness to the savagery of Nodoria's ruling class.

King Manch the Merciless ruled with an iron grip in the vast halls of the royal court, and scribes recorded his words as his official pronouncements. Each was an outpouring of a mind dripping with contempt for the weak and unfit. "In Nodoria, strength is the measure of worth," he stated, with the authority of a tyrant. "Those who are unable to contribute to the grandeur of our kingdom have no purpose." It is our divine right to be free of such burdens." This is how policy was set. This is how the opulent took their lead.

And Queen Valeria stood by his side. Her beauty concealed her inner harshness; her stare was as frigid as the winter winds that swept through the mountains. "We are the rulers of Nodoria," she declared, her voice dripping with vitriol. "It is our responsibility to preserve the purity of our bloodline so that only the strongest among us can thrive." Let the weak serve as a lesson to anyone who would try to question our power." All of the ruling classes, including the opulent, held, more or less, the same views.

The dark underbelly of the Black Citadel revealed the consequences of their policies. The true intent and outcome of a society based on slave magic were visible here. If anyone cared to look, Of course, nobody ever did look; people of ‘the better sort’ would rather bury such knowledge with their victims. 

Amara was once a strong field magician. She could spell a ploughed and planted field in a second. She could do any of the outdoor, everyday magic. However, a mining accident in the Obsidian Tunnels, in which she had moved a mountain to get back to the obsidian seam, severely damaged her casting. The effort had drained her magic, damaged her body, and withered her soul. She, too, shuffled into the dungeons of the Black Citadel, a skeletal husk. In the aptly called "Withering Halls," the stink of rot hangs strong. Bodies unwashed, latrines unemptied. Foul and Foetid. The flickering torchlight reveals numerous people, including Amara. Their bodies were deformed and worthless, living in an eternal twilight. There was just enough light to reveal the gnawing hunger in their eyes, and enough darkness to hide their silent pleas for mercy.

King Manch the Merciless, the self-proclaimed "Sun King" of this terrible kingdom, dismisses these hollowed-out shells with a heartless wave. "They are but husks," he exclaims, his voice echoing across the cavernous hallways of his obsidian mansion. "They have completed their role and now deplete the production of the strong and the treasury of our realm. Allowing them to linger is a courtesy, as it allows them to see the magnificent works made possible by their sacrifice." He viewed the treatment of these poor, depleted magicians as some sort of performance art piece, forcing the broken to watch the healthy cast and spell things and to see them face the constant certainty of becoming another useless husk like they are themselves. 

However, King Manch the Merciless's "kindness" does not extend to fundamental necessities. The Withering Halls' food supplies are an abomination, consisting of watery gruel suited only for pigs. A gnawing hunger becomes a constant companion for those too feeble to reach the stinking trough. And water? A muddy trickle flows from a single cracked well, guarded by a ruthless overseer. He enjoys doling it out in sips, his amusement fuelled by the frantic scrabbling of the parched and wretched. All of this could be alleviated with the attention of just one slave magician, but it is forbidden to help the husks on pain of death.

However, King Manch was ever the pragmatist. These abandoned lives pile up, and many of them stubbornly refuse to fade away. The Queen views them as a potential public health risk. Therefore, the citadel's tallest tower echoes with screaming on nights shrouded in dense, unnatural fog. They were known as the “Cleansings," a terrifying euphemism for the violent killings that keep the reeking halls from overflowing. These killings are, of course, carried out by other magical slave hands. Queen Valerie refers to it as a ‘gala entertainment’ and holds a grand ball during the evening of the Cleansing itself. 

Cleansings are known also as the Sun King's "kindness." This perverse reasoning justifies brutality in the name of efficiency. The Black Citadel is a monument to the depths of depravity that rulers of a realm may sink to, as well as the insufferable harm they are able to inflict on their subjects.

However, such things have their time in the sun, and all must eventually face a test. In the dankest corner of the Withering Halls, where Amara huddles against the gnawing cold, a murmur of hope breaks the oppressive solitude. Despite their brokenness, the slaves speak of revolt, their voices heard by the other slaves who haven't yet given up. Their voices barely rise above a rasp, yet their eyes burn with defiance. There was news of a clandestine network, rumors of a strike in the mines, and a coded message smuggled in by a sympathetic guard. These glimmers of hope light a little fire within the battered minds of the so-called husks. 

King Manch, however, is not a fool. He understands the hazards of a restless population. His iron fist smacks down with relentless consistency. Public executions turn into a bloody show, with the remains of suspected dissenters prominently displayed at the Citadel gates. A stinking and rotting reminder of the cost of disobedience. Spies patrol the slave quarters, keeping an eye out for any signs of rebellion. However, for every revolt that is quashed, two others appear to grow in the aftermath. The whispers turn into a susurration of murmurings spoken in the dark of night. Words so full of desire for release that even the most hardened guards' blood runs cold. And it goes on and on. For Months. 

In the sumptuous chambers of the obsidian palace, the Sun King paces like a caged animal. His advisers, their faces wrinkled with concern, murmured about the ‘unsettling’ turmoil. "They are like cockroaches," he snarls, his voice tinged with anxiety. "Squash one, and a hundred more appear." He is so sick of it. They all are. However, he knows the unrest is stirring other mutterings among the opulent about his fitness to rule. He needs this dreadful upsurge of discontent dealing with right now. “Deploy the Splendent Guard,” he calls, smiling at Queen Valeria, who nods supportively. “Rid the kingdom of these malcontents. Every last one of them. Let no one survive who is disloyal. STAMP. IT. OUT. NOW.”

The Splendent Guard, magician slave warriors every one, have no soul, no individual thought, no conscience, and no moral code. They are technically the honour guard for Queen Valeria; however, in addition to their unwavering loyalty, they are very, very powerful. They carry out orders as if they were a single entity. And they carry out orders given to them with literal, cold, ruthless efficiency. As they hold up their collective banners of power, their spear tips together in a coruscating, blazing point, a burning violet flame clears the realm of every person, slave or opulent, who has ever muttered a single word of discontent. In a vast violet stormfront of power that sweeps blistering, ashen death at light speed across the entire realm, the Splendent Guard carries out its orders.

At the end of which, only the Splendent Guard and Queen Valeria remain alive.

Desolation sweeps the land.