As legend would have it, the Empire would not have existed without Viktor. For it was he who had singlehandedly led the army through the barren wastes. There was no reliance on magic, olde or new. Wielding his mighty blade, a relic passed down from his father, who received from his father, and from the father before him, a mark of lineage, as stories would say — it is with this mighty blade that he rode forth one dark morning, on that day when the sun was blocked by the moon—
“That’s not how it went. And you know that.”
Merrick smiled. “I do know that. But you refuse to tell me the full story.”
“You were there.”
“I was. But I need a well-rounded perspective.”
Viktor rolled his eyes and turned back to the wooden carving he was working on.
For a while, the fire crackled, the air around them still relatively warm though that would fade soon. Soon, the flames would die down to embers, and the fog would seep through the cracks and crevices of the small cabin they were in, bringing its chill with it.
You see, the battle could not have occurred on any day. It must occur with the covering of the sun, when the power of olde magic wanes just enough, temporarily, to present that sliver of opportunity, that slight advantage — if you could even call it that. For years they had planned. The astrologers had read the signs of the stars and knew that opportunity would present itself. And so they had prepped and plotted, knowing that failure would mean another wait, another several years. That day, the sun rose on the old world. As it reached the zenith and was blocked by the moon, the world witnessed the moment where it would set on the new Empire, coming to life with the rising of the moon at nightfall. All thanks to Viktor, the Kingmaker.
“Merrick. Shut up.”
“It’s called embellishment,” Merrick answered, elongating the ”L’ in the word by touching the tip of his tongue to his upper lip.
“It’s untrue.”
“Viktor, please. I beg your. Tell me the full story.”
Viktor put down his carving, frowning. “You know that’s the problem, don’t you? You’re looking for a story, but what happened wasn’t a story. It was death and deception. It was betrayal. There’s no romanticizing a story where you decapitate the head of one you swore loyalty to,” Viktor paused. Merrick was leaning forward, his eyes shining with far too much enthusiasm. “Forget it.”
“Alright, I apologize. But a tale like this would eat away at you if you don’t tell it to someone.”
“I could tell it to someone, someday. It doesn’t have to be you.”
“If words were olde magic, my heart would be bleeding right now.”
Viktor sighed loudly. “Go on and continue writing your story then. There were many people there who saw what happened. Piece enough parts of the story together and they’ll eventually call you out on the falsehood.”
What Viktor failed to foresee was that tales had a way of twisting themselves. Like olde magic, stories morph and people misremember. So when a full account of Viktor the Kingmaker, penned by Merrick the Scribe, was discovered only three generations later, it was taken to be the true account of the Rise of the Empire. An account rife with misinformation and missing details, and, as Merrick would describe it, filled with embellishments.
Author’s Notes: This is just a scene that’s been sitting in my head for a few days now. Just a theme that I’ve been thinking of exploring, of oral histories and written accounts and how this can influence what happens.