Mýteera

One fateful night, the Emperor awoke, his mind made up. For twelve nights in a row his dreams had been haunted. For twelve nights death and the devil had grinned at him.   "You will be mine." the devil had said again, now for the twelfth time. "Soon." death had rattled again. Now, for the twelfth time.   Twelve, the number of providence. He doubted no longer, today would be his last as Emperor.   It would not be the first time the Imperial throne sits empty, nor would it be a novelty for the high society to bicker and squabble instead of electing a new man to the highest of public offices. However, for an Emperor to abdicate without an angry mob or militant rival having visited his doorstep is certainly a first.   It is during these times that the realm is at its most vulnerable. Local governors, foreign hordes, southern barbarians and even the common populace threaten that which the Imperial elite values most of all; the maintaining of the status quo. In truth, even they cannot help themselves when the breakdown of order presents them with a chance for advancement.   Thus, with every player closely guarding their own hand and no one watching out for the common deck, the time is rife for those who wish to slip into the game with some cards of their own.   Though the vacancy of the throne itself warrants the interest of only a few, the absence of its rule is felt throughout the realm. No new taxes are levied and no new laws are issued. Terrifying to some, yet in others evoking certain desires of freedom. For them, would they act, the time has come.   The people of the realm often repeat a phrase attributed to the ancient philosopher Mathías. When the machine of life is set in motion, all of the world's cogs must turn.