Blood of the first Age Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9  The Sandstorm Throne

The first map arrived wrapped in human skin. It was delivered to Baal-Azhir at dawn by a silent rider whose horse collapsed dead beneath the city gates moments after arrival. The rider himself had no tongue, no eyes, and the symbol of Baal-Zhur burned across his chest. Yet he smiled while dying. Because he had completed his purpose. The map was carried directly into the Ember Palace. There, beneath towering obsidian ceilings illuminated by rivers of sacred flame, Baalaniah Mehmeth studied the eastern world for the first time in full.

Elyria. The green continent beyond the Great Salt Sea. A land of forests, castles, cathedrals, rivers, and ancient bloodlines untouched by desert conquest for centuries. Beautiful. Soft. Divided. Perfect.

The Sultan stood alone within the Hall of Maps while black incense drifted through the darkness around him. Massive war charts covered entire stone walls displaying trade routes, military strengths, noble alliances, and religious factions gathered through years of espionage.

Hundreds of candles illuminated one kingdom in particular. Vahsravia. A Kingdom in Eastern Elyria, The Realm of the Blood Sovereign. Mehmeth’s amber eyes lingered there longest.

The vampire kingdom hidden beneath eternal storms. A nation where humans and vampires coexisted under one ruler. Impossible. Every report contradicted itself. Some described Prince Dragun as a merciful protector beloved by both races. Others portrayed him as a sadistic immortal tyrant who crucified invaders beneath thunderclouds. Both were likely true. That interested Mehmeth greatly.

High Priest Za’Rakh entered the chamber silently behind him.

“The eastern kingdoms fear him,” the prophet rasped.

Mehmeth did not look away from the map.

“They worship him.”

Za’Rakh’s burned eye narrowed.

“That is more dangerous.”

Silence followed.

Then Mehmeth asked quietly:

“Tell me again what the flames showed you.”

The prophet hesitated.

Even recalling the vision unsettled him.

“A king wrapped in storms,” Za’Rakh whispered. “A throne of darkness. Black wings blotting out the moon.”

His voice lowered further.

“And death walking beside him.”

Mehmeth finally turned.

“You believe the prophecy speaks of Vahsravia.”

“I believe,” Za’Rakh said carefully, “that if the east unites beneath this vampire king, Baalania will face a war unlike any before.”

The Sultan smiled faintly.

Not fearfully.

Thoughtfully.

“A worthy enemy then.”

Unlike lesser conquerors, Mehmeth never underestimated his enemies.That was why he kept winning.For weeks he studied every scrap of information regarding Vahsravia and the eastern kingdoms. He learned that vampires ruled openly there and human priests served beside immortal nobles and the people genuinely loved Dragun and no major invasion had breached Vahsravian borders in centuries.

But one detail fascinated him most. The kingdom remained isolated. Respected. Yet politically alone. The neighboring nations feared Vahsravia’s power even while relying upon its protection.

Which meant the alliances surrounding Elyria were fragile. And fragile things shattered beautifully.

Mehmeth did not declare war immediately.

That would have been foolish. Instead he began preparing the continent psychologically.

The first kingdoms fell quietly. Border nations allied to Elyria vanished beneath coordinated desert raids led by the Zhurakhim and Blood Riders. Entire military outposts disappeared overnight while caravans arrived carrying stories of black banners rising above burning cities.

No survivors remained in conquered capitals. Only ruins. And symbols burned into stone. The message was deliberate. Fear traveled faster than armies.

Soon refugees flooded eastern roads carrying impossible stories. Cities consumed by black fire that could not be extinguished. Holy warriors marching through flames unharmed.

Gigantic siege beasts crossing the dunes carrying mobile fortresses upon their backs. And always the same name whispered in terror.

Baalaniah Mehmeth.

The Black Sun Sultan.

Yet Mehmeth still avoided attacking Elyria directly.

Instead, he targeted the trade allies and food routes along with naval ports and smaller kingdoms under Vahsravia’s protection.

He wanted Dragun watching helplessly. Waiting. Growing uncertain. Psychological warfare was more efficient than brute force. A frightened continent destroyed itself before conquest even began.

One night inside the Ember Palace war chamber, Mehmeth met with his generals beneath the glow of sacred fire. Gigantic maps covered the obsidian table before them.

General Rahzurel pointed toward eastern coastlines.

“The northern kingdoms request alliance against us.”

“Good,” Mehmeth replied calmly.

Several generals exchanged confused glances.

The Sultan traced one finger slowly across the map toward Elyria.

“Fear creates desperation. Desperation creates mistakes.”

He looked toward Vahsravia’s symbol.

“A wise king protects his people.”

Then toward the surrounding allied nations.

“A desperate king tries to protect everyone.”

Understanding spread slowly across the chamber.

Mehmeth intended to stretch Dragun thin.

To force him into war before he was ready.

Meanwhile, across the Great Salt Sea the eastern kingdoms began panicking.

Messengers rode day and night between castles carrying reports of fallen nations. Entire ports closed. Trade collapsed. Coastal villages burned their own ships to prevent Baalanian raids.

And everywhere people looked toward Vahsravia. Toward the vampire kingdom hidden beneath storms. Some begged Dragun for protection. Others feared he might become another conqueror himself.

The uncertainty pleased Mehmeth immensely. Because divided kingdoms were easier to bury. Late one evening, the Black Sun Sultan stood upon the highest balcony of the Ember Palace watching sandstorms consume the horizon beneath crimson moonlight.

Far below, the armies of Baalania marched endlessly through torchlit streets while war drums echoed across the city.

Za’Rakh approached carefully behind him.

“The east prepares for war.”

Mehmeth remained silent.

Then:

“No.”

His glowing eyes drifted toward the distant unseen sea.

“They prepare for fear.”

The winds intensified around the palace.

Ash spiraled upward into the heavens like black snow.

“Before empires collapse,” Mehmeth said softly,
“their people must first stop believing the world can be saved.”

He smiled faintly.

Coldly.

“And I intend to teach them.”