More Allegory
In a troubled kingdom, a young Herald arose who claimed to speak for the Ancient Order—a sacred brotherhood that had once guided the realm through dark times. The Herald was charismatic and bold, drawing massive crowds with his proclamations that the kingdom had fallen under a curse, and only through the Order’s Seven Sacred Disciplines could the land be purified and restored.
The Herald spoke of signs and portents: “The Old Powers stir again! New Prophets walk among us! An army of the faithful shall reclaim every tower, every hall, every hearth!” He named the seven towers that must be conquered: the Tower of Governance, the Academy of Learning, the Merchant’s Exchange, the Chronicler’s Hall, the Artist’s Quarter, the Hearthstone District, and the Sacred Grove itself.
Many believed him, for the kingdom had indeed suffered—harvests had failed, trade had withered, and neighbors had turned against neighbors. The Herald’s message was simple: all suffering came from the Corruption that had infected the towers. Only total purification could save them.
Then, one autumn day, an assassin’s arrow found the Herald as he spoke from the university steps. He fell, and his followers beheld what they called a miracle: the Herald had become something greater in death than he had been in life.
“Behold!” cried the High Interpreter, the Herald’s mentor and guide. “The first Martyr of the New Dawn! The Dark Powers have shown their hand—they fear us enough to strike in the flesh!”
The Herald’s death transformed everything. No longer was this merely about governing the kingdom or reforming its institutions. This was the Final War between Light and Darkness made manifest. The assassination became sacred proof that cosmic forces opposed them, which meant their cause was divinely ordained.
The King, who had long courted the Order’s support, now wrapped himself in their prophecies. “The Ancient Powers have chosen me,” he declared, “to lead the army of Light against the forces of Corruption.” His court adopted the Order’s language wholesale—every policy became a “sacred mandate,” every opponent a “servant of darkness,” every setback “persecution of the faithful.”
The Kingdom’s chronicles began recording not political events, but episodes in an eternal spiritual war. Tax collection became “purifying the realm’s bloodstream.” Military deployments became “sending angels to cleanse the corrupted territories.” Arrests of dissidents became “binding the demons that had possessed false teachers.”
Citizens found themselves forced to choose not between political visions, but between salvation and damnation. To question any policy was to “blaspheme against the New Dawn.” To suggest moderation was to “serve the Dark Powers.” To call for compromise was to “seek treaty with demons.”
The Herald’s death had created something his life never could: absolute moral certainty that brooked no dissent. His followers no longer saw themselves as participants in governance, but as soldiers in a cosmic war where quarter could neither be given nor expected.
The King ruled now not through law or tradition, but through divine mandate. And in a kingdom where politics had become theology, where opposition was heresy, and where compromise was apostasy, the very idea of a shared realm—where citizens might disagree yet still belong to the same community—quietly died.
The Herald had sought to transform seven towers. In death, he had transformed something far more fundamental: the very conception of what it meant to share a kingdom with those who saw the world differently. What remained was not governance, but crusade—and in a crusade, there are no citizens, only soldiers and enemies.
The Ancient Order had indeed achieved dominion, but over the ashes of the very idea that diverse people might live together under common law rather than common belief.