A throne merits a king. That is not a challenging concept to grasp, truly. The status of king had belonged to the Tribunal, the ultimate forces of creation, the dominant authority within the entire Materium since its inception. Now, however, the role has passed onto him forcibly and unwillingly. There is no doubt that a throne merits a king. Yet, when his own kin, the most brilliant creatures to dwell within the Materium, finds itself cursed, does the king tasked with ensuring balance merit a throne? Hmph.

  Alghamior lacked an answer to that. Just as he had been incapable of bringing resolutions to the predicament at play. Thoughts came and thoughts went, thoughts passed into nonexistence, bearing no usefulness to him or to his fading brethren. Knowledge subsists, knowledge steers, knowledge stalls. What use is knowledge when it cannot end the suffering prevailing over existence? Alghamior lacked an answer to that also, yet on this topic, the one where his mind earned its distinctive experience, there was a slightly more perceptible, but uncertain response: knowledge is a new form of life, fresh out of Materium’s womb, while this disease is tearing down reality and crashing the Materium into a mouth desperate to consume it and leave no trace in its wake.

  Despite those issues, Alghamior’s eyes were still absorbed by what lay before: magnificence. From atop the Throne of Infinity—the monolith that guides, aids and oversees creation—death is a trivial matter. Decay means as much as the essence of naught, curses are mere stardust that bother one’s nostrils and terror causes as much dread as shutting your eyes. The kingdom of Aslakahm is magnificence incarnate, beauty embodied, the mother of creation. Stars bow before it, planets are enamored with it, Starmakers are the ones blessed as its caretakers and residents. Still, possessing this view and what sustains the kingdom within the Materium—the waves of colors that wash over the waves of light that wash over the waves of clouds—Alghamior knows it won’t solve anything of what they are enduring. Just by lifting his gaze by tiny movements, the veil of the beauty of Aslakahm is torn apart. The stars are fading right before the might of this kingdom and the ones unborn lack the strength to undergo their required tasks. Starmakers are falling and their king, in all his wisdom, lacks exactly what is needed presently to help them.

  Sitting on his seat—an elevated circle divided in sections, each layer exploding with sparkles, the latter one beaming upward with a majestic golden—Alghamior sighed, one limb lifted to support his tumbling head. A sigh that before, in the presence of the Tribunal, had no right to be brought into existence. Now it clings to him worse than dust does to belts of asteroids. His council spread in a circle around him, each member adorned with his own seat. The Throne of Infinity had been made by the Tribunal as their dwelling place, while also accepting the mighty dragons alongside them and heeding their voices, requests and concerns. Turning it into a planning and gathering chamber was the least demanding aspect of this entire calamity.

  “Mighty king,” a voice emerged from his left. Alghamior lacked the need to glance to know which of the dragons spoke; Garkalon’s voice was about as enjoyable as witnessing a black hole. “What has your knowledge granted you thus far? Has your blessed mind been able to craft a plan for our predicament? For we fear that nothing is on our side anymore, as life itself seems to have shifted its gaze from us.”

  Alghamior sighed again, opting to choose this as his answer. Words are meaningless if they cannot push this discussion closer to a resolution.

  “Do we possess the understanding of this curse?” Bauruloun asked. “Have the ancients dealt with something like this?”

  Alghamior raised his head to regard him. A storm of pulsing dots vibrated through his body, while his powerful hues reminded Alghamior of one crucial aspect: the beauty of a Starmaker dragon cannot be contested, not even by the mighty Tribunal. “Existence never dared treat us as such. Curses had no part in the cycle of a Starmaker, in the duty of our kin.”

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  Every present dragon nodded in agreement. Alghamior shifted, stretching his six wings, not bold enough to regard them. Not any longer. “Curses are a concept that either the Tribunal forgot to mention, cared not to or belongs not to them. I fail to bring answers to you, my brethren. I fail… in my duties.”

  Silence pervaded amidst the Throne. Then Orequelon moved one limb forward. “Shall we inform them? Considering what we experience, they will soon require more answers.”

  Alghamior felt a shiver ascend through his essence. “For what purpose? They would only become a hindrance. I don’t want what little remains of existence to be further tainted with their presence and involvem-”

  His words trailed off as another star faded in the corner of his sight, and thus hope had one more section of its illusory body severed. He shut his eyes, the view unbearable. A tremble dueled him and thankfully lost.

  “Mighty king,” Furieon said, interrupting his already precarious peace, “we understand. Such a situation requires delicate attention and a cascade of wisdom. We bear you no contempt.” He stood, his wings unwilling to spread. “But a solution must arrive. A solution must be presented, for otherwise…”

  There was no need to continue, for everyone felt his unspoken words pierce them with the intention of stealing more of their fading vigor. Each member of the Council showcased signs of decay, despite their pulsing dots trying as best as they can to hide that truth. Alghamior maintained his eyes shut, the sight of Aslakahm an image that pushes him into forsaking everything to pursue it, but the memories of his brethren fading amidst the Materium tossing him into disarray and dread. Into powerlessness and frustration that leave him without any hint of courage to ever glimpse something again. Every section of his body shares a common theme. What it doesn’t share is a common solution to solving himself and those he cares about. Hmph.

  Eventually, his eyesight reemerged and magnificence flooded it once more. Death may knock on their waves, but at least it hasn’t yet invaded. Aslakahm can continue to savor the freedom still bestowed upon it. If only for a little while longer.

  What must the Starmakers do to escape this? How must existence gather itself to stand against a ravaging monster with an appetite wider than the Materium can suffice? What fight is there, when this disease holds the sword, the shield and the armor, while his kin is handed claws, nakedness and desertion from its creators? And what further reason is there for the attribute of a king to remain when Alghamior’s mind is so exponential, but the Throne that houses it shrinks in its boundaries with each passing eternity?

  Tribunal, he thought. Mighty Tribunal. Return at once from the place you’ve soared to and cleanse your dragons of this disease. For my power is evading me, my mind has become null and my own brothers glance up at me, while my sight holds no desire to remain open and regard this dying existence.

  Finally, Alghamior stepped forth, prompting all his present councillors to return from their thoughts. “I urge you to continue overseeing the transition of the Starmakers into stars. We need as much information as possible to better understand this curse.” He spun to regard the kingdom below. “Those that hibernate shall be informed that we are doing everything we can to solve this. I will go into the Rematerus. I need as much peace and solitude as I can get to find the needed answers.”

  His councillors bowed, despite obvious reservations on some of their faces. He understood this wasn’t the greatest path forward. Yet this was the best he could do for the moment, with the little he’d been given. So, so terribly little.