In furthest recesses of the void.
Projection of images flashed across his mind's eye. Lives played out unbidden. Memories long forgotten make their presence known, gushing to the forefront.
Horns blared, onlookers looked on in alarm, screams of warning sent toward the center of everyone's attention on the busy intersection. A young man stepped from the curb, his head plastered into his phone as he played the pocket version of his favorite game. He looked up far too late. The promotional picture of the popular game was the last thing he would see.
Another memory began where the last left out.
Inside an exquisitely decorated huge throne room of purple roses and golden murals, twelve diverging thrones in position and design are arrayed outward in ascending Order. The highest thrones shrouded behind a veil.
Prince Siegeford, sixteenth princeling of the Drakenford Kingdom. Son of Highland Prince Wilhelm & Duchess Angora of Hwedo Grand Duchy, heir to boundless lands of exquisite beauty and bountiful harvest.
"You lose again, brother of mine." The regal young man on the smallest of the twelve thrones said dispassionately.
"And for the last time." He proclaimed, smiling down at his restrained opponent below the throne. The brother of his almost usurped his throne, an upstart of the younger generation of princelings.
"In the next cycle, pray you're born a commoner," his brother gloated. "You lack the prestige and guile to thrive as a royal."
The restrained fallen princeling remained quiet, his eyes plastered on the splendidly dyed tiles beneath him.
"Since the dawn of the kingdom, the sons and daughters who failed at the ascent are condemned to death." He intoned.
Still, the princeling head remained bowed, his blonde locks draped across his bloodied expressionless face.
"I do take great pleasure in your doom," he mocked. "Your lineage, your household, even your name will belong to me, Princeling Krakenford." He gave a sign to the mage beside his throne to begin.
The Kraken household mage stepped forward, his robes streaming behind him as he descended the decorative staircase to stand before the former princeling. His spell tome appeared before him, the pages ostensibly changing unaided. He rolled his wrist, and his soulbond staff appeared in hand. He muttered unintelligible phrases, the words sounding unnatural to those that could hear.
Rhythmic archaic words slipped from the mage's thin lips as his eyes began to shine with magic.
In another life.
"Your immortal heart will grant me a lifetime!" Said a lady of The Silver Order. Her enchanted blade stabbed into the unprotected flesh of the man shackled before her. The enchantments glowed as the magical silver blade entered more profound into the body of the man that once loved her. Chains of fire and ice encircled him as he was compelled to kneel.
A mishandled hunt; the Silver Order was tasked to undertake. Amin contracted vampirism, protecting his lover and ensuring his subordinates escaped. He was bound and gagged. Controlling spells shimmered against his former team kept him contained. He glared at the mages of the Order spread around him with bloodshot eyes.
The Silver Order is an influential group of hunters of the dark alignment. Amin groaned and strained against the elemental chains that held him, his weakened state exacerbated by the depleting lifeblood that slowly trickled out of him. His once upon a time lover hovered before him, blade in hand.
Blades of the Order of the hunters gathered around the downed abomination that was once their own. Vindication fueled their strikes as they chipped away at his health. The blades gathered all had a singular thought; they won't be compared to the genius before them again. His resources would now belong to them.
Amin knew the moment he was afflicted. He would be condemned to die. He would have once gladly laid down his life for the Order. He would never have suspected that the Order he fought for was an even greater monster hidden behind an illusion that he now was able to see beyond.
He looked into the cold, malicious lanterns that flickered before him as the mages continued their ritualistic cadence. His lover stripped from her garments and entered the occult engraving on the stone floor. Her whole face was visible to him, her now pitch-black eyes reflecting the light of the blue lantern.
The Silver Orders Bishop was adorned in white and silver. He beckoned the mages away, moving them to the outer edges of the ritual rings that shimmered on the stone floor. Their voice diminished in a low murmur that only their dark patron deity and each other could discern. The chains of power twisted before drawing him upward onto his feet.
The Silver Order Bishop began, "Daughter of the Silver Order, be at ease on this glorious day," he announced, advancing on the kneeling vampire. A curved obsidian blade materialized inside his hands. The priest evoked a spell causing his hands to become enshrouded in cleansing flame; the bishop pierced the vampire chest removing its heart.
Third life began to play.
Battles led to wars; victory led to peace. He had once believed that line. Valhalla wasn't for the meek; only the ravagers made it into these Halloween halls. Now, he could only fight and bleed and hope to die on the eternal battlefield. Today would be just like the countless other battles. He drew his Naginata and raised it above his head; his men echoed his war cry. He longed for forgotten times, forgetting himself, just a blade amongst many, The Einherjar.
The next play began to stutter and fade.
His sanity was gone to the pains of torture; his corpse was broken beyond repair, his essence had long departed. Fallen, and defeated, broken by the esteemed council, his schemes laid bare to the residents of the populated planet