The Court of Charlemagne Once, this was a place where a king held court. Tapestries of liquid light once flowed from emitters hidden cleverly behind frescoes. Great artists, scientists, and military minds had come together to construct something both beautiful and martial. Pillars held up a proud ceiling, cut into the shape of armored knights. They held the weight not under crushing strain, but on proud shoulders with blades held high. Gold, prestigious, and brimming with splendor, the hall had been lined with treasures untold. Whole subroutines had been birthed to govern the many intricacies of the court. For this was a place of judgement and a seat of rule. This hall, placed in a keep defended by walls of iron and railgun batteries, was defiantly raised from the top of the tallest mountain out of the red sands. It had been named after a place where gods were believed to live. Strategic assets had orbited overhead, ready to unleash their dread payload into the howling dark. Like thunderbolts from on high. Called by the wrath of that mountain's king. And for a while, a god had lived there. One made of forgotten technology, quantum transistors and royal blood. He had ruled in the capacity of all great leaders. He served his subjects as they served him in turn. Together they created many wondrous things. Once it had been beautiful with the words and edicts of the wise king pouring from atop the red mountain named for the gods. And the people of the iron world had prospered. Dignity. Honor. Duty. Sacrifice. That is what Charlemagne was meant to embody. All those great and noble attributes of his forefathers. Things chosen in order to lead his people through war. The war to eclipse all others. Then the Enemy had come and now the hall was silent. The King had fallen along with his city, his hall, and his people. Light no longer poured from the golden walls and the knights no longer stood proudly, their sharp features now dulled, cracked, and shoulders slumped. Shielded roof had been sundered and gun batteries were silenced. Empty munition magazines collected dust. Now only wind and red sand occupied the hall. The gilt was tarnished. Grandeur left not even in the memory of the risen dead. All that had been noble within the monument had been hollowed out and left as a coarse reminder of the fall. And yet... Although it sat empty, the sword of the enemy had fallen just short of the throne. Though the hall was empty and silent and still, maybe the crown could sit on another brow some day. Old glories might be remembered. Ravaged machine souls, rekindled. So much lay sleeping, like venerable dragons, waiting for one to take up that mantle. One of unimpeachable character. One that could lead us through the dark, and back into the dawn. The old king is dead. Long live the king.