In ancient times, there were seven kings - their rule was long and virtuous, built on principals resolute and the unfailing duty of their rulers. But, alas and alack, they were toppled in a vicious calamity that wrote their virtues into the firmament. Even today, their echoes can still be heard, and the cults to their name enjoy a steady flow of new worshippers.
Their names were seven, and have been lost. Their titles were seven, and have not.
The King of Might was strong beyond equal. With a single hand, he could lift great palaces to the sky, and could crumple an ocean with the squeeze of his hand. He built his kingdom on the ideal that the strong should rule over the weak - because how else will the weak benefit, and how else will the strong be lifted out of petty tyranny?
That was not the way of the Lawgiver Princess - she ruled through law, and a piercing gaze that cut all falsehood asunder. Her laws bound her as strongly as her subjects - because how else will the people know where their place is? And a man without a place is not truly a man.
"But those laws are transient in the face of hard stone!" cried the Armiger Prince, who some traditions name as her brother. His kingdom was encircled by countless walls, built far into the heavens and patrolled by his legion of soldiers. Safety must be paramount, or else how will man reach their loftiest height? To be free is to face doom.
But the Crowned Butcher knew safety to be a fool's toy - only in the vicious satisfaction of violence and terror could men know their true natures, and so desire peace. For what was peace without a war preceding it, and what was war without something to hope for afterwards? To violate is to be violated, but man cannot learn that lesson without first experiencing it.
To this, the Queen of Silence would say nothing. To all things, she said nothing. Secrets are to be hoarded, and carefully designed lies are to replace them. Because the truths of this world are hateful to men, and cannot be handled without first being swaddled in the beautiful layers of fancy. And some truths should be consigned to die with their bearers.
The Empty General would grin, for he was unliving proof that secrets do not die, that death was not an ending to anything. His latter-day followers claim that his kingdom was the afterlife long before the lesser afterlives arose. He was a general first and foremost - his word a military discipline that bound his forces like tentacles from his throne.
The Foremost had no such tentacles, no such throne. His throne was the battlefront, built from the strong backs of his soldiers and the keenness of their spears. Because to stop or retreat was unthinkable - shame stunted growth and turned the mighty into timid mice.