In the prince's chambers, Julius and Clotho were in the midst of a heated argument.

  "This is the result of an uneducated populace."

  "Are you contradicting my father, the king?"

  "Your father is a man, Julius."

  "No building from here to the horizon would exist if not for him and his father."

  "It is the very act of questioning his authority that brought us here."

  "No, it is that very line of thought that led us here, Julius."

  "But it is not your father's fault. I understand him to be a compassionate man, but there are those who use his name in poor faith."

  "He is a man, so I cannot fault him."

  "Nobody can fight against their own design."

  There were knocks on the door.

  "The king! The king has been assassinated! We're making our rounds to ensure the rest of the family is safe."

  "Don't open the door," Clotho warned. "Grab your sword."

  Julius's heart sank.

  "Prince Julius, open the door."

  "State your name and station."

  "Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Julius."

  The door crashed open, and as men tried to drive a bayonet through Julius's heart, Clotho pulled him behind her. She placed her palm on the floor, turning the stone into an array of barbed spikes that tore through muscle and sinew. She summoned wooden golems and eldritch abominations, creatures from the depths of reality—hellhounds frothing at the mouth, mystic beasts, and a malformed squid that spewed water. The ice abomination froze the water into jagged crystals.

  The rebels saw Clotho's abyss-black eyes flash before them, and madness gripped them. Their souls ignited, their eyes catching fire, morphing into horrors of the sea.

  Clotho's face twitched with disgust. One of the surviving rebels screamed, "Demon!"

  "I may very well be one, in shape and form," she retorted. "But you have carried out the devil's work."

  "Clementine, we must find Clementine," Julius pleaded…..

  Clementine lay there, her throat sliced, her pale eyes staring off into a distant world beyond mortal reach.

  "There are more rebels," Julius said, panic rising. "Where are the guards?"

  "They helped the rebels. If we don't get out of here, we will meet the same fate," Julius murmured, closing Clementine's eyes.

  "Very well then."

  Across the canal, in the capital's mercantile district, a young girl wept before her home as merchants' houses were raided and pillaged. At the docks, goods were stolen, and blacksmiths, carpenters, and stonemasons were taken hostage.

  In the wealthier districts, nobles were executed one by one, overrun by swarms of peasants and common folk.

  The arbiters and magi put up a valiant effort to quell the rebellion, but blood spilled, their fury only growing. By morning, they praised themselves for the new dawn of progress, the liberation of the people.

  Izaline woke to the smell of smoke and burning corpses, the sound of rifles firing in the courtyard of her grandfather's estate. The stench made her gag as she stood, only to have a cannonball crash into the wall beside her.

  Before she could think, she dashed out the door, down a corridor littered with bodies—peasants and common folk clutching rifles, sabers, and halberds.

  A bleeding peasant raised his pistol at Izaline.

  "If you value your life, I wouldn't," she said, glaring at him.

  "For freedom," he said, locking eyes with her.

  Before he could pull the trigger, he found himself in the vast expanse of the cosmos, exposed to painful truths about himself. His ego shattered, and different aspects of his soul battled within.

  Izaline looked at him with pity as he foamed at the mouth, trapped in the depths of his own psyche. She closed his eyes as gunshots rang in the distance.

  She had no respite. Then she heard Davino's voice calling her name, "Izaline!"

  "Davino!" she responded, rushing into his arms. Tears streamed down her face. "What's happening?"

  "The citizens have killed the king, the nobility, and the clergy in their sleep. We're one of the few noble houses still standing. Grandfather sent word to his duchy to request troops, but I'm afraid it won't be enough. Once they get a hold of the treasury, it's over. They'll buy mercenaries and more guns."

  Izaline's sobbing abruptly stopped as gunshots echoed in the distance.

  "Grandfather told me that if we are to help, we must seek an audience with the Tredenese emperor, the People's Republic of Calvoda, and the Sanctum of the Twilight. Even the Church of the Equinox. The men will need magi to help them on their journey."

  Izaline nodded. "Understood."

  "Easier said than done. Come, there are weapons and clothes in the armory."

  Soldiers lay around with wounds and missing limbs, groaning in pain. Some had infected flesh. A pensive look washed over Izaline's face. However, Davino was unfazed.

  When the soldiers saw Davino and Izaline in their armored robes, the word "hope" flashed across their faces. Izaline could almost see them smiling through their pain.

  But she felt uneasy. she thought, feeling the weight of their hope smothering her.

  "I'm sorry," Duke Winehurst said, his heart heavy. "I hope your youthful complexions remain unscarred when all of this is over."

  "All magi of the church are dead. Only the students of the institute remain, and those sent on missions."

  "Every last one of them?"

  "They were either shot in the back, had their throats slit in their sleep, or were poisoned by concentrated poppy."

  "How?"

  "This," Duke Winehurst said, placing a gun on the table. His face was weary from the long, bleak night.

  "It's just a gun," Davino whispered.

  "No, it's no ordinary gun, son," Duke Winehurst said, reloading the weapon in two seconds.

  Davino's stoic countenance shifted to one of hollow dread. "We're outnumbered and outgunned," he said, his heart sinking.

  "But they don't have us beaten in experience," Duke Winehurst reassured him. "We have thousands of years of knowledge at our disposal."

  His authority echoed throughout Davino's being.

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  A man ran up to the Duke, his face smeared with gunpowder, his eyes distant, and the blood of his comrades staining his heart.

  "Your Grace, the men are stationed around the courtyard walls."

  "Tell the 19th platoon to withdraw from the courtyard into the halls of the estate. When the torch on the watchtower is lit, fire the cannons into the courtyard."

  Gunshots continued to ring in the distance.

  "How long has this been going on?" Izaline whimpered, resignation in her voice.

  "All night," the Duke lamented. "We just cycled the men out. Some of them are resting and eating."

  Izaline winced at the sound of cannons. she thought.

  "I can help," Izaline stated, her voice firm.

  "No, as one of the few magi we have, we need you to secure other strategic interests. Given the nature of a magus, they carry the firepower of a squad, but with one person, this allows for covert maneuverability. Only a fool would use magi to defend a position, especially when you have troops."

  Izaline glanced down, realizing her folly. "What are your orders?"

  "That's the spirit," Duke Winehurst said, nodding. "Izaline, Davino, my scouts have found their food supplies in the 9th district." He pointed to a map on the wall. "Izaline, how good is your fire magic?"

  "Not good enough to burn down a whole warehouse of food."

  "But John can."

  "Izaline can use her crystals to give me a bird's-eye view of the compound."

  "My son taught you well."

  "There's a scout who will lead you to the warehouse in the canal under the estate. The canal leads to the entrance of the catacombs at the base of the cliff to the west. When you emerge from the catacombs, you'll be behind enemy lines. Here are some garments that the common folk wear. Change into these."

  "For the king."

  "For the king," Izaline and John repeated.

  As they said that, one of the men in uniform pulled out a pistol to fire at their grandfather. One of his men jumped in front of him, taking the bullet in his chest. Duke Winehurst stood there, his expression impassive as his men in the room restrained the shooter, one using a bowie knife to gut him. They quickly seized the rifle.

  "Take this pistol to the study. See if the craftsman can reverse-engineer it."

  A man entered the room with a bow on his back. "Duke Winehurst, we're ready."

  "I thought bows were out of commission?" Izaline said.

  Duke Winehurst smiled. "We use muskets because they are easier to train with and have more firepower, but only when holding defensive positions. But in a squad-to-squad engagement, I'd take my archers any day. They each have a bird through which they can see," he continued. "They're equipped with a variety of weapons, including one from Tredinan, a Kurigasama, in case they ever get into a melee altercation."

  Izaline glanced at the sickle attached to a chain at their side.

  "They've been trained to use explosive talismans to make up for their lack of firepower. While not as versatile as a full-on magus, they serve their role in reconnaissance well."

  "Prince Julius, please keep my grandchildren safe."

  Prince Julius nodded.

  "Is it wise to use such an important figure like this?"

  "Prince Julius is a seasoned scout."

  "Make no mistake, we are a culture of warriors first. What would the royal family be if they did not embody that?"

  "We're lucky your family was in the capital, Duke Winehurst."

  The gunshots in the distance were starting to wane when Eve walked in. She smiled at her niece and nephew before taking a serious look at her father.

  "The siege is beginning to wane, but we need food for our men. With your permission, I can take the galley to our island territory to acquire food, or I can bombard the docks, which my scouts tell me they are using as an armory..."

  Duke Winehurst contemplated this for a moment. The weaponry they had was the more pressing matter.

  "Understood, Father. And Eve, send your best man on a longship with a squad to send word to the rest of the family at the duchy under the cover of night."

  The Duke turned to Julius, Izaline, and John. "You're dismissed." They all nodded.

  "Eve," the Duke added, his voice weary, "I don't believe I've ever had a battle where my resources were stretched this thin. I need you and the rest of the children more than ever. My eyes can't be everywhere, no matter how hard I try. What happened? Where did it all go wrong? The common folk... I've seen their eyes. It's like they are possessed." She shifted her gaze toward the map on the wall.

  "The clergy would know the nature of this... but—"

  "They are dead," Duke Winehurst finished. "They were gassed using poppy flowers while they slept. The ones that woke up couldn't use their magic."

  "I should get going," Eve added, her words hollow.

  Duke Winehurst saluted with his hand placed on his chest. The compound shook from the cannon fire, but Eve refused to let the weariness of battle come between them. She gave him a hug instead, before breaking the embrace.

  Meanwhile, far away along the coast...

  The morning dew clung desperately to the earth, fog hung in the air, and the rain tap-danced against the ramparts of the wall. Saoirse woke up to the sound of the bell ringing outside on the watchtower. She promptly got dressed, donning her armored robes. She knew retribution would find her, as it had found everyone in their nightmares.

  Dawning her crest, which indicated her rank as an arbiter, she woke John and Camila.

  The bell continued to ring until a sizable crowd gathered.

  "Attention! Attention... Attention! I come bearing word from the Boralis family. It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must inform you that the crown of Aloncia has fallen. The common folk in the capital and the surrounding major cities have seized the treasury and armed themselves. The clergy has fragmented, and currently, few noble families remain—among them the Boralis family, the Winehurst family, the Constantine family, and some of the Takahashi family from Tredinan."

  The crowd gasped.

  "In these direst times, we ask you to abandon the wall and return to your villages and towns. The nobility has protected you for thousands of years. However, at this point in time, the roles are reversed. Now, we, the nobility, call on you for protection. It is understood that we haven't always had the best relationship with the common folk, but we've tried. So, we ask that, despite all your differences, you help us. This is not an order, but a plea. We beg you: save us, save our nation. Godspeed."

  Saoirse said nothing, her expression unmoving as she looked at John and Camila. "Well, to the capital we go."

  John and Camila nodded, their expressions hard from slaying the monsters that had crawled out of the sea.

  Saoirse, John, and Camila sat around the campfire in silence, eating their meals. Camila noticed a tear fall from Saoirse's eye.

  "They're all dead," Saoirse said softly. "Father Victor, too... Cornelius... my love."

  "There's still a chance they could be alive," Camila offered.

  "I hope so... for their sake," Saoirse stated, her eyes bloodshot. "We understand how it feels. Our family was killed in cold blood. For everything you've done for us, everything you've taught us, we would follow you to the hells themselves."

  Saoirse laughed softly before turning to hug both John and Camila.

  "We must find Edward. He always bested me somehow. Last time he sent me a message, he had a wife, a daughter, and a son."

  "Wait, aren't you an Arbiter?" Camila asked, throwing her hands up in playful frenzy. "The Hallowed Flame, Herald of the Fallen Star, the one who does not burn... oh, here's another one I've heard: Siren of the Sun."

  Saoirse laughed softly.

  "Speaking of Siren, it's been too long since you've sung for us."

  "You remember that?" Saoirse asked, shyly looking away.

  "Don't be bashful," Camila said as she nudged Saoirse. "Okay, well, what would you like to hear?"

  "An old song, I guess. One we've never heard and can't hear from anyone but you."

  Saoirse was about to start singing when Camila interjected, "But most importantly, one that reflects your heart."

  "Hmm, then I will sing a song my grandfather used to sing to me."

  John, who had been pretending to sleep, began to listen.

  "You're Uceledan?"

  "Yes," Saoirse said.

  "I thought your people were genocided when I was five. That was... 30 years ago. Wait, you're 35?" Camila gasped. "And to think I almost called you 'mother.'"

  Saoirse smiled softly. The campfire flickered in her eyes. "I am actually old enough to be your mother."

  "You certainly act like it," Camila said. They heard a snicker come from John.

  "What? Why aren't you spending time with us? You said you were tired."

  John rolled over to face them. "I lied." A mischievous smile stretched across his face. "It's just that I woke up to the most beautiful tapestry of sounds."

  Saoirse began to blush. "Oh, John, your own mother?...You vagabond."

  John rolled his eyes at Camila. "I'm going to bed," he said dryly.

  "Watch that one, Saoirse."

  "I know him better than anyone."

  Christopheles stared at his mother's home, defiled by his own ambitions. His expression remained impassive, yet the echoes of the Magi's words from five years ago rang in his mind. He had gotten what he wanted—what the vision had revealed to him: a new age. But it wasn't his mother's skeleton that bothered him; it was his lack of sentiment. The void.

  A void she could have filled if he had let her, but he chose legacy. He filled his soul, his hopes, and dreams through his people, the Ucledans. And through them, he lived in a vicarious sense.

  There was no stopping what he started. Even if he wanted to, he had to reignite the world's soul. He had to...

  "What has possessed me?"

  "Why, the devil of all devils has," a voice responded.

  Christopheles grew pale.

  "Life... Movement, entropy, decay, even this love you spoke of so proudly five years ago—they are all derived from the same archetype."

  "And what's that?"

  "In time, as things move, you will come to understand. It's movement. He who moves is the most restless of us all, quick to tear down and quick to build up," the voice quoted from the Tabhaka. "Yes, boy, time—the one aspect of reality—is birthed from movement. And to have movement, one must possess discontent. You... embody this restlessness. But if there is no time, what could you measure your experience against? Would you even be alive?"

  Christopheles contemplated this for a minute.

  "Do you see, Christopheles? What you call rebellion is merely the filling of a cup that was drained before you were born. You feel the pull because you are hollow. This is not sin—it is the nature of existence."

  "No, I suppose not," Christopheles said as he felt the presence of the entity retreat into the back of his mind.

  "Bury her," he told his men. "Please."

  What do you think of Christopheles?