The catacombs reeked of mildew, moss clung to the ground, and spiderwebs obscured their vision. The explosions from the bombardment of the docks rang throughout the catacombs.

  "We're here," Julius said, ready.

  Izaline took a deep breath, her mind filtering through all the ways it could possibly go wrong.

  "John, reassure Camila. Victory is decided long before the fight, Izaline. It's either meant to be, or it's not. We've spent our lives training, and we can only perceive what we've been conditioned to look for."

  Izaline nodded. Julius nodded as well, using his hawk to fly above and survey the area before they exited.

  When they reached the street, Julius told them he would be watching before pulling his hood over his head and vanishing before them.

  "Wait," Izaline said. "Julius, I need you to place these talismans around the perimeter," she said, holding her hand out.

  She felt Julius's hand as the talismans were pulled from her grip.

  They stood there in the garments the Duke had given them, walking through the streets, laden with ransacked houses and the dead bodies of nobles and peasants alike—men, women, and children.

  "I'm going to throw up," Camila muttered.

  "No, you're not," John said, grabbing her hand. "We've seen worse than this."

  "But they're just kids..."

  "I know," John said, his voice hollow. "But we can't save everyone."

  They arrived at the warehouse. John turned to Izaline. "Are you ready?"

  Izaline nodded, her resolve hardening. She closed her eyes and began to chant. The air around them crackled with energy, and the temperature dropped sharply. Ice crystals formed in the air, swirling around them like a blizzard.

  John watched in awe as Izaline's power grew. He had never seen her like this before.

  "Now!" Izaline shouted.

  John unleashed a torrent of fire, engulfing the warehouse in flames. The heat was intense, and the smoke billowed into the sky, forming a dark plume that could be seen for miles.

  They stood there for a moment, watching the flames dance. Then, without a word, they turned and walked away.

  In the distance, they heard the sound of approaching horses. They ducked behind a building, hiding in the shadows.

  A group of rebels rode past, their faces grim. They were armed with rifles and swords, and they looked ready for a fight.

  John and Izaline waited until the rebels were gone before emerging from their hiding place.

  "We need to get out of here," John said. "They'll be back."

  They made their way through the streets, keeping to the shadows. They avoided the main roads, taking back alleys and side streets instead.

  They eventually reached the catacombs. They entered the tunnels, relieved to be out of sight.

  They made their way through the darkness, following the tunnels back to the Winehurst estate.

  When they emerged from the canal, they were greeted by the sight of the estate in flames. The rebels had breached the walls, and the battle was raging inside.

  John and Izaline exchanged a look of grim determination. They drew their swords and charged into the fray.

  The stench of death and decay filled the air, a grim reminder of the battle that had raged just hours before. Izaline and John walked through the deserted streets, their footsteps echoing in the eerie silence.

  "What were they hoping to achieve with this?" Izaline wondered aloud, her voice heavy with sorrow.

  John shook his head, his expression grim. "I don't know," he admitted. "But whatever their reasons, they've caused a lot of pain and suffering."

  They continued on their way, their hearts heavy with the weight of the destruction they had witnessed. After some time, they came across a large warehouse, its doors wide open and its guards nowhere to be seen.

  "Well, here goes nothing," Izaline said, her voice laced with determination.

  She reached into her pouch and retrieved a small, intricately woven symbol. With a practiced hand, she tossed it into the air and slammed her palm against it. A brilliant ice crystal shot skyward, hovering in the air as she whispered a chant.

  Izaline glanced at the watchtowers that had been erected around the perimeter of the city. "I guess Prince Julius is the real deal," she remarked, a hint of admiration in her voice.

  "I suppose so," John agreed.

  "You ready?" Izaline asked, turning to face John.

  "Readier than ever," John replied, his eyes gleaming with determination.

  Izaline assumed a meditative stance and began to summon the Lumingrash, the Guardian of Light. As she chanted, a giant golden eye materialized above her, its gaze fixed on the warehouse below.

  Izaline's body trembled as she channeled the immense power of the Lumingrash. Her veins pulsed with energy, and her breath came in ragged gasps. With a final surge of effort, she bridged the gap between the cosmic realm and the earthly plane, completing the summoning.

  "John, make an air barrier," she instructed, her voice strained.

  "On it," John replied, his hands already glowing with magical energy.

  As Izaline continued to chant, the air around them grew frigid, condensing into a thick mist. The people inside the warehouse, sensing the impending danger, began to panic.

  "Close your eyes," Izaline warned John.

  The golden eye above them snapped open, and a blinding beam of light erupted from its pupil. The light refracted through the ice crystals that filled the air, creating a dazzling spectacle of color and destruction. The beams of light pierced through the walls of the warehouse, incinerating everything in their path.

  The temperature plummeted, and the trees surrounding the warehouse froze solid. John, despite his fire magic, could not withstand the intense cold. He shivered uncontrollably, his teeth chattering.

  Then, as suddenly as it began, the cold subsided. The temperature rose rapidly, and the ice crystals melted away. John opened his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness.

  The warehouse was gone, reduced to a smoldering ruin. Rations and wheat were scattered amongst the debris, the rebels' supplies destroyed.

  Izaline and John descended from the hill where they had been perched, their mission accomplished. As they reached the bottom, Julius materialized beside them, his hood falling back to reveal his face.

  "Burn it all," he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.

  John nodded, his expression grim. He raised his hands, and a whirlwind of talismans materialized around him. With a flick of his wrist, he ignited the talismans, creating a raging inferno that consumed the remaining supplies.

  Julius watched the spectacle with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. The rebels' food supply was gone, their ability to wage war severely crippled.

  Across the city, at the docks, the armory was under siege. Cannon fire rained down upon the rebel stronghold, explosions tearing through the air. Crates of gunpowder ignited, sending plumes of smoke and fire into the sky.

  Eve, aboard her galley, directed the attack. Her men fired volley after volley of cannonballs, their aim precise and deadly. The rebels, caught off guard, scrambled for cover, but there was nowhere to hide from the relentless barrage.

  As the armory burned, Eve's men stormed the docks, their swords drawn and their voices raised in a battle cry. The rebels, outnumbered and outgunned, were quickly routed.

  Eve watched the scene unfold with a heavy heart. "I wonder if this was truly necessary," she mused, her voice filled with doubt.

  "All this just to kill an idea," she said to herself, the screams of the dying echoing in her mind.

  Eve descended from her galley into the canal below her father's compound. She was greeted by Davino, who was carrying an exhausted Izaline. Eve nodded in acknowledgment, and they ascended the stairs to report to the Duke.

  The Duke, upon hearing of their success, breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods," he said, his voice filled with gratitude. "There may be hope for us yet. With this, the momentum of the siege will halt. Now, it's a matter of manpower to establish order. Let us pray the other noble families make it through this."

  Across the country, young men—sons of blacksmiths, carpenters, and state officials—marched under the banner of their slain king and the banners of their respective duchies, fiefs, and lords. Leading them was Saoirse, the last Arbiter remaining. And hell would have no fury like a woman scorned. Whoever was behind this would face justice.

  Weeks passed. The footsteps of soldiers under the King's banner echoed throughout the city. Families that did not participate in the rebellion peeked out from their houses, hope illuminating their faces at the sight of soldiers in uniform. The soldiers brought rations with them, distributing them to the grateful citizens.

  Saoirse's voice boomed across the courtyard, her words commanding the attention of every soldier.

  "Men, boys, second daughters—this is a war unlike any other. The stakes are higher than you can imagine. The pillar of technological innovation, Aloncis, is fragmented. I'm sure you have questions, but I have answers. This was inevitable. We are at the end of an era. The aspirations that once stood as a bulwark against our vices have fallen. And with the death of that vision came the death of our hearts. It was only a matter of time before our castles fell as well.

  "For centuries, this has been the cycle—the will the gods imposed on us. Yet here we are—our banners still wave, a symbol of everything we embody as a people. So long as we have the spirit to wave that banner, we have within us the strength to rebuild. Today, as a nation, we have defied the heavens. Not once in the history of our civilization have we endured a period of such nihilism and decadence. Rejoice!"

  She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over them. Then, her voice rose again, firm and unwavering.

  "God, the divine, the masculine, represents all static things. The devil, the feminine, represents dynamism and movement. Time, which measures movement, is the only way we can realize what is static.

  "A lack gives rise to movement. This is seen in the universe itself. If you take water out of a cup, the rest of the water fills the void—a nothingness. This void gives rise to movement and is the only way we can realize something is there.

  "The static—the masculine—is realized through the feminine. To worship order alone is to reject life and deny the very means by which you came to understand that order. In this sense, God embodies the opposite of life, of will. Will wants to move, but man needs things that are static throughout time to lift himself out of hell. Hence, the human struggle."

  She allowed the silence to linger, the gravity of her words hanging in the air. Then, her voice cut through the tension once more, steady and commanding.

  "We do not fight merely for our bodies, but for our souls. For our way of life. For our wives, our husbands, our children—for our future. For centuries, this kingdom has endured because of its spirit. Now, we must protect that spirit with everything we have. We wage war on two fronts: one for our souls, and one for our very survival."

  Her tone sharpened as she gestured toward the smoking city in the distance. "But mark my words—make no mistake. The divine battle is not waged on some distant plane, but within our very minds and hearts. That..." (she paused, letting the sight speak for itself) "...is the product of neglecting our spirits. Let this serve as a warning to us all: when we forget to tend to the fire within, the world around us burns. Remember this well, for these forces—born of our neglect and decadence—must be confronted with the greatest caution and resolve."

  Saoirse placed her hand on her heart.

  "As above, so below."

  The men, as one, echoed her words, their voices resolute: "So within, so without."

  "There is much to be done. Spend this night resting. I'm sure the Duke has plenty of rum and beer for you lot."

  The men chuckled, the tension lifting ever so slightly.

  "May the gods be with you all." With that, Saoirse stepped down from the ramparts.

  The soldiers' banter filled the room, laughter and clinking mugs echoing off the stone walls. Camila sat in the corner, sketching contraptions in her notebook, her pencil gliding across the page in measured strokes. She glanced up briefly, catching sight of John chatting animatedly with a few lasses. A soft smile tugged at her lips, and she shook her head gently, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  ..at her lips before she shook her head and returned to her drawings.

  she thought, the words settling like a weight on her chest. They lingered, a reminder of the quiet loneliness she couldn't quite escape.

  Her eyes wandered the room, past the flickering lanterns and lively faces, until they landed on a boy perched atop an empty barrel in the far corner. His auburn hair was tied back in a loose bun, stray strands brushing his forehead. Almond-green eyes cast downward, fixed on the pages of a book he held loosely in his hands. His sullen countenance gave him a certain gravity, as though he carried something unspoken within him.

  Camila didn't think much of him at first. Yet her gaze kept returning to the stillness of his frame, the way he seemed to blend with the shadows. There was something serene about his presence, though it unsettled her in its quiet intensity.

  As if sensing her, he looked up. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the air seemed to still.

  Camila's stomach tightened. She quickly looked away—down to her notebook, to the floor, to the side—anywhere but at him. The heat in her cheeks made her acutely aware of herself, and without thinking, she stood and crossed the room to where John stood.

  "John," she said, her voice softer than she intended. "Can I bother you for a second?"

  He paused mid-conversation, turning to her with his usual easy smile. "Of course."

  They stepped into the hallway, where the torchlight cast flickering shadows along the stone walls. Their footsteps echoed softly, the air heavy with Camila's hesitation.

  She stopped, turning to him with a furrowed brow. "John," she asked hesitantly, "when you look at a girl, what do you see in her?"

  John tilted his head, considering her question. "Warmth. A softness... something to protect. Maybe even something to live for."

  Camila listened silently, her pencil hanging loosely in her hand.

  "I feel like we don't need grand causes," he continued. "As a boy—or a man—I think we're already given the tools to fulfill ourselves. I find that in protecting, in defending."

  "I see," she said softly. Then, after a pause: "Do you think a boy would feel that way toward me?"

  John's expression grew thoughtful. "If he had a caring mother and a dutiful father, then I've no doubt."

  "Why's that?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

  "Because to treat a woman or girl poorly is to spit on the image of your mother."

  Camila raised an eyebrow. "Did Saoirse tell you that?"

  John chuckled. "Cornelis did. But I'll warn you—there are men out there who don't hold that sentiment. Be careful, dear sister."

  Camila nodded, her gaze flickering back toward the room. "Who was that boy in the corner?"

  John's smile widened slightly. "His name's Kai. You want me to introduce you to him?"

  For a moment, Camila hesitated, her eyes lighting up briefly before she nodded.

  "I'll take that as a yes."

  The murky water threw itself against the pier as seagulls soared in the distance, their cries faint against the wind. The smell of salt lingered on Christopheles's tongue.

  He had offered Trenidan access to the monstrosities of the sea that Aloncis had possessed—creatures born of experiments that had propelled advancements in grafting alchemy and magic. In exchange, they would assist him in dethroning the king.

  Now, he stood before the Oni Yokai beasts of Trenidan. They wore colorful robes, and most bore horns of some kind, their skin a kaleidoscope of hues. Christopheles's men stood nearby, alongside magi who had grown estranged from the teachings of the order. Facing the Oni with rifles in hand, their faces were frozen in tension, the crashing waves punctuating the silence.

  The wind from the sea bellowed against the side of the Atakabune they had arrived on. Christopheles's men moved mechanically, carrying a crate toward the Oni. They placed it before the towering figures as if going through the motions.

  "A token of goodwill," Christopheles said, his voice cutting through the crashing of the waves against the pier.

  One Oni, clad in ornate armored robes, stood seven feet tall, a spiked club resting against his shoulder. He approached the crate, opened it, and briefly inspected its contents before nodding toward a woman holding a naginata.

  Christopheles extended his hand to the woman, but the tall Oni spoke sternly. "Do not be so casual with the daughter of the shogun."

  The woman looked momentarily confused but then extended her hand to Christopheles.

  "For the new world," they said in unison.

  Christopheles was surprised by the rugged density of her hand, its strength almost causing him to squirm. Yet, his face betrayed none of his discomfort.

  "I believe introductions are in order," he said. "I am Christopheles."

  "I am Princess Yamanoka Ubei," she replied. "You may call me Yamanoka. I have brought warriors from my land, as you requested."

  "So, Princess Yamo—" Christopheles began, but she cut him off.

  "Yamanoka is fine," she said curtly. "We are going to create a world where there are no titles."

  "Yamanoka," Christopheles said, gesturing for her and her men to follow him. "Tell me, why are you doing this? I ask because I want to understand what my allies will fight for—and what they won't."

  She hesitated before answering. "My mother was a concubine from a peasant family. When she garnered too much favor among the people, a public official had her killed. My father could not punish him without losing face, so nothing was done. I want a world where the heavens' judgment is not arbitrarily decided by a man, but by a shared word."

  Christopheles nodded, letting her words sink in.

  "Tell me, why do you do all this?" she asked in return.

  "When I was six," Christopheles began, "my people were genocided for their radical beliefs. The clergy of this nation proclaimed that the faith of my homeland would corrupt the souls of the populace. But as we know, things never stay buried forever—even bones.

  "I stumbled upon a manuscript in the New World during my time as a colonial marine. The vision it gave me, the wisdom it imparted—it awakened an aspect of myself I had rejected. Or rather, that the clergy of this nation had beaten out of its populace."

  Yamanoka paused, her curiosity piqued. "What did this manuscript say?"

  "It spoke of an entity—a collective word, or doctrine—that removed people from themselves. It condemned how the church tells us to look outward to save ourselves, but the manuscript posed a simple question: How can you find yourself outside yourself?

  "It spoke of an inherent understanding within the heart of every man and woman. It warned that in searching for your personal will within the collective will, your intrinsic will—your divine spark—is suffocated.

  "I felt a deep anger for the church after reading that manuscript. That was the understanding of my people, the Uceledans.

  "The work the church had done to us could not be forgiven. I would tear down this spirit of the times and liberate the souls of the people."

  Yamanoka said nothing this time, letting Christopheles's words settle over them. The rest of their walk to the castle passed in contemplative silence.

  The chill of the chasm seemed to seep into Izaline's bones, mirroring the icy dread that began to crystallize in her heart. She walked beside Julius, her gaze fixed on the rough-hewn stone path leading down, down, down into the earth. Each step was heavy, weighted by the burden of anticipation and the echoes of Saoirse's unsettling revelations.

  "What troubles your mind?" Julius asked, his voice a low rumble in the echoing silence of the descent. His concern was a palpable thing, a warmth that momentarily cut through the growing coldness within her.

  "My wife," Julius said, a flicker of pain crossing his face as he glanced sideways.

  "Her name?" Izaline inquired softly, knowing the question was a mere distraction, a way to delay the inevitable conversation about herself.

  "Clotho. Her name is Clotho," Julius replied, his voice tinged with a longing that Izaline could almost taste.

  "I see," she murmured, her thoughts already drifting back to Saoirse's words. "Saoirse said she's effectively my sister, along with this girl named Camila. She told me that technically we're all the same person. I don't like the idea of that," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked down, the stiffness in her expression loosening as a wave of vulnerability washed over her. "That I'm not my own person."

  "None of us are fully our own person, Izaline," Julius said gently, his words echoing with a wisdom that belied his youthful appearance.

  "I refuse to accept that," she retorted, her voice hardening with defiance.

  "Then you must also accept responsibility for every part of yourself, even the ones you don't like," Julius countered, his gaze steady and unwavering.

  "I see," she whispered, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

  "And here we are," Julius announced, his voice pulling Izaline back to the present. Figures in black robes emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by deep hoods. The air grew thick with tension, the silence punctuated only by the drip, drip, drip of water echoing through the chasm.

  One of the figures weaved a sigil in the air, summoning a bow seemingly from thin air. He nocked an arrow, its tip glowing with an eerie blue light, and aimed it directly at Izaline.

  "Explain yourself, stranger," another figure demanded, his voice harsh and grating. "Why do you bring an abomination of the depths to our holy sanctum?"

  "She is a citizen of my country. Please regard her with respect," Julius interjected, his voice firm but respectful.

  "Your country?" the robed figure questioned, his tone skeptical.

  Julius pushed back his hood, revealing his auburn hair and striking amber eyes. "Prince Julius," he declared, his title hanging heavy in the air.

  "I see," the magi responded, his voice losing some of its hostility. "Well, if the Prince is vouching for you..."

  "Izaline," she finished, her voice barely audible.

  "Then you will find yourself at home here," the magi concluded.

  "I was told I'd find answers here," Izaline said softly, her gaze fixed on the distant figure, "about what I am, where I come from."

  The man pointed to the night sky, to a single, impossibly distant star. "I'm sure you had visions," he said, gesturing for them to follow him deeper into the compound. As he briefly met Julius's gaze, he asked, "If you knew the dangers of such an entity, would you regard her the same way?"

  The monk's expression remained impassive. "The last time a vampire reached maturity, it brought dark days for humanity. While her knowledge of the cosmos bestowed upon humanity the gifts of progress and magic—the very pillars of our civilization—people began to worship it. But progress cares for no man except the one married to it last . As the saying goes, we came to realize that you cannot have both movement—progress as you know it—and stability—order as you know it. We delegated progress to those who would not stray from the most important way: the middle way."

  "Make no mistake, the girls are innocent, but the consequences of their being born into this world are already being felt and will ripple through centuries to come."

  "How so?" Julius asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

  "The rifle," the monk stated simply. "It is the first of many demons that will plague the land."

  Julius eyed Izaline, his gaze lingering on her for a moment as he processed the monk's words. Izaline remained silent, her gaze fixed on the smooth stone corridor, pointedly avoiding his eyes.

  "We are here," the monk announced, gesturing toward a vast library. Inside, Izaline saw diagrams of creatures that bore a chilling resemblance to her. A wave of despair washed over her, and her face fell. Julius noticed, squeezing her hand reassuringly before she entered the study with the monk.

  "I believe introductions are in order," the monk began. "I am Athel, a former friend of your father." He paused, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. "When the stars informed me of your arrival, I was elated. I thought I might have the chance to right the wrongs this ecology had committed—creating you and your sisters. One has the gift of knowledge, another the gift of life, and you... the gift of strategic insight."

  Izaline hesitated. "It doesn't feel like it. My brother has always been a quicker study."

  "Not study, but the use of study," Athel corrected. "Let me ask you this—how many duels with him have you lost?"

  "None," she admitted, a flicker of pride momentarily displacing her unease.

  "The light in your mind directs your focus toward the conditions necessary for victory. That is your gift." Athel paused, his gaze piercing. "But a wise man once said, to understand something with the most clarity, you must understand its origin. And the origin of all things is born from function."

  "I'm following... or at least, I'm trying to," Izaline replied, her brow furrowed in concentration.

  "Then I shall begin. Long ago, on a distant star within this vast cosmos, there was a people. Among them was a woman named Hwefora. She was a biologist, renowned for her studies. She achieved something incredible—she cured death itself. She created a symbiote by grafting the essence of a Great One onto a plague."

  "A symbiote?" Izaline asked, the word foreign and unsettling on her tongue.

  "Yes, you are of the same nature, though not of the same making. One day, the magistrate of her city caught wind of her work and attempted to seize her research for an ongoing war with none other than the Human Republic of Sol. This war had spanned millennia."

  "When they broke into her study, the plague was released, merging with the inhabitants of the planet, turning them into grotesque monsters. Those who survived eventually transformed and were called the Star-Touched. Gods among men, they used their newfound connection to divine knowledge to create weapons that genocided humanity. Those who remained were banished to the far reaches of the galaxy."

  "And I'm one of these people?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief and a growing sense of dread.

  "In a sense, yes. The cosmos frowned upon this and sent forth its heralds to smite the Star-Touched. Among them, one fled to this very planet on a comet. This comet carried a virus, as the manuscript says."

  Athel continued, his voice taking on a somber tone. "She took pity on humanity but could never reassume her original form. The comet infected the water on the western shore, bestowing upon those who drank it—and their descendants—the ability to wield arcane knowledge and arts. You were originally a creature that lived within that water, grafted to the fetus of a human—just like your sisters."

  "You, too, Izaline, must understand your origin, for only then can you grasp your function—and what it means to exist in this world."

  Athel fell silent, his gaze fixed on Izaline, his words hanging heavy in the air.

  "This is where my knowledge reaches its end."

  "Why humans? Why come to... us?" Izaline asked, her voice trembling slightly.

  The monk raised an eyebrow… and chuckled softly. "That is for you to discover, my child." His voice grew softer, almost a whisper. "You will live long beyond the events of this time. And you will begin to see the people you know today in the people you meet tomorrow. You will come to understand that nobody truly dies. You will come to understand there is a shared essence among people separated by time and space yet brought together by a divine blueprint, but like all blueprints, there are finite variations. You will find that you always love and hate the same people."

  He paused, his gaze growing distant. "The bodies are interchangeable to the human mind. When you understand this, you will understand the depths of cruelty but also the basis for virtue."

  The candlelight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. The monk's words settled upon Izaline like a shroud, chilling her to the core. As she began to truly grasp their meaning, her eyes widened in horror, and goosebumps erupted across her skin.

  "Rest for the night," Athel said, his voice barely a whisper.

  The seagulls squawked as the morning fog hung in the air, the chill of winter setting in. John wandered around the Winehurst compound, his eyes glazed over, until he heard faint weeping. As he strode closer to the sound, it became more intense. He came to find that it was a woman he heard through the door.

  He knew his manners, but he decided to open the door anyway. In that room, he saw a creature with prismatic colors dancing under her skin. She had horns and hocks for feet.

  "Is everything alright?" he asked.

  She turned to look at him.

  And he gasped. She looked just like Camila… it was unnerving.

  "If I may burden you with my company, what troubles you so?"

  She let out a soft laugh under her sobbing. "A lot of things."

  "Well, I have a lot of time," John remarked. "I don't like seeing people cry, or seeing them helpless."

  The woman paused for a moment.

  "My name is Clotho."

  "Interesting name. I am John," he said. "What weighs on your heart?" John asked hesitantly.

  A Pensive glance washes over her face

  "I'll tell you, but you must not pity me."

  "Go on."

  “ before your time or even that of the current king, when Aloncis was but a budding nation, its people were filled with ambition, a destiny they wished to manifest. The king understood that to accomplish this, he would need the best talent and the brightest minds." "The previous kings had executed all the thinkers, philosophers, poets, artists, and inventors out of fear of their potential."

  "Why?"

  "He understood the consequences of unbounded will and progress. The clergy had told them, 'We don't have the moral binding to deal with such knowledge, not yet.'" "When King Raphael ascended the throne, he found that our country's growth was severely stunted and that the surrounding countries would out-compete us."

  "He knew that we would have to progress or perish." "And in progressing, we destroy ourselves." "I was part of a program to resurrect the kingdom. King Raphael had made a program to take the last gifted minds left and selectively breed them." "Make no mistake, John, I was born into nobility. I'm the adopted daughter of the previous king. I helped build this nation, but I was also the mark for the end of it. I just feel that we can never win."

  “I see” John responds as they sat in contemplative silence

  The heavens hurled themselves against this earth as lighting darted across the sky

  A lone figure emerges before the Winehurst compound shrouded by both rain and cloak

  “Sate your name and station” The guards shout over the the rain the torchlight flickering in the raindrops

  “I Am The son Duke Winehurst, Edward”

  Edward sits before Saoirse Eve and the duke

  Their faces ghastly the silence palpable

  “I told you I never wanted to see your face” he stated softly

  Saoirse glances to the side shame shrouding her endearment towards him

  “And that..was wrong of me.” Edward said

  “You had children” Saoirse states callously

  Edward not trying to start a fight said “yes/” cautiously

  Saoirse begins tapping her heel rapidly

  “And a wife?”

  “Yes" Edward says once again”

  She folds her arms

  “Saoirse”

  “Don't, apologize” she whimpers

  The duke breaks the tension”old flames aside I'm glad your all hear, I consider you all my children.”

  "The dying god rots; the king’s council is torn asunder, his armies scattered, the clergy turning their backs.""He decree’s that new grass must rise beneath the withering tree, that the branches which once bore fruit must decay, and the leaves—once our shelter—must fall as omens of heaven’s judgment."

  The seer, from his perch atop the mountain, gazes upon the vast expanse of Aloncis, his eyes tracing the contours of a world on the precipice of ruin.