Yellow rays of dawn tiptoed across rooftops, painting the city in hues of radiant gold. For a moment, as the remaining embers of sleep cooled, Wyva lay in bed—a silent witness to the waking world.
There he could hear the city already approaching the peak of a full sprint, a practiced symphony that he would soon partake. Every street, woven to form the beautiful layout of Remu. The overarching bridges for the temple and the coastal walls were all unique. A combination that served as a fingerprint for the place he called home.
He opened his eyes to the walls of his studio ready to face whatever hardships the Shiear threw in his direction.
His arms unravelled, forcing him to roll off his mattress and into the kitchenette. He took the opportunity to stretch the leftover rest out of his system, before pouring a cup of brew.
The scent of jasmine filled the air, creating an aura of calm and readiness. Such pleasantries before a spoken word proved themselves to be the purest of Alven gifts. Such an aroma was made more flattering by a waft of fresh bread. A greeting that drifted through his open window—the true meaning of peace. This bombardment of scents was all he needed at this moment and the Astras saw it fit that he was presented with it.
For such a gift he showed his gratitude by offering prayers to his gods.
Wyva found himself on his balcony, watching out as the city crept to life. Here was a scene second only to the wonderful ocean sunsets that were offered at the end of day.
Already, he could feel the stirring of the locals rushing to their daily duties. Coworkers stuck with the nightshift left poring over ancient text. He could even see the beggars at active corners seeking solace within the empathy of others.
All of it together was what made Remu a city worth defending.
The Alven teen drew a breath, absorbing the freshness of it all. He would give several organs to live here until his life met an end. Such a beautiful place, unmanaged yet tranquil a marriage of both sophistication and simplicity. A place where nothing could ever go wrong.
On wandering eyes, not too far from his home, he caught sight of a few children playing at the riverside.
Their plaything of choice, an iron-clad Shahari. The left side of his armour decimated, leaving only an opened shell.
He stared on as they used the lifeless cadaver as an overgrown action figure. His eyes rolled, ultimately deciding that he would wait for the news to reach the Shiear. Afterall, she made it an objective to ruin his day.
There existed no intention of marring his morning with a recovered dead person. That would be delegated to someone who had the time for the paperwork. Wyva returned to his routine, giving every step the true attention it deserved, as to not invoke discord into the efficient copings of his life.
He poured himself another cup of jasmine, taking time to enjoy his last semblance of enjoyment Holding his eyes shirt and lifting affirmations of a wonderful day.
Once dressed, Wyva walked himself to the balcony as he wrestled with correctness. The children were now testing each other to see who could jump the furthest. Leaping alongside the body, they found, using it as a unit of measurement.
He grabbed at the tag at the back of his neck and pulled it over his face to form a balaclava. If the Shiear was to find out about this before he did, then that would gain him an even less favourable standing.
He let out a sigh, then launched himself forward with enough power to carry him across over the street and onto the riverbank. He landed in absolute silence next to the children. Not that it mattered; they were far too absorbed by their muse to pay him any mind.
Their laughter continued, echoing along the rushing river, while the lifeless form lay sprawled out at their feet.
Wyva stared at them some more before checking the area for any other hands.
If no one else saw him here, then he preserved the opportunity to abandon this side quest at any time.
“Gyé,” he said, closing his eyes and allowing a curt nod.
The children jumped away from the body and quickly formed a line, hands held behind their backs. Their eyes widened as their world shifted from wonder to dread. Wyva waited for this unease to surpass its peak, then took a step forward. There was a hurried shuffling of feet as he did so.
To most people, Temple’s Hands were a force of information and efficient protection. To the people caught doing something generally agreed upon as wrong, they were the blade of a guillotine for whomever lay below.
Fear induction was just an unfavourable feature that came with the occupation.
“Where did you get that?” his voice muffled by the mask.
One of the children sank into the brown sand but wasted no time providing the requested information.
The weakest link.
Wyva jumped towards the child, the sudden burst and abrupt halt, brought with it a rush of wind and sand that blew the Alven boy unto his behind.
“When did you find it?”
The answer came even quicker than the first and from multiple sources.
He nodded and looked around at the others, “It's good that I didn’t see any of you here.”
They quickly caught onto his hint and made their getaway both quick and careful, as they were sure not to leave footprints.
Wyva shook his head. He loved this city, but he hated his job.
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There was no day like the first day.
That was the motto etched into the doorway of her first home. For much of her years, she had made that very phrase the backbone of her many decisions.
On occasion, she recited it for herself and others her own age as a means to bolster perseverance. It stood as a well-received saying to those with the patience to understand it Then they would regret taking her advice once they found out that she was raised in a brothel.
Her place of upbringing a mere brick in the wall that the women there built.
Souki, remained the hope of each of the workers that came and went over the years. She stood as a motivation for adults more than double her senior.
They all seemed to find strength in her stubbornness, cheering her on as she took on the soul trial and meeting her at the gate with relief as she returned unharmed.
Her childhood was wrought with memories of being sent outside to wander the city for hours. Her teenage years were spent managing the brothel herself. Even the task of surviving a week beyond the border was met with a fervour of determination that came to her as naturally as breathing.
Within the walls of the central office, all of that headstrong pride seemed to evaporate in the lobby.
With its marble floors and several gilded chandeliers time itself became lost in the distracting furnishings of the Temple. Patience was swallowed up, only excitement remained.
Souki sat there, fingers tapping a frantic rhythm against the metal frame of her chair.
Three days ago, she returned to Remu a certified child of the Astras as they had ensured her survival. Today she was to experience her first official day as the Temple’s employee—a dream realised through guidance and gritted teeth.
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There was no other Shiear she would rather work under. The stories she heard about the Astras who had sacrificed themselves to see this city remain in the northern territory. The retellings of Aisha, The Blood River, who took out a titan on her lonesome only twenty years prior.
If one aspired to stamp their names into the history books, Remu was the city to do it.
An hour early she had arrived, her heart racing upon entry. The receptionist had smiled—a mask of practiced warmth— and handed her visitors' badge. The singsong in her tone as she informed her that “the Shiear will be available shortly”.
The minutes since then had stretched themselves and the lobby remained a stilled canvas. The only moments of movement remained the hands appearing and disappearing in bursts of white.
One hand visited spending the longest period in the lobby. He had done scheduling with the reception. With them was a tall Shahari who stood by his side. His feet were shoeless and draped himself in a long brown cloak held together at the front only allowing an opening for his face.
He happened upon Souki while he scanned the room, but before he could establish any meaningful observation, the Hand grabbed him and they both disappeared.
An hour and a half—the clock’s hands mocked her refusing to move whenever she looked at them. Was she in the wrong lobby? Had they forgotten her?
The Temple stood the epicenter of every functioning fragment North of the border. The building itself was made up of many branching wings and bridges that lay interlinked all over the city. It was possible that she sat in the wrong office. Being that they dealt with hundreds of thousands of people daily the chances of her being forgotten were equal to its opposite.
Time in silence had led her to realise that in her pass she remained the big fish in a small pond. Here at the heart of Iké, religious belief and business alike, did there exist a place for a girl born inside the walls of a brothel, to a father who never thought twice of revisiting her.
She locked eyes with the receptionist who had taken it upon herself to glance this direction every twenty-five minutes. This time her smile strained and unsure.
“Just a few more minutes,” she said reigniting Souki’s racing pulse.
She always wanted to work for The Temple, it was the aspiration of all Remu’s youth. There were the hands who, in the eyes of the public, served as law enforcement. Yet, there were never any details on the other mundane tasks of the white garbed bodyguards. Were they charged with the deciphering of scrolls? Were they responsible for categorizing the magical techniques? Were they the ones who discovered new techniques?
Filing, stocking, brewing tea? Who were the ones with that in their job descriptions.
And then—the doors swung open. The Shiear herself, floated through the gaping port. Long black hair tailed her movements, as her embroidered coat clung to her shoulders. Her left arm bandaged from palm to elbow but swung freely at her side. Her bright green eyes—ageless and knowing— met Souki’s.
“Child born east of the canal,” she said closing her eyes and tilting her head towards the young girl, “your Iké is one of great balance, could power a whole city with that thing.”
Souki rose returning the welcoming gesture, her legs trembling. The lobby—the threshold of destiny— had held her captive, but now she could finally accept the embrace of her future.
“Ms. Jabaani ma’am, sir.” her words rid themselves of restraint in a manner most efficient for embarrassment, “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
The Shiear chuckled placing an arm around the girl and dragging her into the office, “we’re family now, so you can say whatever you want.”
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There was a spy living amongst the good citizens of the North.
A Shahari so selfish that he would undo the centuries worth of effort put in by the forefathers of their people. The years they spent crafting an expectation of trustworthiness and reliability, all of it was soon to be reset to how it once was.
Reset to a time where the Shahari were used as foot soldiers, disqualified from promotion.
For the sake of his people, Relik needed to pass this information on to the appropriate authority. They, in turn, would be able to locate this leak and rectify the issue before even more valuable information found its way to the south.
This was his duty, not only as a Shahari but as a marked soul.
People like him were not blessed with the ambience of the Astras. They were shunned to silence, unable to communicate like the other locals. For it they needed an outgoing drive that could get them even a fraction of the benchmarked approval.
His plans were to secure the body parts of his enemies and use this as a symbol of his capability.
That plan left him comatose.
Then once he was awake, he found that the Hand ordered to monitor him seemed to care little that the balance lay threatened by this traitor. He followed the request but appeared almost disinterested in the outcome.
Relik had been awake for four hours, within that timeframe, he was promised a conference with the Shiear.
Understandably, as the head of the city, she had no time for emergency meetings with a boy fished out of the river. So, he had to wait until they were done with all of their more important scheduling.
He would have preferred sitting in the lobby—this hand however, took pride in his own lack of patience and opted to take a trip around the city.
After clearing several rooftops, they landed in the city’s square. An area rushing with professionals and as the Hand had put it, scammers alike.
Relik stared at them all his mind racing to highlight the positives.
He fell short.
The city of Remu was the most southern; and was the last city secured for the Astras. Relik grew up in the rural west, and even though they were further away from a threat, they were far more militant than the people here.
The residents seemed to dance through the brick streets and passageways with a perfect sense of focus. No one seemed to be preoccupied with the business of others. Just their unyielding tunnel vision as they shuffled from one section to the next.
The Hands dropped in and out of sight to collect the people who broke the rules, all of which were done without warning. Appearing on the ground next to the target, then rushing off into the rooftops once they had a hold of them.
Relik couldn’t help but twist his face at such aggressively efficient showings.
Then there was the size of the coastal city.
Relik grew up in a village that sat at a mountain path, far into the Western Range.
There, the people took to producing several flavours of rich wine. When the merchants passed by en route to bigger cities, they would barter for necessities. This usually ranged from tools to exotic foods that they couldn’t grow on the mountainside. From what Relik was told, everyone on the Von Vino Estate protected each other and needed no reason to do so.
Looking around Remu, all he could see was adaptive chaos.
At the corner were children begging for food, and on the same corner were people throwing food away. Yet, they all progressed through the streets, ignoring the paradox of their existence. All in favour of making it to whatever plans they had for themselves.
The Hand grabbed Relik by the elbow and led him through the crowd. Shahari, Alven and Hurcs littered the streets, preoccupied by their own. The only semblance of an actual connection he shared was when the young man turned to stare at him in wonder.
Which could either mean they were surprised to see a Shahari of his height or mocking the fact that he was draped in garbs worse than theirs. Neither of which came from a conscious decision that he made.
They twisted past groups arguing people, dodging items that were thrown through the air. Relik’s footsteps stuttered as they went by an Hurc holding verbal discourse with a family of Shahari. An attempt at eavesdropping that bore no fruit as the dialect was too distinct for him to understand. The Hand was sure to adjust his grip and began dragging the boy through to their destination.
They stopped at a Shack that jut out the side of a larger restaurant.
The server stood waiting over two customers, who appeared to be on at least a second round of consumption.
The server, an Alven man; his hair was white but with a consistency that linked more to his age than it being the expected colour. His right hand was gone, and he had scar that extended into a complex river of grafted flesh. His right ear was cut short, and he was missing sight on the same side. It was apparent that only by the protection of the Astras he survived this decapitation attempt.
Relik was forced into a seat next to an Hurc who even in a seated position towered over the boy. He greeted everyone with closed eyes, a gesture they mostly ignored. The Hand dropped next to him and ordered in the local dialect. An order he ignored in favour of looking back at the rushing civilians.
They expected him to enjoy a meal on the side of the road when hungry children sat just one building away.
“Don’t stare,” Wyva warned adjusting his mask, “you’ll give them a reason to come over.”
“But we have food.”
“And they have money for drugs but Astras themselves couldn’t convince them to buy a loaf of bread.”
Relik surrendered his argument and turned back to the shack, a plate of grilled animal lying in wait. He stared down at the meat that lay dead with a stick through its center.
“Listen, I’m from around here which means I have years of experience dealing with this,” he pulled the opening of the Balaclava down to his chin and took a quick spoonful of grain.
After swallowing he continued, “whenever we stumble upon some rural township then you can take the lead. But if you do something stupid now it just means more paperwork. Now eat before a hobo steals it.”
A response was prepared, but the option of silence proved superior.
“You could have left me in the office.”
Wyva chewed haplessly throwing glares at Relik as he did so.
“There was only one person,” Relik continued despite the lack of conversation, “surely the meeting with that girl would not have lasted half hour.”
“What did I just tell you?” Wyva asked.
“Eat before a hobo steals it.”
“Exactly, you haven’t eaten in at least eight days,” the alven hand continued scolding the other boy, “we’ll worry about that when we’re done, okay?”
Relik nodded and decided to eat his squid.
Something was off about this city. He was sure that the unfamiliarity that he felt did not stem from the more communal population of the Von Vino Estate. There was something about this place that didn’t match up to expectations.
Not that it mattered, he just wanted to provide them the account and then gain the much-deserved respect of his village.
That was all he wanted.