It’s just like the book, Raphael thought as he scurries for safety.

The city’s Grand Bell cries out, tolling an unfamiliar but haunting tune. The cacophonous voice seeps into every home, and like a messenger it delivers a dire warning: death is near. Urgently, the black-steeled Loyal Knights comb the entire city for the lost extremists. The clank of the chainmail rings across the empty air.

Despite their former occupancy, the streets are now eerily vacated. Every door is shut and locked tight. Every window is shuttered closed. Even the stalls of the Market District—left with all of its merchandise—are empty. As he runs down the streets, Raphael is stunned.

No, he never expected to see the city in such a state…

A gust of wind billows from the south, manipulating Raphael’s curly, black hair. A message is carried through the current of air. It trickles down throughout the streets, catching the young man in the sternum. A golden-brown paper finds its way into his fingers. There, on the paper, with his piercing eyes, is the emblematic Master Malik, holding his hand out to the reader. The words ‘Join the resistance!’ is spelled out in bold, elegant font beside him.

After the long travel from the northwestern side of the city to the central district, Raphael arrives at the Imperial Palace. Bleeding through the attending Loyal Knights, he slips past the giant doors into the entrance hall. There, he climbs up the stairs, to the third floor.

In the council chamber, every soul who escaped the Colosseum with the Empyrean are now seated with him at the council table. They remain silent, pondering exactly what they had just experienced. Empyrean Divus sits in his highchair, his bony fingers wrap around his chapped lips.

The double doors into the council chamber split open, unfurling the appearance of the Empyrean’s royal children and Raphael and Elliott, who defended them. Immediately, Divus pries himself out of his chair and into the arms of his children.

“Thank Dias you’re all safe,” he breathes.

While attempting to embrace his second son, Balor, the prince steps away.

“This is all your fault, Father,” Balor gripes, his brow bending into a fierce furrow. “We nearly lost our lives today, all because of your affection for these humans.”

These words spark Raphael, who shoots up into Balor’s face, clenching his fists.

“It isn’t Our Empyrean’s fault,” Raphael insists. “You’re the Orderer of the Loyal Army. Why haven’t you won the war!?”

“Keep your mouth out of this, half-breed,” Balor sneers.

“There’s a point behind the prince’s anger,” Caerus of House Kórakas says, thoroughly stroking his chiseled jaw. “We’ve countlessly avoided the topic of war on this council. Perhaps it is time we talk about it…”

“Father, Lord Kórakas is right,” Lucia concurs, attracting her father’s eyes. “I understand how much you detest war and violence, but sometimes it must be done.”

“I—” Divus attempts to speak, but his lungs flare up with a terrible coughing fit.

Indeed, the Empyrean toils once more, clawing at his chest as he wails a solemn fit. Balor seems to roll his eyes as if such an attack could be calculated. He impatiently crosses his arms, awaiting this fit to pass.

“Listen to me, we mustn’t be rash about this,” Momus, brother of the Empyrean, states calmly. “What we saw was not the work of an army, but a single pocket of desperate men.”

Momus then glares at his nephew, the prince Balor.

“Divus has attempted mightily to heal the division your policies and callous warmongering have caused!” Momus snaps in Balor’s direction.

“What of this war which we have been waging for fifty years?” Balor roars back. “You expect me to sit on my hands and do nothing?!”

“It was a war in name only until you were put in charge!”

“They have assembled an army, Momus. And they mean to tear us down—tear our kingdom down. They always have, so long as the Malikites have existed.”

“My Prince, please,” interjects Decimus of House Ishvara, stroking his long, white beard. “Only a ruined economy awaits us if we wage war with the humans.”

“Ah, yes… Of course the Ishvara is worried about his money pouch,” Lord Kórakas sighs grievously, clenching his hooked nose.

“And what say you, Lord Kórakas?”

“It is as Prince Balor has said: we’ve been engaged with this…this rabble of resisters for far too long. I believe it the appropriate time to show them the might of the Solasúian race!”

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“It is your ‘might’ which rallies their banners,” Lelantos chimes in, crossing his arms.

“Then what would you have us do? Partake in a truce with them!?” Balor counters.

“…Enough!” Suddenly, the voice of Divus blasts out from his bombardment of coughs. Clasping at his chest, the sapphire blue eyes of Divus peers sorely upon the collective council. “Not once did I give any of you the permission to speak on this matter.”

“Forgive us, My Empyrean…” Caerus pleads, lowering his bared fangs.

“Tck…!” Balor irefully clicks his tongue.

With his coughing relinquishing control over him, Divus rises onto his feet. His stance is surprisingly strong, despite clutching his chest in weakness. He sets his eyes strictly upon his son, the irritable prince Balor.

“Have our Loyal Knights search the city thoroughly for the resisters and increase patrols thereafter.”

“Is that all you plan on doing?” Balor criticizes. “This will not change a thing.”

“I am Your Empyrean, and this is my word. Ensure that it is done.”

Balor groans combatively at the thought of submitting again. He slings his father a dagger-sharp glare. Without another word, Balor stomps off, shoving the double doors out of his way. Bearing witness to her brother’s ire, the young Lucia chases after her brother. Following after her brother, she asserts, “Brother, calm yourself!”

“He has turned me down once again,” Balor spews, venting his frustration. “What must I do to finally have his ear!?”

“Have you spoken to Lelantos?”

“Father won’t care, even if every seat in the council agrees with me. His affection for humankind is too earnest for his own good!”

“I know Father has been pushing for Lelantos to take on more responsibilities as Empyrean. His opinion will matter. Trust me, okay?”

The storm that has become Balor seems to meet some calm. Balor pauses in his stead; his sapphire blue eyes find his sister’s immaculate visage. A smile blooms across his face. His left hand caresses his sister’s soft cheek, brushing aside a rogue strand of hair from her otherwise perfect image.

“Of course I trust you, sweet sister of mine,” Balor states, adored by his dear sister.

“Then you will have a word with Lelantos.”

“I will.” Balor nods in agreement.

“Good… Also, don’t forget to meet me for dinner tonight.”

“Of course.”

***

Outside, the flaming sky burns a bright orange hue. Yet a dark, overwhelming purple collects over yonder, smothering everything it touches in its shadowy embrace. Indeed, night has begun to descend upon New Charil.

Down below into the city streets, two young men Raphael Bela and Elliott Cayrel venture out upon this night for a singular purpose: to retrieve some medicine for their dear mentor Divus. They stroll about this warm evening, dabber in their fine doublets. Their travels do not stray far from the Imperial Palace, crawling through the alleyways of the city in search for the shop in mind.

Though the local taverns are full beyond capacity, the city’s Market District is remarkably barren. Despite the trail going cold, the Loyal Knights patrol the streets with authority. The curfew may have been lifted, but their spirits are in hot pursuit of any visible trace of the extremists. Their glowing eyes pierces through the shadow of their great helms, keeping closely to the two halflings.

Raphael examines the paper with the order. He sighs as he gazes upon the disheveled signature at the bottom. Indeed, the image of Divus violently coughing whisks around in Raphael’s mind, a certain reality when Divus was writing this signature. Elliott casually glances at Raphael and notes something eclipsing his usual, cheery self.

“Raphael, are you well?” asks Elliott.

“Yes,” Raphael quietly returns, stroking tears from his eyes. “Sorry, I was just lost in thought…”

“It’s Divus, isn’t it?”

Raphael winces.

“Yeah…” he confirms.

“I understand how you feel,” replies Elliott. “His condition is not conductive to a healthy individual.”

“Elliott, what are we going to do? Without Divus, we—”

“I know, but there is little that we can do. His time is coming. This medicine is merely equivocating his malady.”

Raphael’s frown deepens.

“What’s left to do?” Raphael laments. “Put our faith in a prince that scarcely leaves his room?”

“As terrible as it is, yes,” Elliott responds. “I find myself doubting that Divus would leave his own son ill-prepared for the wolves at his door.”

“You mean the Descendants?”

“I speak of all threats to the Imperial Kingdom, not just the Descendants.”

Raphael raises his eyebrow.

“If not the Descendants, then who?” he asks.

“Don’t be so naïve,” Elliott imposes. “You may not hold an official seat at the Ruler’s Council, but you do sit at their sessions every day. Surely you’ve realized that its members are little more than self-interested, egocentric maniacs.”

“Perhaps they are, but at the end of the day, I’d like to believe that we’re all striving to improve the Imperial Kingdom, regardless of our motives.”

As the sun sets upon the world, the two arrive at the apothecary. A humble abode tucked away from the busy Market District street; the apothecary sits quaintly in the back alleyway. A modest wooden sign hangs above its door, with the image of the trademark pestle and mortar and the words ‘Silvanus’s Brews’ carved into it. A breeze rolls in, gently swaying the sign.

Raphael extends his left hand outwards and taps his knuckles against the door. Knock, knock… The sound pops into the air, echoing through the hardy wooden structure. They wait then patiently…

“I just don’t know what we’re going to do without Empyrean Divus,” Raphael states, keeping his voice hushed. “I’ve been friends with him for as long as I can remember. Even thinking about his departure turns my stomach…”

Within minutes, the door swings open, unfurling the appearance of a short, older gentleman, dressed in a fine, black houppelande. The garment swallows his entire figure, draping him with its tall collar, flared sleeves, and voluminous skirt. The man is none other than Silvanus himself! His brown eyes easily settle upon the two well-dressed halflings at his door.

“Can I help you?” Silvanus asks.

Raphael raises the paper with the order in his hand.

“Yes, we’re here to pick up the order for Empyrean Divus,” Raphael replies.

Silvanus takes the paper from Raphael and eyes it up himself. He sees His Empyrean’s signature on the bottom. He shows a smile to Raphael.

“Ah, yes. I’ll have it out in a moment.”

Silvanus retreats into the reaches of his home, closing the door behind him. Elliott turns to Raphael and places his hand upon his shoulder, supporting the saddened young man.

Elliott responds, “We’ll make it through. Trust me.”

Raphael, feeling the support of his friend, nods his head and wipes away the tears emerging from his eyes.

“I hope you’re right.”