A misshapen ceiling of dark wood stretches out ahead of him.
The squeak of mice draws Raphael’s gaze. He watches the gray and brown critters rush their way into a hole in the wall. His eyes wander from his side, finding himself in an almost empty room no bigger than his kitchen. Where is he? What day is it? He attempts to move, but his efforts are thwarted by a surge of pain. The pain is so great that it’s like a white sear in Raphael’s mind, tearing asunder any thought he has of moving.
After resting for a little while, the pain slowly recedes. The flicker of a little white candle illuminates the place just enough for Raphael to see. His pale blue eyes glances upon the itchy fabric covering overtop his otherwise bare body. He then notes a strange line hooked into his right arm, which go up to some kind of bag attached to a metal pole.
But as Raphael’s eyes linger up for a moment, they turn onto the bigger picture. Expanding, he gazes upon a scarlet cloth hanging upon the wall above his bed. Wait… Raphael knows that shade of red. There, at the heart of the cloth, is a symbol: a black dragon standing on its hind legs, wielding a sword in its teeth.
Raphael immediately recognizes this symbol…
The Descendants of Malik!
He is in the captivity of the Descendants!
A blast of cold runs down his spine as he obtains this revelation. He begins to squirm around in this bed, but every inch—nay, every centimeter---is like a battle to the death. Raphael’s teeth crack against each other, feeling the pain cutting like a razor across his nerves. No matter how hard the young man grimaces, he has to push through. Voices seep into the room, from the other side of the wall to his south. There are members of the Descendants out there… Raphael thought to himself, eyes widened.
Positioned sitting up, Raphael casts a gaze upon this thing in his right arm. Examining it more closely, it’s a needle which has been administered into his vein. As he is investigating this bizarre object, a chill briskly turns his skin to gooseflesh. A sound jars him: the sound of a door squealing open.
Like a deer caught in the light, Raphael is completely paralyzed. He stares at the direction the noise came from, utterly helpless to the enemy that lays behind it. His mind is seized by all of the stories he has heard about the Descendants—how they’re horrific monsters, practically capable of performing all sorts of terrifying deeds.
Is he to be tortured for what he knows? He didn’t know much. He is just a Transcriptor.
Is he going to be imprisoned? Will anyone even come rescue him?
No, it’s still too early. There is still too much he wants to get done. He never got the chance to find out about his mother or father. He just knows himself as the motherless bastard of some soldier.
With the door opened, it reveals silhouette of…someone. The dancing flame of the candle warps around the figure, yet it cannot cut through the darkness enshrouding it. A singular boot thuds against the decrepit wood of this small room, and the floorboard’s creak is like horror strings to Raphael’s ears.
“You’re finally awake,” the figure notes, a feminine voice which sounds…happy?
Raphael cannot physically process the cheerful inflection in her voice. It nonetheless does not change his outlook on this encounter; the closer she steps, the closer to the edge of the bed Raphael got. As she got closer to the light, more details about her unfold. It isn’t until she’s at Raphael’s bedside that he can make her out entirely.
She is a woman, roughly five-feet-four in height. Her hair is chocolate brown and waist-length, but bound together in a long, braided ponytail. She wears a long-sleeved, button-up shirt with…strange shoulder straps attached to her pants? Raphael looks closer at her face, and one detail strikes him: her eyes are amber.
“You!” Raphael shouts. “You bumped into me at the Colosseum!”
The woman laughs.
“Of course you would remember that.”
The woman steps over to the strange metal pole thing linked to Raphael’s right arm. In her hand is another bag, one filled with an unusually colored liquid. She hooks it up to the line in Raphael’s arm. Almost immediately, he is liberated from his pain.
Quickly, his window to escape is there! Raphael springs to action, ripping out the needle in his arm. His body flies out of the bed and shoves the woman to the ground. He bolts for the door, nearly ripping it off of its hinges. He enters another room, one a bit larger than the last. He glimpses upon the sight of two men in the room with him.
“We are not your enemy, Raphael!” He can hear the woman in the bedroom holler. The two men step forward, and Raphael recognizes one of them. His silvery buzzcut is familiar. He is that man from the attack at the Colosseum… Yes, Fionnlagh is his name. Raphael catches a glint of something metallic in his peripheral vision, glimpsing now upon a knife of sorts. While the other two dart for it, Raphael is the closest, ripping it out of the table and holding it its point out in a threatening manner.
“S-stay back!” Raphael warns, drawing a raising of hands.
“We’re not here to hurt you, Raphael,” Fionnlagh’s stern tone rushes into Raphael’s ears, but he isn’t hearing any of it.
“Stay away from me!”
As Raphael slides closer to the door out of the house, his ears perk up at something to his right: a deep, creaking pound of wood. Raphael pivots to the sound and beholds the woman from before, charging at him. Without pause, he thrusts the knife down in her direction. She counters by lifting left arm up over her as if a shield.
The knife speeds towards the woman’s left forearm, and for a moment Raphael is mortified by the idea of feeling flesh pierced by his hand. He, after all, has only practiced combat and never was a participant in it. However, the knife’s tip shatters, hitting not flesh, but…metal?
Tackled to the ground, the broken knife flies out of Raphael’s hand. Raphael’s head whips against the wood, temporarily causing his head to spin. When the rotation relents, his pale blue eyes fasten onto what he felt with the knife. He focuses upon the woman’s left arm, beholding its metal nature. Indeed, glimpsing through the tattered sleeve, it seems her entire left arm is made of metal.
“What are you…?” Raphael speaks in his shock.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” the woman states, standing up to her feet. She then extends her hand out to Raphael.
Raphael accepts the hand of the woman. He begins to feel the agony of his injures seep back into his bones. In fact, he can barely stand on his two feet, collapsing on the woman. She wraps his arm around her neck and carries him back to bed. Laying him down, the woman takes the needle that Raphael ripped out of his arm and administers it back into him, only using his left arm instead.
“I don’t understand,” Raphael utters, feeling his pain disappear once more.
The woman rolls up her left sleeve, unveiling the entirety of her left arm. A brass-colored metal shines and attracts Raphael’s eyes, and they feast upon her arm’s intricate details. A complex design of metal, bolts, and internal cogs—Raphael glimpses upon the vastness of an incredible and fantastical device. His hand reaches out to touch it, but retracts.
As Raphael’s eyes examine it more closely, he notes a strange, ancient inscription carved throughout the entirety of the arm. Oddly enough, he recognizes the symbol from an old book from the Imperial Palace’s library. He brushes aside his fear and embraces his inquisitiveness, touching the metal. A warmth—not a cold—hums throughout, as if something is giving it life.
“This inscription…” Raphael mentions, running his fingers down the hourglass-shaped engraving. “It represents life in the old tongue of Ardsachians.”
“That’s right,” the woman confirms. “Combine that with Ardnite, you can make just about anything happen.”
“Ardnite?”
The woman retrieves something from her pocket, holding it out for Raphael’s eyes. It is a shard of rock, dark green in color. She then extends her hand outwards and places the stone in Raphael’s hand. Upon close examination, it’s clear that it’s no ordinary rock. For one, it’s much heavier. And two, it also exudes a lively warmth.
“What is this?” Raphael curiously pries, turning his eyes back onto the woman.
“This is Ardnite. The only logical way to describe it is, it’s like magic,” the brown-haired woman explains, smiling. “We rediscovered it burrowed deep in the old mines under Lutseing about thirty years ago. Ever since then, it’s revolutionized just about everything you can think of in our society.”
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“Why haven’t I ever heard of something this extraordinary?”
“Its existence has remained under tight wraps. No one outside of Lutseing knows of it. This was by design, because Divus didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Wait…Empyrean Divus didn’t want anyone to know?”
“It’s as I’ve said, Raphael: there’s a lot you don’t know.” The woman then strays away from Raphael, her smile withering to a frown. “With Divus gone, it makes things far more difficult for us.”
“Divus is…gone?”
The woman’s eyes return to Raphael and she shakes her head. With it, Raphael just crumbles, tears welling up in his eyes.
“They say that he was assassinated,” the woman states. “And that his assassin is you.”
“What?”
“They say that you killed him.”
“No!” Raphael’s brow furrows. “I would never! Empyrean Divus was like a father to me. I would never want to hurt him!”
The woman’s hand then finds Raphael’s as he weeps.
“I still don’t understand what even happened…” Raphael cries.
“I know. Momus told us what happened, and even now I cannot believe it.”
Raphael, through his tears, then looks at the woman.
“Momus?” he asks.
“Yes,” the woman replies. “Momus was the one who brought you here.”
Raphael wipes away his tears.
“So, Momus is working with the Descendants?”
“As was Divus, Lelantos, and Lucia. Nearly the entire Barn family was an ally to us, save for the true killer of Divus himself.”
Fresh memories temporarily blind Raphael. He recalls that night: the flashes of lightning, the rain that poured, and Balor, who wielded the king’s blade Arbandor. His hands fold into fists. With his entire body trembling, Raphael mutters the name, “Balor…”
The woman then stares at the strange metal rod with the bag connected to the line in Raphael’s arm. After some time dripping and infusing Raphael with its content, the bag had emptied itself. The woman trades the bag out for another, even more oddly colored, bag of fluid.
“This will help you sleep,” she states.
Raphael, alarmed by the woman’s words, glimpses upon her as she begins to walk out of the room.
“But wait! I haven’t even gotten your name!” he says.
The woman pauses before turning into the next room. She turns to him, the candle’s light wrapping around a boundless grin.
“It’s Elena.”
“Thank you for everything, Elena.”
“Get some rest.” Elena turns to face the door once again. “We’re going to need you.”
***
Elena departs the room, leaving behind the young man to his soon-to-be slumber. The click of the door’s closure resonates throughout the airwaves, and alerts a certain silver-haired man of Elena’s return. Reflecting off of Fionnlagh’s piercing blue eyes, Elena faces the scar-faced man.
“Well, that went smoothly,” Fionnlagh’s stern voice makes an uncharacteristic joke.
“You can’t blame him for reacting the way that he did,” Elena defends, fixing her left sleeve. “Could you imagine being in his position? To be at the top of the world—”
“’Til suddenly, you’re not?” Fionnlagh leans back on his chair. “No, I don’t suppose I can say I’ve been there. Even as a Solasúian, I’ve always been on the bottom.”
“That’s why we’re going to need him. This war is about to change. Balor is going to oppose us with all of his will. That’s why we need Raphael.”
“Kid’s got a lot on his plate. Let’s hope he’s all he’s cracked up to be.”
“Master Malik is never wrong about these sorts of things.”
With the passing of words, Elena walks out of the building and onto the street. A long, broken strip of homes washes over her eyes. The Descendants are still in New Charil, and they haven’t moved since that day. Yes, that fateful day.
***
It’s been weeks since the assassination of Empyrean Divus Nomos Barn, and underneath this near-Autumn sky, the whole of New Charil stands united. The dawn has just broken, unfurling a vista of oranges and blues. Without a cloud in the sky, the sun’s totality is unchallenged, scorching the heads of those outside upon this morning.
And indeed, all those with glowing eyes gather together today. The Grand Bell’s toll shatters the soundscape, catching even distant ears as countless souls from all across Ardsach assemble upon this day. As flowers blow in the southern winds that hail their arrival, they glimpse upon the distant Imperial Palace, prepared to gaze upon a new chapter in the Solasúian race’s story.
With an overabundance of eyes upon him today, Balor prepares for perhaps the most important day of his life. His glowing eyes gaze back at him in the looking glass, but a slight groan rumbles from his throat. Whether it be that his cravat is too loose, his doublet too tight, or his waistcoat is holding him in an odd way—if there is a complaint, Balor has one. The servants do everything that they can to alleviate his troubles, by tailoring his attire to his specific gripes.
“That’s enough,” the prince growls. “Get your vermin hands off of me!”
As he lashes out against those humans, something at the corner of his eyes hooks him. He turns to face it, and suddenly his troubles and grievances are no more. Lucia’s radiant presence immediately lights up the room as if she were a sun upon this land.
The princess takes a step into the room, holding her dress up to walk. Illuminated by the rising sun beaming through the window, she is enveloped by glorious light. She wears a resplendent purple dress, one with white floral lacing for the sleeves and around the neck. There is golden embroidery spread across the dress resembling ivy climbing up a wall, along with an elegant stomacher. Her silhouette is wide at the hips, and a long mantua lingers on the floor.
She draws nearer to her brother, whose lips fumble to convey words. It is the first time in his life that he beholds his sister in full makeup. In front of him now, Lucia reaches her hands to his neck.
“You’re all a mess, Brother,” she states, adjusting his cravat and his doublet. “What would Father say if he saw you?”
A gentle smile spreads across the face of the fair-skinned princess. Balor, so overcome by her beauty, reaches his left hand out ahead of him, caressing the cheek of his dear sister. And slowly, he draws even closer to her. His lips pucker, and Lucia beholds this, unrestrained. As her dear brother comes closer to her face, Lucia grabs ahold of his hand upon her face. Regardless of his intentions, the young princess accepts his actions, because, after all, her brother knows what’s best.
And as the morning light shines upon them, the two become one.
An embrace of lips, witnessed by the humble human servants, who watch and whisper to the other. As their lips shift, they embrace each other, growing even closer. It only lasts for a few moments, but it imprints a permanent memory within their hearts, within their minds. They stare upon the other for the next minute, until suddenly they hear, “It’s time.”
They both turn and face the source of that voice, belonging to their empyrean guard, the mighty, scar-faced Sergius Ishvara. With a nod of his head, Balor lets go of his dear sister and prepares himself for the event to follow. Within minutes, they are walking out of the room, followed by Sergius and an entourage of black-armoured Loyal Knights.
Climbing down the stairs, they enter the entrance hall, hearing the cheering of thousands of individuals who come from near and far to hail them. Lucia, still wearing that bright smile, waves to the crowd, and they relish in it. After going behind the stairs, they arrive at the door into the throne room.
To the left and right of the room are bodies, an incalculable amount of people here to greet them and to observe history. Balor and Lucia walk down the lane of carpet between the bodies of people, straight down the middle until they hit the throne itself. A wall of Loyal Knights between them and the crowd, they gaze upon the throne—a tall, magnificently crafted piece made of adamas and carved into the shape of a lion with the wings of a bird.
Arriving before the throne itself, Momus, their uncle and Lord Speaker, is there to greet them. As the two siblings wave at the crowd, Momus turns to Lucia and whispers, “Are you sure you want to go through this?”
“Yes,” she replies.
“You’ll be the enemy of the Descendants.”
“I know.”
Momus heaves a sigh. And for a moment, he doesn’t know what to make of his niece’s foolishness. Unable to convince herself otherwise, Momus raises his left hand above his head, silencing the crowd. Balor and Lucia look to each other momentarily before dropping to a knee.
“Upon this morning, we gather here before the souls of Empyreans for a single purpose,” Momus speaks out to the untold thousands gathered. “And that is for these two souls to join them as Empyreans.”
He then lowers his hand, dropping it to be just above the heads of Balor and Lucia. The siblings, upon this motion, lower their heads, gazing down at the floor now. Momus clears his throat as he then continues, “As Our Empyreans, you must be willing to act according to our Natural Laws. As Our Empyreans, you must be willing to strive to create our dream: our ideal Utopia. As Our Empyreans, you must be willing to be our sword and shield against all threats to our civilization—even if which uses your own body. Do you accept these terms?”
“I accept these terms,” both Balor and Lucia say simultaneously.
With their agreement, Momus then turns to his left, where slew of servants stand. In the hands of the servants are two adamas-crafted swords, both being equal in all respects, both in their length, size, and expertly-decorated style. He then reaches, grasps hold of the two swords, and turns back around to face the two bowing before him.
“This is Arbandor and Eshenel, the swords of the king and queen,” Momus elaborates, then lowering them as if to offer them to Balor and Lucia. “Take these blades and prove your loyalty to the Solasúian race with your blood. Chant the words you were born to speak!”
Balor and Lucia both reach out and take hold of their respective swords. Gazing upon herself in the crystalline sword, the princess wrestles with her thoughts. Her glowing blue eyes pierce through her and invades her soul. To be an Empyrean beside her brother, knowing what he stands for, is this the correct decision? Is this truly the path she wishes to walk?
Without further delay, she pushes past this bog of doubt which desperately clings to her. She commits to her decision, placing Eshenel over her left hand. Firmly, she cuts into her own palm. One would expect such an act to hurt, but the adamas is so fine that it causes her no pain. A surge of blood rises across her hand, dripping down upon the floor below.
In complete synchronization with her brother—who also cut into his hand—Lucia begins to repeat the words she was always meant to speak, “I give to Utopia the blood that flows through me. I give to Utopia the flesh that binds me. I give to Utopia the soul that calls me an individual. We are one, we are one, from now unto eternity.”
As their words echo throughout the throne room, Momus turns to his right, facing another set of servants. In their hands are two crowns, two halves of the same whole. Indeed, they are a half of the same crown, split down the middle. Momus’s hands reach for those crowns and lifts them off of their pillowed rest.
Raising them into the air, Momus then declares, “Then let it be that these two become Empyrean!”
He lowers the two crowns upon the heads of Balor and Lucia. After their crowning, the two siblings then rise to their feet. They turn around and face the crowd. The room bursts into sound, as the elation of the crowd erupts.
Deep within the heart of the crowd, through the bliss and cheers of everyone around, a mysterious, pale figure stands. His face is darkened by a long hood, but two cold beads of sapphire blue pierce through the shadow, targeting the two young Barns. Indeed, Lucia can feel it upon her, feel as her skin turns to gooseflesh. And as her hairs stand on end, she scours the area to find it.
“Sister?” Lucia can hear her brother call, but she is too captivated by her phantom paralysis to listen to it.
Lucia’s pale blue eyes ransack the entire crowd looking for it, yet she comes infuriatingly short. Whatever it was, it seems to have disappeared…