That familiar ceiling of dark wood spans across his view.

Raphael’s eyes open up to a brand new day. Pink petals waft along the Autumn breeze, and its coolness lathers Raphael’s bare skin. He rises up from his bed, and he bellows a generous yawn. Briefly looking over the small, quaint mattress, he remembers that just a few weeks ago he couldn’t even move, much less get up.

Springing to his feet, Raphael turns to his right, where a small table lies. There, folded neatly, is a white button-up shirt and some plain black slacks, both of which are still foreign to the young man. Regardless, he puts the outfit on, all the way up to the last button.

Raphael takes a moment to overlook himself. A heavy sigh heaves out of his chest, lamenting the lack of embellishment upon his outfit. This isn’t like the doublets and overcoats he’s used to. He feels up the barrel cuffs around his wrist, used to the tightness of a snug doublet. Oh, how he misses the tightness of a snug doublet…

Underneath of the table is a pair of black leather riding boots. An air of familiarity overcomes Raphael as he slips into them. He smiles as the fit is tight—it feels good! Complete with his outfit, Raphael then walks out of his room. He glances upon Fionnlagh in the next room, who is cutting an apple. The blade nicks the apple, slicing it cleanly.

“Hello,” Raphael greets with a hand raised.

Fionnlagh nods his head.

“Where is Elena?” Raphael asks.

“She’s out,” the silver-haired man replies, placing a chuck of apple in his mouth. Fionnlagh then stands up. “Speaking of which, I need to find her. It’s almost time for the mission briefing.”

“Mission briefing?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to place at noon.”

Fionnlagh turns towards the young man and waves his arms as if to tell Raphael to come.

“C’mon. Let’s go find Elena.”

Raphael nods his head, then walks to Fionnlagh. He opens the door, leading to the outside world. Immediately, they are hit with the sharp shaft of light, which gleams into their retina. Their pupils dilate, getting used to the sunbeam.

Pouring out onto the decrepit cobblestone streets, their ears are assaulted by a wail of several coughing fits. Beggars with glowing eyes race after Raphael, desperate for coin, but Fionnlagh chases them off. The houses along the road are mere burned-down skeletons with a foundation. Rodents infest the area, scurrying under the ruins and rubble. Make no mistake about it, Raphael knows exactly where he is: the troubled Southeastern New Charil, a place only the most destitute clings to.

“This place is known by most as the Boarded Heap,” says Fionnlagh. “Nothing here but the poor and desperate.”

“These houses aren’t in the Solasúian style,” Raphael replies, then turning to Fionnlagh. “Could these be the remains of the Old World?”

“Wouldn’t doubt it. This part of New Charil has been abandoned for over a century. No Empyrean has ever looked this way, except for Divus.”

“That’s how he caught the blight…”

“Yeah. It’s run rampant through the Solasúian community, but humans are unaffected. Something that one-hundred years doesn’t prepare you for, I’d wager.”

Raphael speeds up his pace and looks at the stern-faced Fionnlagh, eyebrow raised.

“Aren’t you worried about catching it?”

“Been rollin’ the dice all of my life. Won’t stop me now.”

Raphael quickly scans the area. He notices the unusual Loyal Knight activity around the area—a patrol specifically commanded by Empyrean Balor himself. Their black-steel armour makes it easy for a Solasúian ear to catch, for it clinks and clangs with every motion. Raphael and Fionnlagh proceed when the coast is clear.

Eventually, their travels arrive at a destination. Raphael’s eyes fan out and expand upon the graveyard of old buildings. Debris litters the ground, scorched by an ancient fire. Raphael focuses upon his footwork, being careful to avoid the mangled piles of wood and stone. His ears perk up, hearing the gruff voice of Fionnlagh rush in.

“Here.” he says to Raphael, guiding him over.

The young man glimpses upon an iron trapdoor, larger than even Fionnlagh, who is an unusually tall and physically strong Solasúian. Fionnlagh kneels down, grasping the trapdoor by its handle. It reveals a staircase.

Fionnlagh grabs the torch hanging from the wall, then gestures towards the stairs. Raphael begins his descent into the jaws of the unknown, casting a long shadow over the staircase. The way forward is coated in a thick darkness, too dense to cut with torchlight. Raphael steps forward slowly, his footsteps reverberating throughout the narrow expanse.

The darkness may be thick, but Raphael’s questions remain thicker still. These people he’s about to meet were his enemies. Indeed, he hated them, feared them for their unspeakable actions. His hands begin to tremble. He curls them into fists. To think that his life has become this…

At the nearing bottom of this staircase is a well-lit room. Raphael presses himself forward, hurrying to the bottom. His leather boots thud as they come across the wooden flooring, nearly tripping over its unevenness.

Raphael turns his gaze to his left and traces the outlines of a large, round table at the center of the room. Around the wooden table are several individuals, including Elena, who finds Raphael and Fionnlagh. Fionnlagh puts down the torch and enters the room.

“Fionn, you’re late,” scolds Clara.

“Yeah, yeah,” Fionnlagh sits himself down at the table.

He retrieves a small bag from his pocket and drains its contents on the table. A grayish-white powder pours onto the table, one of which Fionnlagh takes a straw to and begins to snort up.

“Still heaving up the soot, Fionn?” says Elena, eyebrow raised. “That stuff is going to destroy your mind.”

Fionnlagh finishes snorting up the mysterious powder. He leans back loosely in his chair.

“Fuckin’ hell, Fionn. You really should listen to her.” Clara says, flipping her auburn hair.

“You all have your magic. I have this.” Fionnlagh replies.

Seeing the residue of powder on the table, Raphael recognizes it as soul soot: a drug created from the ashes of a Solasúian. It has been discussed numerous times by the Ruler’s Council, for its highly addictive nature had once devastated the lower class Solasúian community. It’s been banned for many years now, yet it still ravages the city.

Elena exhausts a deep sigh. She then sets her amber eyes upon Raphael, who stands on the outside of the conversation. Gesturing for him to come, Elena says, “Raphael, come in. You’re a part of this too.”

Clara rolls her eyes.

“Why do we even need him? He’s an Imperial lap dog.” she attacks.

Elena seeks out Clara, who is struck by her gaze.

“He was Divus’s student, not another pawn of the system.”

"Yeah, yeah… Potato, potah-to.”

Raphael steps into the room, then bows.

“I apologize for the trouble my presence causes, but if Empyrean Divus supported your cause, then so do I.”

“Whatever,” Clara replies, crossing her arms. “Like you’ll last.”

As Raphael walks over to the table, Elena attempts to steer focus onto a map at the center of the table. It is of a particular compound, a place where coin clearly had been spent. Raphael raises his eyebrow over the map, studying the unusual mansion until suddenly he recognizes it.

“Wait a moment, this is the Ishvara manor,” Raphael states.

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“Precisely,” Elena confirms. “This is where we’re heading tonight.”

“For what purpose?” Clara questions. “Certainly not to indulge in their wine.”

Elena then points to a particular part of the map, where apparently nothing is.

“Horses.”

“What?”

“I’ve only heard of them in books,” Raphael states, clutching his chin. “They’re a large, four-legged, cursorial breed of animal, once used by humankind for a multitude of purposes, such as agriculture, policing, and even in warfare.”

Raphael then looks at Elena.

“But I was convinced that they all died out.”

“Apparently not,” Elena replies. “According to Momus, they’re set to appear for the first time in a hundred years in the parade prepared to celebrate Balor and Lucia’s ascension on the 26th.”

“But that’s tomorrow.”

“Which is why we need to do this tonight.”

“Okay, fine. We’ll grab your horses.” says Clara.

“It won’t be that easy.” Elena turns to Clara. “The Ishvaras have paid numerous members of House Kórakas to protect their property.”

Clara grabs a musket—her musket—off the table. She studies it for a moment, then begins to screw on a strange, cylindrical object around the end of the gun’s barrel. An ancient symbol is carved in the black device, resembling three small, interlocking circles.

“Good, that means I get to kill a few bright-eyes.”

“We don’t have to kill anyone,” Raphael insists, clenching his hands into fists.

“Don’t get carried away, halfbreed. Just because you’re among our ranks doesn’t mean you get to command me.”

“I’m not commanding anyone. I’m just saying, we’re a resistance, not a group of assassins.”

“That’s enough,” says Elena. “It’s probably best that we avoid any contact with anyone tonight.”

***

So consumed with their celebration, hardly a soul notices the daylight disappear. Indeed, the dark hour descends upon New Charil and its people. However, a silver-armoured champion rises up from the horizon, slaying the darkness with its fullness. The sky is illuminated, painted a bright black upon this night, so clear that the stars come out.

While the city continues to celebrate Balor and Lucia’s ascension even at this hour, the Ishvara manor bustles with activity. The outside of the manor is guarded by those of House Kórakas, their trademark golden locks shimmering in the light of the night. Their state of dress varies from person-to-person, while some are equipped in full armour, others are lightly armoured or even unarmoured.

Inside of the manor, the great hall resounds with the scraping of golden cutlery and the carving of a succulent roast. Human servants, dressed with collars around their necks, hold jugs of delectable red wine, aged to perfection. The wise and ancient Decimus Allamin Ishvara, who is seated at the middle of the table, raises his goblet as if to be filled. Unlike the other members of the Ishvara, Decimus has his own cupbearer.

Beside him is another Ishvara, who is a stark contrast to Decimus. She, unlike him, appears to be only in her twenties and bears long, beautiful black hair. Her bronze skin is smooth, free of wrinkles. She is Tatiana Ishvara, Decimus’s daughter and heir to the Ishvaran fortune. She stabs her fork into a small piece of meat, then asks Decimus, “How goes the slave trade, Father?”

“Well,” Decimus gleefully replies, then taking a sip of his wine. “It pleases me to report that Host Body F192 is finally with child.”

“Really? You’ve been trying to get her pregnant for what seems like ages. Who ended up doing the job?”

“Body M103.”

“Ah, him.” Tatiana wipes her face with a napkin. “He’s a fine specimen: strong, athletic build, easy on the eyes, very…potent by what I can tell.”

While Decimus and his daughter celebrate on their achievements, the left side of the table is much less so. The bald-headed Sergius Ishvara, empyreal guard of the Barns, silently carves into the log of meat on his plate. His sky blue eyes seek the outside, soaking in the moonlight beaming into the room. The night is still a fledgling.

***

Over time, the celestial orb of the night bends around the world. It rises high into the pitch-black sky, cascading pale light down upon the lurkers of the night. It is nigh of midnight, and with the moon like the iris of a vast god, it watches over the Descendants of Malik as they skulk around the Ishvara manor grounds.

Raphael, Elena, Fionnlagh, and Clara arrive at the old wrought iron fencing. Fionnlagh peers through the brilliant patterns and designs formed in the wrought iron, glimpsing upon moving silhouettes holding spears. The group slips through a gap in the wrought iron—a flaw noticed by the sharp eye of Momus—and arrive upon the property.

Being the head of the group, Fionnlagh traverses the property. A flatland of open grass expands before them, one of which they quickly, albeit very carefully, cross. Fionnlagh slides behind a rock, and the group mimics him. Prone, Fionnlagh peeks over the rock, observing the patrolling members of House Kórakas, who seem better off chatting to the other than keeping watch—a fruitful outcome for the Descendants.

Fionnlagh then turns to the group whole and places his index finger over his lips as if to signal silence. The group nods and holds their breath, for even a breath out-of-place can spell disaster. Fionnlagh slowly crawls through the verdancy, followed discreetly by his allies. Creeping now on stone flooring, Fionnlagh takes shelter behind a marble statue of a deceased member of the Ishvara family.

“Aw, this is so boring!” he can hear the tenor voice of a member of patrol. He closes his eyes and focuses, honing in upon their footsteps, their breathing. They aren’t getting further from him; in fact, they are drawing closer. As the patrolmen gripe further, Fionnlagh turns to Clara and gestures to her as if signaling a command. With a nod, Clara pulls out her flintlock pistol. The pistol has unusual markings all over it—hieroglyphs which respond with light as soon as she begins tracing them with a stick of Ardnite.

Fionnlagh raises his hand, with all five of his fingers expanded.

Then it goes to four fingers.

Then three.

Two.

One.

Now!

The patrolman appears on their side of the statue. Clara’s finger reaches for the trigger on her pistol and pulls. The bullet ruptures from the mouth of the gat, with the Ardnite magic absorbing the soundwaves emitting from the blast. Through the veil of smoke, the bullet files out and towards the patrolman, hitting him in the side of the head.

Droplets of blood splatter across the statue, across the ground. In the same second as the patrolman collapses onto the ground, Fionnlagh makes his move. He unleashes a rondel dagger from its leathery home, aiming for the patrolman beside the one Clara took out. Before the patrolman has even a second to react, Fionnlagh is already there.

Wielding the dagger in an icepick grip, Fionnlagh thrusts it into the head of the patrolman. The dagger cracks open the skull. A mixture of blood and brain matter oozes from the wound as Fionnlagh rips the dagger out of the patrolman’s head. The patrolman’s body begins to collapse, but Fionnlagh catches him and lays him down gently.

Clara pulls away, reaching into her cartridge pouch and withdraws a paper cartridge, beginning the reloading process. Once it’s over, she turns to Fionnlagh and nods her head. Fionnlagh quietly places the two bodies along the side of the statue, away from the far-seeing Solasúians. They then carry on, keeping themselves crouched low.

Finally, the group arrives at their destination. A gigantic, elaborately decorated stable looms over them. Its tall, stone frame connects to the Ishvara manor. They approach a small, square-shaped courtyard, garnished with several, expertly-crafted marble statues, including the one in the middle for the Hero King.

The group enshrouds themselves in the precisely-trimmed hedges, vigilant of the voices that ring out throughout the night. Moving steadily forward, they then find a large door, but it’s locked. Clara smirks as Fionnlagh fusses over the lock. She kneels down and flashes her thieves’ belt, complete with all sorts of instruments for picking locks.

As they await her to pick the lock, Raphael and Fionnlagh can hear distant voices from within the stable. Raphael recognizes one of the voices as Decimus Ishvara. Raphael’s heart pounds hard, feeling adrenaline coursing through him. His hands shake as they grip the steel at his hip. His mind runs with countless questions. Decimus is in there. Does that mean he has to die?

“…May be a bastard, but you’re still an Ishvaran,” Fionnlagh and Raphael can hear the low voice of the ancient Decimus.

Clara’s meddling with the lock proves successful. She turns to Fionnlagh and nods, and he nods back. Without a moment of hesitation, they push open the giant metal doors as slowly as possible. A metallic creak enters the soundwaves as they stick their heads into the stable. Horses react to their presence. As they sneak around, they reach a bend in the room, where it turns towards the left. They peek around the corner, seeing the bald-headed Decimus and his bastard son, the strong and powerful Sergius Ishvara.

“We were the pride of the kingdom of Sa-am—the pride!” Decimus’s voice seeps into the ears of the skulking resisters. “I led the Ishvara’s defection to the Barns for power—absolute power. And here we are, a century later, and the Barns’ power has waned greatly. There are only three of them left.”

“What are you getting at?” Sergius replies, or at least they think it’s Sergius, for the massive blade on his back overshadows him.

“Power is everything, boy. Remember that.”

As a heated conversation clearly draws their attention away from their surroundings, Fionnlagh ganders upon a golden opportunity. He turns to Clara, and quickly her body language is translated. She is tense, her hands are folded into fists. Her teeth are bare to the gums. Her brow is fiercely bent out-of-shape. Her eyes are like honed blades upon the image of the long-bearded Decimus, who has claimed so many human lives over the course of the century.

And just like Fionnlagh reads her emotions, Clara can feel out the response that Fionnlagh wants from her. She pulls around the musket strapped to her back and begins the process of loading it. She pours gunpowder in the pan and down the barrel. Finished with the load, Clara points her musket from around the corner. Her aim true, pointing the mouth of the gun directly over the image of Decimus.

Sergius’s ears, despite being consumed thoroughly by his conversation with his father, perk up as they hear the click of the musket as it is fully cocked. Clara pulls the trigger on her musket, firing the weapon. And in the instant of firing, Sergius turns around, registers their presence and the shot being made, moves in Decimus’s direction, and withdraws his blade to block the shot.

His sword absorbs the shot, indenting the strong flat of the blade. As the smoke clears from the shot, Clara beholds the results with bitterness. Sergius’s gargantuan weapon is taller than his six-foot-five stature, and it is by no means a simple sword. It is a thick, colossal, raw slab of steel, five-times the size of a human’s Zweihänder. Sergius pulls the heap of metal out of the earth with just his right hand.

Decimus turns towards the corner where the resisters are hiding. “Well, well, the rats have made an appearance after all,” he says. “Come, show yourselves to me!”

“Fuck!” Fionnlagh growls to himself, reaching his hand across his body to unfurl his longsword.

Elena turns to Fionnlagh and withdraws her own longsword from its leathery shelter. While Elena and Fionnlagh reveal themselves to Decimus and Sergius, Raphael cowers behind the wall. His heart beats faster and faster as he clings to the sword on his hip, hearing the metal rattle in its scabbard. He breathes, but it’s fast and shallow, resulting in lightheadedness. His mind becomes a chaotic storm of questions. What is he going to do? He can’t win in a fight, especially not against someone who achieved the rank of Empyreal Guard.

Decimus stares them down, and a grin curls up his aged face. He raises his arms up to shoulder height and says, “Welcome, Descendants, to your deaths!”