An older man thumbed the small ring in his hand, before placing it over the index finger of his left hand. A small black agate stone, glossy under the room lights, sat in the center of the ring.

He eyed the stone with nostalgic sentimentality, noting the chalcedony bands which painted a curved design upon the surface of the stone. Had the bands changed its shape – had only one minute difference existed – it would have ceased to be what it was. Destiny versus choice, an unnoticeable duality embedded into the roots of all rational thinking. He cared only for the latter, ignoring the balance set for him by the universal precepts.

It was in this, the small changes, that made the older man smile inside. No one could truly fathom the depths of change, but those with the opportunities to capture those changes, should be prepared to do so. All we can do is choose the path to walk on, and give ourselves the tools to move forward, even if the journey’s end is inevitable. For the one who leaps for the stars, must first learn to walk.

The room he sat in was lavish. Ornate figurines lined the shelves alongside the left wall, and on the right, manuscripts and volumes of philosophical, sociological, and anthropological works from the brightest minds of times long past gave the room an air of antiquated gravitas – a dichotomy of indulgence in the material and the immaterial. A fresh, rustic scent filled the room, far different from the metallic fragrance which permeated the city, and even further still from the toxic virulence which pierced the atmosphere surrounding the Fringe wastelands. He favored the past. It was a time once relished, a time long conquered, but its significance remains nonetheless, a reminder of the price we paid for a semblance of peace.

“History is written by the victors,” he said to himself quietly, as he leaned back in his chair, contemplative. It has been a long time – long enough that the origins of the quote were lost even to the great scholars of ancient history - and yet, the phrase persisted, evidence of its pertinence in a world driven by conflict, unmarred by the forge which shaped time and space, and led humanity to its current predicament. It was a necessary predicament to be sure, but not one without regrets. And though he could never truly know if the words remained the same as they were, he was sure that if he made that mistake, then every historian and wartime commander in his time did as well.

A knock rapped at his door.

“Come in,” he said, still leaning back on his chair.

A young woman in her late twenties walked into the room, holding a box. A golden mask with butterfly wings covered her face, and the shine of her eyes poked through the slits, gauging the man in front of her. Glowing letters raced in front of her mask, scrolling through in a seemingly endless cycle. She had lengthy, raven silky hair, and wore a long and formal court dress, layered in colorful robes with intricate glowing designs of patterned bands. The dress dragged beneath and behind her, hiding her feet from view. Despite the difficulty of movement which the dress seemed to convey, the woman glided smoothly across the floor as she approached. Johrei webs circled around her, and she exuded an air of regality, clinging on to the vestiges of her life as a Vitadale noblewoman.

“Imperial Chancellor,” she said, bowing her head, “Daijo-Daijin. I come to you with reports on the latest developments in the Ecreville district. Additionally, there is a matter of urgency I wish to ask your permission to undertake.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Imperial Chancellor Timur cocked an eyebrow at her disapprovingly. “Hunters” from the Clan of Tribute rarely fail to observe the hierarchy of command set under the rules of the Clan. They were of the lowest rung in the clan, mercenary lapdogs whose only job is to see the will of the Clan exacted. Even this woman, the infamous Phantasma of the Golden Order, on par with any Daimyo from one of those wretched hunter Divisions from the Clan of Venerers, has no ground to blatantly disregard the chain of authority set by him and his council. Had the Emperor not valued her skills in assassination and investigation, and had she not been bound into an oath of loyalty to the Clan’s deepest secrets, he would have had her executed long ago.

“Should you not have brought this matter forth with the Imperial Court? You do understand that what you’ve done is unacceptable. Should I wish it, you could be dragged away under suspicion of treason against the order of the council.”

She remained silent, keeping her head bowed. In response to his statement, she held up the box and said, “You sent me to investigate the massacre at the warehouse which happened in the Brusk section of Ecreville district.”

“Yes, I recall. What. Of. It?” Timur said, patience thinning to a line. These hunter investigations were par for the course for the Clan of Tributes, who needed opportunities presented through information to recapture public influence across the city. With Auditors in control over the hunter boards, the Clan had to resort to other methods of gathering intel over the current state of the city. What most hunters failed to understand, is that an image of order had just as much power over the populous as order itself, and the Clan of Tributes was exceptionally good at creating that image. Sure, opinions on the Clan’s policies have always proved divisive amongst the locals, but no one ever questioned the ability of the Clan to enforce its policies once enacted.

All the Clan needed was a foothold that will let them gain control over hunter dynamics, currently relegated to the Auditors by the combined authority of the other districts of Neo-Kamakura under the “Second Agreement”, a series of contracts between the districts which are bound as law and enforced zealously under the watchful eyes of Neo-Kamakura’s governing bodies and their respective hunters. This was only one of the many grating checks and balances under the Second Agreement which limited the once vastly encompassing authority that the Clan of Tributes held over the citizens. Contracts, in an unintended way, became the heart of this city’s order. To break the contract, is to forfeit all rights, a rule respected by marking one for death by the Auditors, to the twisted thrill of all other hunters.

The woman paid no heed to Timur’s cold words, “On my way there, I was intercepted by a man claiming to be be the benefactor of the people who had died in that warehouse. He gave me this and told me to keep it as it was, and that I must send it to you alone and no one else.”

“And you expect me to open a box given to me by any lunatic who walks brushes past you on the road woman? Leave now!” he shouted.

The woman remained still. “The man said that you would reject my explanation and told me to say, ‘Irony isn’t it, that the Clan of Tributes, who once sacrificed everything in tribute towards the future, rejects all that they once stood for. If you don’t want to see your everlasting order descend into chaos, I suggest that you assist me with a simple hunt, and the marking of two particularly tenacious individuals.”

Those words.

Phantasma chimed in, “I recommend thorough consideration be exercised towards this matter, Daijo-Daijin. After all, is it not your fear of the past - the lingering embers of humanity – that drive you to send out investigators, such as I, throughout the city?”

Timur was blinded by fury at the insolence of her words. But, there was a reason he was in the position that he was. If not for his restraint during crucial moments in his career, he would not have had such a celebrated rise in power amongst the Clan, and this was most certainly a crucial moment.

“Hand me that box woman,” he shouted. Phantasma bowed slowly again, gliding towards him in that uncanny way of hers, before placing the box before his table. Timur opened it to find…