The day began with a hush.

Across Millinggarde, screens flickered to life. The hollow chime of Aether’s national broadcast rang through the streets, reverberating from the walls of towering iron buildings, filtering into homes, businesses, and institutions alike.

Everyone was watching.

Everyone was listening.

Prin Keli stood in the center of the grand podium within the Aetherian Broadcasting Tower, his figure framed by the nation’s emblem—a pair of intertwined silver serpents coiling around a blade, the embodiment of conquest. The pristine backdrop gleamed under the studio lights, a stark contrast to the man himself, who radiated something colder, sharper.

His blond hair was smoothed to perfection, his tailored suit meticulously pressed. But it was his eyes—light, calculating, empty of warmth—that made him seem utterly detached from the weight of his words.

When he spoke, it was not with urgency, nor sympathy, nor hesitation.

It was final. Absolute. Law.

“Effective immediately, the following mandates are to be instated under the Aethan Constitution.”

His voice was steady. Unhurried. There was no pretense of justification, no attempt to soften the blow.

“This is the will of Aether.”

And so, he began.

The people gathered around a flickering, outdated screen, its edges rusted, its mana supply barely holding.

They watched in silence, some standing, others crouched on broken crates or leaning against crumbling walls. The Figsty had no formal squares, no open halls for grand speeches. They took their news where they could—through word of mouth, through scattered transmissions, through the whispers of those who worked the outskirts of the city.

Prin’s voice rang through the streets, impassive as ever.

“All foreign-born inhabitants of Aether, including those within Millinggarde, are required to submit to the Aethan Identification Program.

Aethan chips are to be embedded into the base of the neck to ensure accurate documentation and tracking of non-citizens.”

A murmur rippled through the Figsty.

Faces stiffened. Fists clenched.

They had heard rumors. There had always been rumors. But now, it was real.

A woman held her child closer, running her fingers over the boy’s soft, unmarked skin.

“They want to brand us like animals,” someone whispered.

Prin continued.

“Foreigners will not be permitted to own land within Aether’s borders. Property may be rented, but ownership is strictly prohibited.”

A man sitting on a ledge let out a bitter laugh. “As if they ever let us own anything before.”

Someone beside him, younger, looked sick.

Prin did not pause.

“All foreign-born citizens who meet the requirements of the Honorary Aethan Initiative may submit themselves for review. A granted status does not ensure equal privileges but may permit conditional residency within designated sectors.”

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The term ‘Honorary Aethan’ rang louder than the rest.

A false title—one that changed nothing.

A label that forced them to bow.

The broadcast played in the lavish sitting rooms of Aether’s elite.

Marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of Voluran sconces. The air was perfumed, pristine, undisturbed by the filth of the lower districts.

Crystal glasses clinked lightly as wealthy men and women half-listened, reclining on their velvet-lined divans as if Prin were discussing simple tax reform.

A woman in an elegant silk gown took a slow sip of wine, barely looking at the screen. “They should have done this sooner.”

Beside her, a silver-haired businessman chuckled. “The Honorary status is an amusing concept. As if a name change could make them less…” He waved a lazy hand. “Unclean.”

Prin’s voice filled the room again.

“Voluran Staffs will now require additional screening prior to issuance. As of this moment, only full-blooded Aethans and fully documented Honorary Aethans of the second generation will be permitted to apply.”

A younger aristocrat, dressed in fine navy, raised a brow. “So they’re banning them from magic, then.”

His companion smirked. “Not banning. Restricting.”

Another sip of wine.

Another quiet chuckle.

To them, it was a simple announcement.

A minor inconvenience to others, but never to themselves. The screens in the Rozzlyn mansion cast a pale glow over the dining hall.

The family sat at their customary positions—Brent at the head of the table, Kait seated gracefully at his side, and Ivan across from them, his fingers loosely curled around the stem of his glass.

Prin’s voice carried through the silent room.

“All citizens are required to receive Voluran vaccinations at birth to ensure magic stability. Foreign-born residents, however, will not be eligible for this provision.”

Brent nodded approvingly. “A necessary separation.”

Kait exhaled, swirling the wine in her glass, watching the liquid move as if bored.

“They allow these people too much,” she mused. “It dilutes the very foundation of our society.”

Ivan said nothing.

Prin continued.

“Failure to comply with identification mandates will result in immediate detention and legal processing under Section 81 of the Aethan Constitution.”

Kait smirked. “And that, dear, is how you control a populace.”

Ivan watched her carefully. He had grown used to her detachment, but tonight, there was something particularly mechanical about the way she spoke—as if human lives were merely numbers on a ledger.

Brent glanced at his son. “You haven’t spoken.”

Ivan took a sip of water before replying. “You’ve said enough.”

His father studied him for a moment. Then, slowly, he returned his attention to the broadcast.

Ivan did not look away from the screen.

Prin’s voice rang hollow in his ears.

Fent Erasmus sat rigidly on the edge of an opulent couch.

The screen across from him displayed Prin’s carefully rehearsed smile, his voice cool and composed.

Beside him, his mother—a woman draped in effortless beauty, once a renowned actress, still bearing the elegance of her past life—watched with her chin rested lightly on her hand.

“A tragedy,” she murmured, her expression soft with something that was not quite sadness.

She sighed, setting down her untouched glass of wine. “They’ve suffered enough.”

Fent’s jaw tightened.

The passivity of pity grated against his skin.

Suffering was not the issue. Control was.

His hands curled into fists.

Prin’s voice echoed once more.

“These laws will not be debated. They will be upheld. Order is not a choice—it is a necessity.”

And with that, the screen faded to black.

The broadcast was over.

But its consequences had only just begun.

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