The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of Eleanor Beale’s home office, casting patterns on stacks of books and papers that crowded every surface. Boomer sat in a worn armchair, sagging with exhaustion. The events of the Blacklight had consumed the last six hours. Between the disarray of Ladysmith and Eleanor’s whirlwind ascent to the Emergency Committee, he hadn’t stopped moving since the previous evening. He glanced at his watch. Not that it meant anything with regards to the sun’s location in the sky. Not their sun, not their sky. And time? Time was another matter entirely. Still, it was able to tell him how long it had been since he woke up. Ten hours, and nearly four since the Blacklight.
“Boomer, take this down,” Eleanor’s voice cut through his haze. She perched at the edge of her desk, her glasses catching the sunlight. Her enthusiasm burned brightly despite the chaos outside. “We need a framework for approaching the cultural integration issues with Nalya Ruus, Halen, the local peoples and other geopolitical entities. Mutual respect, open dialogue—”
“Got it,” Boomer muttered, scribbling on a legal pad. His mind wandered to her voice, clear and commanding, almost hypnotic. Something about the way she spoke, how information passed over her lips struck him as odd. Almost as if there was a subtle echo. He shook his head and forced his focus back on the pad.
Eleanor turned to her bookshelf and pulled a slim volume free. The binding was faded, but the title stood starkly against it: Ethical Frontiers: How History Shapes Morality. Boomer stiffened. He’d read that book as part of her Philosophy of Ethics class, a night course he’d taken mostly out of curiosity. Now, holding it in his hand again, he felt a mix of nostalgia and intimidation.
“You’ve read this, haven’t you?” Eleanor asked, tilting her head. Her gaze was sharp, like she already knew the answer.
Boomer chuckled dryly. “Yeah, a few years back. Your class was… intense.”
“Good,” she said, smiling faintly. “I always aimed for intense.”
Boomer flipped the book open, running a finger along the underlined passages. His thoughts tumbled: her theories on moral relativism, her arguments about historical context shaping ethical decisions. He remembered debating those ideas late into the night with classmates. Eleanor’s voice interrupted his reverie.
“It’s a shame Nalya and her entourage returned up the mountain,” she said, her tone shifting to something wistful. “She’ll be returning later this evening, though. No word on when they’ll be leaving again, but I hope to have some time to pick her brain on a few details about the cultures, not to mention that Ariella girl regarding her abilities and these currents.” Boomer could hear the excitement in her voice, then thought briefly of how uncomfortable Ariella was with all the questions. Professor Beale seemed oblivious to it.
Eleanor sighed, tapping the desk with a pen. “What a wealth of information they would be.” Her face lit up, the spark of intellectual curiosity blazing. “You said she identified ten currents during your conversation, correct?”
Boomer looked up and nodded. “Ten,” he confirmed. “Earth, fire, air, water, lightning, light, body, soul, mind and time.”
“Fascinating. If we can document their cultural relationship to these currents. Damn! I need to find out what each of them entails. The professors at Edinburgh will—”
Boomer felt a stab of anxiety as she paused. He chalked it up to empathy. The professor knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that the scholars at Edinburgh weren’t likely to learn anything if they couldn’t get home. He briefly thought of his own family, in Vancouver.
It had been three years since he last talked to his parents, and for good reason. He wanted nothing to do with them. Still, to know that he might never be able to again—that gave him pause.
“Imagine what we could learn about their governance, their values,” Eleanor said, changing the topic at hand. “If we can establish rapport, maybe we can avoid conflict with these Vectorans. Understanding them might be key.”
Boomer leaned back, absently flipping through her book. “Seems optimistic,” he said. “But I guess optimism isn’t a bad place to start.”
As Eleanor continued talking, her voice seemed to fade, though her lips still moved, but there was something else in her words. A subtle voice laid overtop, or underneath. He frowned, closing his eyes and trying to make sense of what she was saying.
“This will only work if they can accept us as equals.”
Boomer blinked. “Why wouldn’t they see us as equals?” he interrupted.
Eleanor froze. “What?”
“You just said this will only work if they see us as equals.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “I… no I didn’t,” she said. “I was talking about the… the delegation.” Her brows furrowed. “But I was thinking they may have difficulty accepting us as equals due to the... nature of…” she trailed off, meeting Boomer’s eyes.
“Did I say that out loud, or was I thinking it?”
“Well, you clearly said it out loud,” Boomer said.
Eleanor’s eyes widened in shock. “Boomer,” she began. “I didn’t say anything just now.”
Boomer looked back at her, suddenly feeling extremely uncomfortable. Or was he? Was it him feeling uncomfortable, or was he just reacting to Eleanor’s discomfort? His heart raced as he stared at her, his mind scrambling for an explanation.
Eleanor’s brow furrowed, and then her eyes widened. “Boomer,” she said carefully. “What am I thinking right now?”
Her silence was deafening, but Boomer heard it. “There’s no way. Could he...? Think of something else, Eleanor.”
Boomer opened his mouth, but no words came. His mind scrambled for an explanation, his pulse thundering in his ears. He wasn’t just hearing her thoughts; they came with images, flashes of memory. Before he could stop it, a vivid picture surfaced—a younger Eleanor, nervous and clumsy, her hand awkwardly sliding beneath a red-haired girl’s bra in a dimly lit dorm room.
Boomer’s face turned scarlet. “Whoa! No, stop—don’t think about that!”
Eleanor gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “You did hear me!” Boomer felt a surge of excitement, and no small amount of embarrassment coming from Eleanor. She stood up so quickly a few of the papers on her desk started to blow around. She wore a wide smile. “Boomer, you must be manifesting one of these currents! This changes everything.”
“It’s not just hearing you, I’m seeing stuff and like—can we not?”
Eleanor almost jumped out of her skin in excitement as the papers on her desk started to fly off of it with increasing frequency. The air in the room shifted violently. A gust of wind erupted, sending all the papers flying off in every direction, and toppling books from shelves as Eleanor jumped with unbridled glee. Boomer ducked as a stack of notes flew toward his face.
“Okay, okay, everyone chill!” he yelled over the chaos. The wind stopped abruptly, leaving the office in disarray.
Eleanor smoothed her hair with trembling hands. “That wasn’t you, was it?”
Boomer shook his head, still dazed. “The wind? I think that was you.”
Eleanor smoothed her hair, and sat back down in her chair. “Mind,” she said. “And… and air.” She scrambled around the mess on her desk and found a blank piece of paper, then picked up a pen from the floor. She started madly scribbling notes.
“Two of the ten currents. If the rate of manifestation is one in fifty like he said, and there are over eight thousand—”
“Hey Professor Beale, could you do me a favour and talk while you’re doing that until I can figure out how to turn this off?”
Eleanor looked over to Boomer. “One hundred and sixty,” she said.
“What?”
“Boomer, if we’re manifesting mantles, that means others are as well. You said that Ariella girl said it happens to about one in fifty, right?”
Boomer nodded.
“There’s just over eight thousand people living in this town and the region around it. Give or take a thousand, but that’s one hundred and sixty people who we can likely expect to manifest abilities. And if we both did it at the same time, that means…”
They fell into a tense silence, broken only by a faint scream from outside. Boomer rushed to the window. Across the street, a teenage boy stumbled out of his house, water swirling chaotically around him before collapsing in a torrent at his feet. His drenched mother followed, shouting in hysterical panic.
Eleanor stood, her usual composure returning as if it were armor. She picked up her purse and pulled out her keys. “We need to warn the Emergency Committee. If this is happening all over town, we’re going to have a problem. A big one.”
Boomer nodded, rising to his feet. “Yeah.”
Eleanor began to make her way to the door, and Boomer followed. Together, they stepped out of her house, leaving the chaos behind to face an even greater storm brewing in Ladysmith.
----------------------------------------
The truck rumbled to a halt several blocks from City Hall, where the highway had dissolved into an improvised parking lot. Andrew killed the engine and sat for a moment, scanning the crowded street ahead. The scene was all too familiar: confusion rippling through clumps of people, raised voices alternately shouting instructions, questions, or panic. Crises, as always, brought out the best and worst in people.
Andrew tightened his grip on the steering wheel, forcing his rising irritation back down. They didn’t know what to do. Of course they didn’t—they were civilians, untrained and unprepared. That didn’t make the chaos any easier to watch.
He stepped out of the truck, his boots crunching against the pavement. His no-nonsense stride parted the crowd as he approached City Hall. The small lawn in front of the building was packed, the gathering spilling onto the steps and beyond. A lanky man stood on the highway with his face up against a megaphone.
“We don’t know much yet.” His voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. “But what we do know is that as of 3:20 this morning, the Blacklight took us from everything we’ve ever known. Where we are, how we got here—those are questions we’re working to answer. But for now, the most important thing is survival. We’re cut off, completely on our own. That means no mail, no Amazon deliveries, no freight and no food other than what we have stocked in our cupboards and stores. That means we need to come together.”
The crowd’s murmurs swelled, a wave of unease. The man raised his hands. “I get it. You’re scared. I am too. But panicking won’t help. What will help is working together. This town has faced disaster before. We’ve endured storms, blizzards, fires, riots, mine explosions, and each time, we helped each other through it. This is no different. We’ll survive this, but only if we stick together.”
Andrew stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, watching the people shift under the man’s words. He had to admit, the man had a specific sort of presence to him. Motivational speeches like this had their place, but they rarely came with a concrete plan. Andrew knew the crowd needed more than reassurance.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
The man’s tone grew sharper. “Here’s the situation. We’ve made contact with locals—humans, no different from us—who are helping us understand this place. They speak English, and they’re friendly as far as we can tell. But they also warned us that there’s a hostile force nearby. Armed soldiers. Dangerous. We can’t rely on luck to keep us safe.”
The crowd stirred with anxious murmurs. The man leaned closer to the microphone. “They’ve agreed to lend us support. Up to a thousand soldiers—” Andrew balked at that. A thousand men? From complete strangers? He crossed his arms. Even if he took at face value that they were friendly, which he didn’t, there were logistics concerns to support a force that size. Food. Water. Latrines. Shelter. Andrew didn’t know Ladysmith well, but he was pretty certain it couldn’t handle that many people without straining the town’s resources. “—we’re raising a militia. We’ll train volunteers to defend Ladysmith. And we’ll need everyone’s help—building defenses, organizing food, figuring out how to live here. This is going to be hard. But we’ve got an edge: this is our home, and we’ll defend it to the last. Together, we’ll survive.”
Hesitant applause rippled through the crowd. Some faces showed resolve; others, pale with doubt. Andrew turned and pushed toward the front doors of City Hall. He wasn’t here to cheer. He was here to make sure things got done right.
Inside City Hall, the air was thick with tension. The cramped lobby let way into a main office, which had been converted into a makeshift command center. Tables cluttered with maps and notebooks were surrounded by staff speaking in hushed but purposeful voices. He looked over one of the maps, showing a rough circle drawn around the town. He leaned in and traced his finger around the edges. The circle ran roughly ten-to-twelve kilometers across, and X’s had been drawn in certain locations around the rim. Andrew assumed they marked scouted locations.
He scanned the room, his gaze locking on a uniformed officer near the back. The man stood hunched over another map spread across a table, a marker in hand.
Andrew stopped a passing worker with a clipboard. “Who’s in charge of the militia?”
“That’d be Sergeant Boone,” the man said, gesturing toward the officer. “By the big map.”
Andrew nodded his thanks and moved through the room. As he approached, Boone straightened, his sharp eyes appraising Andrew. Next to him stood another man, broad-shouldered and dressed in flannel. He leaned against the table, his posture casual, but his tense expression betrayed him.
“Sergeant Boone?” Andrew asked.
“Depends on who’s asking,” Boone replied.
“Chief Warrant Officer Andrew Johnson,” Andrew said, extending a hand. “Canadian Armed Forces. I was in town visiting family when this happened. Thought you could use some help.”
Boone’s handshake was firm. “Gerry Boone, RCMP. What kind of help are we talking about, Chief?”
“Defense,” Andrew said. “What do we know about this hostile force?”
Boone’s gaze shifted to the map. “Three to five thousand soldiers, armed with medieval weapons and… other things.”
“What other things?” Andrew asked.
Boone hesitated. “Magic.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Magic,” he repeated flatly. He knew the speed at which rumors spread in small communities was universal. He remembered the time a young girl claimed to have seen a Manda, a water spirit known to lure people to their deaths, by the riverbank of a small village in rural Afghanistan. By that evening, not a single person would go anywhere near it.
“Do we have any facts, Sergeant? Or are we running on superstition?”
Boone shook his head. “I can appreciate that sentiment, Chief. But if you thought the weird part ended with that damn planet in the sky, you’d be wrong. I’ve seen it myself.”
Andrew crossed his arms. Whatever Sergeant Boone was on about, it was clear he believed it himself. The options were that Boone had lost the plot, or that he was telling the God’s honest truth.
“That changes things then,” he said. “Do we have a sense of capabilities?”
He shook his head. “We’re still learning.”
“Then we’d better learn fast,” he said. “Because magic or no magic, this town won’t last an hour against a force that size, not with the level of training we have right now.”
Boone nodded slightly, though his expression remained guarded. “Sound like that’s not rhetoric. I assume it’s coming from experience?”
“I’ve spent eighteen years in the military,” Andrew replied evenly. “Four tours in Afghanistan, specializing in urban combat and counter-insurgency operations. I’ve trained soldiers, led rescue missions, and commanded a multinational platoon under fire. I’ve been acting as a Regimental Sergeant Major for the past year at CFB Edmonton with Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry.” He put one hand on the table. “I know how to organize defenses and prepare for worst-case scenarios, sir, and I’m probably the best damn resource this town could have at a time like this.”
Before Boone could respond, the other man spoke up, his tone laced with skepticism. “That’s all well and good, but this isn’t Afghanistan. These people aren’t soldiers. They’re farmers, shopkeepers, and mechanics. You can’t just roll in here, bark orders and expect them to fall in line.”
“Chief, this is Logan Matthews,” Boone said. “He’s our first volunteer for the militia.”
Andrew turned to the other man, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re right,” he said, his tone sharp but measured. “Most of these people are farmers, shopkeepers, and mechanics. You know who else were? The Taliban. They weren’t born soldiers, but they learned. Fast. Leadership, training, strategy—those are what turned them into one of the most effective insurgent forces in the modern era. Without those, they wouldn’t have lasted a week.”
Logan frowned, his arms crossing. “Sounds like you respect them.”
“I do,” Andrew replied. “Because if you don’t respect the enemy, you don’t understand them. And if you don’t understand them, you’ll never see them coming.”
“Fair point,” Logan conceded. “But you don’t turn a farmer into a soldier overnight. They’ve got to want it, believe in it. You think a town like this is ready for that?”
Andrew nodded slightly. “They’re going to have to be. Because if they’re not, we don’t stand a chance.”
Logan’s expression shifted, a flicker of reluctant agreement passing over his face. Andrew’s gaze dropped to his boots, then moved back up to the frayed flannel and knife sheath on his belt.
“You’re a hunter,” Andrew said, his tone turning more conversational but no less firm.
He raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“Hunting’s no small thing,” Andrew said. “Reading the land, tracking movement, interpreting the body language of animals, knowing when to act and when to wait—that takes skill and patience. Those are skills that translate. Hell, I’ve trained soldiers who would’ve killed for a fraction of the woodcraft you’ve probably got.”
His stance loosened slightly, though his expression remained guarded. “Glad to know I’m not completely useless,” he said dryly.
“But hunting’s not soldiering,” Andrew continued, his voice steady. “A hunter works alone, follows their gut. A soldier works as part of a unit, with discipline, structure, and clear objectives. Instinct’s good when you’re dealing with unarmed, unarmored animals incapable of any sort of advanced problem solving. But against human beings, that’ll only get you so far.”
He shifted, clearly weighing Andrew’s words. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But discipline works both ways. You’ve got to trust the skills people already have. If you try to force everyone into the same mold, you’ll waste what they’re good at.”
Andrew paused, then gave a single, approving nod. “A good leader knows how to use the tools they’ve got.”
The moment of accord was interrupted by Boone’s sharp voice cutting in.
“If you two are done measuring dicks,” Boone said, stepping between them with a commanding glare. “This isn’t a damn debate. We don’t have time for egos or hypotheticals. Right now, I need both of you working on the same side.”
Boone turned to Andrew. “You’ve got the experience, Chief. That’s clear. You might even be the highest ranking active duty member in this town. But remember, this isn’t the military, and we aren’t soldiers. These people are scared, and if you start barking orders at them like they’re military, you’re going to do more harm than good. With that said, we can use you.”
He looked to the other man. “And Logan—your skills are valuable. You probably know those woods better than any other person in this town, but the Chief here is right. You’re not out there tracking deer or cougars. We’re up against people that didn’t grow up with the same creature comforts we did. To fight that, we need structure and a chain of command. If you can’t get on board with that, we’re done before we’ve started.”
Logan muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue further.
Andrew crossed his arms and gave Boone a curt nod. “Understood.”
A loud noise pulled Andrew’s attention to the entrance, where a middle-aged Asian woman with glasses stumbled into the office followed by a younger man, lean and wiry.
“Sergeant Boone!” the woman exclaimed, and made a frantic bee-line directly for the cop. She was anxious, but anxious in the way of someone who knew a little bit too much. “Ladysmith residents are starting to manifest their mantles. We need to get everyone outside, now, or we’re going to have a huge disaster on our hands.”
Boone processed the information for a moment. “Fuck,” Boone said.
----------------------------------------
The Tahoe’s engine ticked as it cooled in the mountain air, the four of them stepping out into a small clearing off the gravel path. The slope ahead rose steeply toward a sheer crest, marked by strange trees with thick, gnarled trunks and broad, dark leaves that glinted faintly in the sun. It was familiar in its strangeness, like a patchwork of Earth’s flora stitched together into something subtly wrong. Cale adjusted his holster, his gaze sweeping over the path. This is it, he thought. The edge of the Earth, or what’s left of it. Everything beyond this point is… their world.
Ahead, Nalya moved with an ease born of confidence, her golden braid bouncing lightly against her back. Bayne’s heavier frame followed, his boots crunching against the loose gravel. Keltz, bringing up the rear, had a soldier’s steady gait, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Cale lingered for a moment, glancing back at the SUV as if expecting it to vanish the second he looked away.
“Constable,” Keltz called over his shoulder. “You’re still with us?”
“Yeah,” Cale said, stepping forward and catching up. He glanced at the terrain ahead. “I take it there’s no marked trail?”
“Not in the way you mean,” Keltz replied with a faint smile. “The land here is safe enough if you stay alert.”
“Safe enough,” Cale repeated under his breath, tightening the strap of his flashlight holster. His gaze darted to the trees ahead, imagining all sorts of creatures lurking just out of sight. “Okay, so… should I be worried about dragons or anything?”
Bayne snorted, the sound low and dismissive. “I haven’t seen a dragon in weeks.”
“I’m sorry, weeks?” Cale asked. He was trying to make a joke. That was the last answer he’d expected.
“Bayne exaggerates,” Nalya interjected, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Dragons have been extinct for centuries. The War of Eventide saw to that. All that remains are their bones, scattered across the Pactlands.”
Cale frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Extinct dragons. Great. Because that’s totally normal,” he muttered to himself.
Bayne glanced back at him. “You talk to yourself often, Constable?”
Cale’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his tone measured. “Sometimes. Helps to stay grounded when everything’s surreal.”
Bayne grunted, offering no reply as he turned and trudged onward.
The climb was steep but manageable, the crunch of gravel and the rustle of leaves filling the air. As they crested the ridge, Cale stopped short, his eyes widening at the sight below. Five men sat around a fire in the clearing—Nalya’s men. They stood at attention as Nalya approached, but it wasn’t the soldiers that held his attention.
“Okay… what the hell are those?” he asked, staring at the creatures.
Eight of them stood in a loose semicircle. They were tall and sleek. Birds of a sort, but over two meters tall, and unlike any bird he’d ever seen. They stood on powerful legs and sharp talons that scraped at the ground. Their plumage shimmered in the sunlight, vivid yellows streaked with subtle greens and blues, like tropical birds scaled up to the size of small horses. Their crests bobbed as they moved, and their beady eyes gleamed with intelligence as they looked at Cale. Cale knew what it felt like to be sized up. He experienced it all the time as a cop.
But never by an eight foot tall bird.
Keltz grinned, stepping forward. “Brightstriders. Never seen their like, I take it?”
Cale shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away. “Not even close. They’re… are they mounts?”
“They are,” Keltz said, a note of pride in his voice. “Fast, sharp, and reliable. Perfect for this terrain.”
Cale approached cautiously, his steps slow and deliberate. One of the brightstriders tilted its head toward him, sniffing the air with a curious trill. He stopped a few feet away, unsure whether to be impressed or terrified. “Those claws look...serious.”
“They are,” Keltz replied, stroking the neck of one of the creatures, its golden feathers shimmering. “Brightstriders are carnivorous. They hunt small prey—rabbits, birds, that sort of thing—but they can defend themselves against much larger predators if need be.”
Cale glanced at the brightstrider’s talons, each one as long as his forearm, and swallowed hard. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“This one here is Aurora,” Keltz said, gesturing to a particularly vibrant brightstrider whose feathers gleamed with a mix of yellow and deep green. “She’s swift and clever, the best in the flock. Saved my life more than once.”
Cale raised an eyebrow, his curiosity outweighing his caution. “Saved your life? How?”
Keltz grinned, patting Aurora’s flank. “Outran a pack of shadow wolves in the woods near Asha’Nigh one night when I got separated from the hunting party. She kept her head while I lost mine.”
Shadow wolves. Cale nodded slowly, his mind spinning with questions about what other creatures might inhabit this world. If brightstriders were real, what else was out there? His thoughts were interrupted as Nalya’s voice rose above the din.
“Then return to Stone’s Mouth,” she instructed her men. “Support Lieutenant Syrel in securing the village, then he is to come this way at first light with no more than a hundred men, and establish three runners. I want updates every six hours while the sun is up.”
Her soldiers saluted with their fists to their chests, their movements crisp and disciplined. One by one, they mounted the brightstriders, the creatures adjusting seamlessly to the weight of their riders. Nalya approached her own mount, a brightstrider with feathers touched by a reddish hue, and swung into the saddle with practiced ease while Bayne and Keltz did the same with their own.
“Lead the way, Constable,” she said, her tone calm and expectant.
Cale hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Adjusting his holster, he moved to the front of the group, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his shoulders. He cast one last glance at Nalya’s men as they rode off into the distance, knowing it wouldn’t be long until he, too, went down that very road.
First, he needed sleep, then he needed to prepare.