The First Halo of Ciazel,

The city of Reynor,

The Abode of the Seer

Today, Fiona was to dive into the knowledge of someone who knew what could have been, what was being, what had been, and what will be. Today, she was to unveil the uncertainties that often plagued those who walked on the physical side of Spiravale. Today, she was going to see through someone else’s eyes. Today, she was to discover her future.

Presumably, at least.

As Fiona gave a small push to the misshapen door made out of cylindrical wooden logs, a whole essay of runes lit up across the timber walls of the cabin-style home. The lines of scripts glowed strongest from the doorframe and paled as it stretched, creating an ombre effect eager to enthrall the gaze of the enterer.

Fiona, eying the shadows that engulfed the entirety of what was inside—swaying and hissing at her entrance—swallowed dryly. “Seer?

Enchanted light bulbs flickered on in accordance, lighting a path. “Over here, dear. Come quickly, the tea is getting cold.”

Fiona followed the illuminated hallway, muttering to herself, “Definitely not creepy...”

At the end of the corridor, past an arching entrance, was where the Seer called from. A roaring hearth rendered the visage of an older lady rocking in her chair, white strands highlighting the grey of her hair and crow feet framing calm eyes. With a steaming cup within her hands, the Seer gestured to the counter not too far away, where a kettle and a formation of different kinds of teabags lay.

Not looking directly at her, the Seer smiled. “Help yourself, dear, then come sit.”

Fiona sat first, to the confusion of her company. She then honed in on the mug the Seer was sipping. Not so much the snowflake design plastered onto the surface, but more the space it was occupying—the reality it held in the now and then. And she grasped that concept, the stained rim, chipped handle, and swishing liquid with not her hands but instead, her mind.

Then, she warped it.

“Spatial Shift.”

Fiona cast the spell and in less than a blink, the cup of tea, warm and all, was now in her hands. She smiled at her success, a spell once difficult years ago.

“Colour me impressed,” the Seer deadpanned, her face the very image of stone.

“Thank you, thank you.” Fiona grinned and handed the woman across from her the tea back, lest she left empty-handed. “I think it’s about time we get to business.”

“I concur.” The Seer placed her cup of tea on the table between them. “What would you like to know, or in a better term, perhaps see?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Fiona admitted. “I’m only here because my mother apparently booked this session be—”

“Before you were even born, yes, I know,” The seer finished. “And I know why, as well.”

Ashley Lenson, better known as the Seer, hailed from a house exalted for their affinity with the Impartial Elemental Gates, including the Gates of Divination, Time, and Clairvoyance—the rarest affinities across the entire world.

People from the four ends of Spiravale travelled in whatever form was available to sit at their spotless steps, most settling for a look alone.

So for her mother to book a session with an unborn child was, to say the least, the greatest act of dominance to all other esteemed families eying the Rhodes’ place in the country of Ciazel.

In brief, Fiona was a line to cross within her mother’s elaborate scheme.

A number to crunch.

The thought twisted at Fiona’s heart in a way she could hardly express. It made her seethe, scrunching up her nose whenever the notion leaked onto her face unbidden.

“It doesn’t bother you that this is all a ploy for her to raise her status?” Fiona asked before she could stop herself. “That you’re being used?”

Archon Lenson simply sipped at her tea. “I could say the same for you, cadet. After all, you’re a tool to the military, are you not?”

Fiona scoffed. “That’s hardly the same.”

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“If you wish to believe so, be my guest. Now, unless you wish to tarry in the mundane and the typical, this is your last chance. What do you wish to see?”

“I’ll leave it up to you to decide. You tell me if there’s anything interesting in the foreseeable future.”

“Okay,” the Seer took another sip of her tea. “What most on your level consider a scar, he is what’s making you happy so far. He already bears a strike on his eye because of you. Beware, else that’ll most definitely multiply into two.”

Fiona’s growing grin ceased as the prophecy progressed. It was no mystery about who she was referring to, nor were the people on her level. “How serious are we talking about here?”

The Seer gave a small, wistful smile. “Nothing too big, just his rather… cheerful sister.”

“Oh.” Fiona chuckled until the Seer’s claims sunk fully. “Wait, Carielle’s the one who gave him that scar? His eight-year-old sister?”

“It’s a long story,” Archon Lenson answered, “and definitely not mine to tell.”

“And the rhymes?”

“Just for fun,” the Seer got out right as she winced and inhaled a sharp breath. She cradled her head in one palm, a dribble of blood dripping from her nose.

Fiona shot up. “Where do you keep your healing scrolls? I’ll get one for you.”

“I’m fine, dear.” The Seer gave her a weak smile, exhaling slowly and wiping the line of blood with a sleeve. “I’ve been having these headaches and the like for quite some time now.”

“And you haven’t thought of visiting the hospital once?” Fiona asked. The bodies of a mage progressed, becoming less injury-prone as one advanced, especially so for an Archon. Bullets able to tear up the scariest of aether creatures must feel like snowflakes to her, and here the Seer was having nosebleeds on the regular.

The Seer reclined in her chair and shut her eyes. “It comes with the job.”

Fiona stared at her counterpart for some time as she sat back down. “Alright…”

Who was she to refute her claims?

“Tell me something else then,” Fiona said, now very interested in this conversation. “Something of great import that you know I'd like to hear.”

Woodfire cracked in the hearth, splashing yellows and oranges onto the two seated ladies. The flash of light harshed the wrinkles marking Archon Lenson’s face as she massaged her temple with a finger.

Just as Fiona was going to ask if she was alright, the Seer’s grey, depthless eyes snapped open, glowing a deep purple. “Even the playing field, or all of you shall and will be evened.”

“Playing field,” Fiona repeated, eyebrows pinched together. Sports was far from anything she kept track of, and here was a prophecy supposedly able to grab her attention.

Diviners were said to speak in riddles, but the previous prediction given was as straightforward as can be. And now, she was handed a verdict that could be deciphered in as many ways as there were elements.

Think, Fiona. Think.

Her mother’s dreaded mantra made its way into her head, for better or worse.

With one last look towards the older woman who looked somewhat out of it, Fiona dived into her stream of thoughts.

Playing field didn't necessarily relate to sports, even if it was where the name was derived from. It could mean anything that carried players, which brought her to the next conundrum.

Who were the players, and how many were there? What kind of players were they? Anywhere from video games to elemental archery qualified as having a player base to Fiona, not including if the term player was to be taken as a stand-in for yet another interpretation.

Then there was the final, looming claim: all of you will and shall be evened.

Evened could mean tied in a set score. Fiona hoped it would.

In the way she decoded it, though, to be evened meant to be levelled, flattened, and destroyed.

If the ambiguity stopped there, Fiona would’ve gone home with fists clenched together in fear, unable to sleep without nightmares plaguing her rest.

However, as her brain worked to crack the words, her stomach churned the more she ruminated on it. One single word made it so she would spend most nights staring at her spiked ceiling, unable to even close her eyes.

You.

You as in herself, Fiona? You as in her family, the Rhodes? You, as in her country, Ciazel? You, as in the Western Continent, Toreth? Should she go any further?

Fiona paled at the spiral she swiftly fell into, seeing no end in her questions. So, she leaned forward, asking the possible sole person who she could glean an answer from. “Where in the world is this playing field—hell, how massive are we talking here? By even, should I make it fair across all players or should I remove the hills making the ground multi-levelled? How will I know?”

Archon Lenson merely blinked and sighed. A sigh that spoke more than words. “You’ll know.”

The number one rule when going to see a diviner of any sort was to never—not even once—push for more information. Such actions might be a mere drop to an ocean, an act of little disturbance to the delicate existence that was time.

In other instances, those ripples caused by the lone droplet might converge to form a wave, creating a new set of occurrences never intended to happen by greater forces beyond understanding, thus changing—and ruining—the prediction given.

Fiona asked a question and she was declined for a reason.

Who knew if the newfound knowledge changed the future actions she would take that could stop the incoming could-be-disaster?

Rising from her seat and thanking the Seer for her time with a bow, Fiona left with millions of uncertainties, save for one thing: she hoped with all of her heart that she, being her usual self, was over-complicating things.

She hoped that the most at risk were solely the points scored in the Major League Aether Zone Cup.

Saints knew the alternatives were dim.