The 31st day of Stellara, The Aurora Federation

It was sweltering on that Stellara day, but the weather did not bother Malakyh El-Amin. One reason was that Strega soldiers trained in harsh conditions; two, his benefactor would not pay him if he failed.

He was one of the co-members who invented the Web of Scarlet–a clandestine network that operated in the shadows of legality, selling rare to illegal items. Every so often, Malakyh liked to step out and do a run or two; it gave the newbies a break so they could not mess up. Nothing was worse than ruining a mission and being tortured.

The city's labyrinthine alleys cradled secrets, and Malakyh El-Amin moved through them like a phantom, his form melding with the shadows. Clad in a tailored ensemble that seemed to absorb the night, he embodied the essence of a Strega, a master of stealth.

The night air was thick with anticipation, and Al’Qadim city pulsed beneath his agile steps. The city’s location resided in the Grand Bazaar, a grand market where traders across the Federation converged to exchange goods. Cobblestones whispered beneath his soft-soled shoes as he navigated the alleys, the scent of spice and distant chatter filling the air.

In his brown hands, Malakyh cradled a small, ornate box, the objective of his mission. The highest bidder bought the artifact, and it was part of his job to deliver its contents to the buyer immediately.

He gracefully moved across obstacles and melted into the tapestry of darkness. Amid narrow passageways and hidden chambers, the pulse of the city's secrets thrummed to life.

He moved, with grace, past the buildings of domes and arches. Mosques with towering minarets dot the landscape where they celebrated Saint Lumos, and the skyline held elegant silhouettes of ancient citadels.

The city held its breath, unaware of the figure moving through the shadows.

“Here’s the place….” Malakyh whispered underneath his cowl. His dark hazel-eyed gaze scanned the area for thieves and muggers.

The empty, long street of dilapidated houses gave an air of misery and despair as if the patrons who had lived– or still lived in them –were always suffering. It pained him to see where people laid their heads and lived in fear of starvation, sickness, or thievery.

Malakyh knew this experience well, but he did something about it before he decided he was tired of being in the muck. Since the Federation works by a codex system, it could take months to make changes.

He would take up that mantle if no one else would aid his people.

Malakyh walked toward one of the houses and reached out to pull the drape away when his breath caught wind of a dark aura in the air.

“Hmph, not a mugger, but equally annoying…” he mumbled with a sigh. He did not bother to look around, knowing that the denizen was none other than Djinn, a spirit that possessed humans for their nefarious whims. If someone was caught in sight of one, your soul belonged to them.

Malakyh counted six surrounding him. Their ethereal bodies were dark shadows, with no faces, lanky arms wrapped in bandages, and a wisp tail end instead of feet.

He raised them to his nose with two fingers, and an incantation fell past his lips. He was not only an ex-Custodian; his teachings as a Strega had been so deeply ingrained that he could recite them in his sleep. Ghostly chains emerged from the ground and wrapped securely around the shadowy djinn, imprisoning them as they shrieked in pain. The chains sapped their life force away.

Malakyh was a formidable presence.. He phased out of existence into the shadows and slashed through each target one by one with quick precision. The captured djinn disappeared in scattered shadows defeated.

Someone clapped behind him.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” the woman said. She sounded young but old at the same time.

Malakyh smirked. He already knew who it was. “And you still have a habit of playing tricks. I guess you must be my benefactor.” He turned to see a collective mist, and a woman with gray hair pinned in a high bun approached him.

She had a pale complexion and lidded silver eyes. Despite her appearance, which made her look in her early 20s, she was several hundreds of years old and belonged to an ancient group that had been present long ago.

“Hello again, Master Hersa.”

The woman's painted red lips spread into an even small smile.

“You no longer need to call me Master, Malakyh. You have far surpassed everything I have taught you.”

Malakyh grinned. “You'll still always be my master. I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for you.”

When he was still a Custodian, Madame Hersa took him in and opened his eyes to “the true image” of the world. The moment he realized how the other nations—like the Argonian Empire—treated them and did things the ‘right way,’ he cut ties with the Western region and joined Madame Hersa's group—an ancient and secretive group: The Coven of Primal Weavers.

“What brought you back after so long?”

The air grew cold, and the expression on his master's face grew dark. A shiver ran up his spine.

“The Children of Deimos. They're back.”

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The month of Aquamora, the 1st day of Aquisol - Off the coast of Argonian Empire

In the last two weeks since the Citizen’s Chamber Conference, people were in constant uproar because of Chancellor Viktor Radovinov’s message. The Harmony Tax raised the price of everything, starting with wheat.

Those who could not afford it were enraged and protested.

Many were also fearful of the newly emerged Ethereal Rifts, the unknown giant monsters emerging from them, and the ferocity of the Fiends.

Stolen novel; please report.

The worst part was that no one was telling the world anything. As if keeping secrets from the public would do more harm, this was a poor insight, and it created rebel factions to oppose the Empire.

The Dawn Coalition.

Mercenaries were duty-bound to help the people where the nations failed.

Their first mission was to send a message to the Empire.

To dethrone a king, you needed to spark a revolution and gather like-minded individuals to thwart it.

That was their goal, their vision.

Their motto was "Live chained or die with honor." A little over a thousand people shared that vision.

The night clung to the Imperial Fortress like a shroud, raindrops cascading from the sky in a melancholy symphony. The cobblestone streets glistened with the reflections of street lamps, their feeble glow not affecting the ominous shadows looming in the distance.

The Dawn Coalition moved like a shadow in the downpour, their figures shrouded in cloaks, their steps splashing in the rain puddles.

The Mercenaries, a motley crew of men and women commoners, moved with a determined purpose. They were clad in a mishmash of attire, from tattered cloaks to makeshift armor, a patchwork of raised fists, to the rays of light on their shoulder that shared their cause. The scent of wet earth mingled with the tang of rebellion.

Amid the darkness, Maxwell Croger, Sovran #5, observed from a concealed vantage point. His golden brown eyes, bored and detached, surveyed the unfolding rebellion like a general overseeing a strategic maneuver. The rain kissed his face as the ends of platinum white hair stuck to his cheek, but his demeanor remained stoic and unyielding.

As the mercenaries approached the fortress, its imposing structure rose like a monolith against the stormy sky. The large iron gates, usually a symbol of obscurity, now seemed to creak in anticipation of the impending clash.

The Mercenaries, led by a charismatic figure known as Captain Isabeau, surged forward with a roar that reverberated through the night. The first clash echoed like thunder as the rebels collided with the fortress guards. Swords clashed, and the staccato rhythm of gunfire punctuated the air.

Croger observed with an eerie calmness, his lips forming a subtle smirk. To him, this chaos was a means to an end. The Dawn Coalition's assault was a symphony of disorder, and every note played was a step closer to a predetermined crescendo.

The rain intensified, turning the battleground into a sea of conflict. Amid the chaos, the fortress gates groaned under the pressure of the rebellion. The Mercenaries fought with a fervor born of desperation, their cries melding with the storm's symphony.

Maxwell Crogers's expression remained unchanged. The pieces were in motion and unfolded according to the carefully laid plan. The rebellion collided with the fortress, and the city became a stage for a tumultuous opera, its climax concealed in the stormy night.

In the aftermath of the siege, the victorious mercenaries, their breath still ragged from the chaos above, pressed deeper into the bowels of the Imperial Fortress. Their boots echoed against stone grounds, carrying the symphony of rebellion, now muffled by the fortress's insulating structure.

As they progressed, a vigilant eye among the rebels spotted a hidden door. In hushed tones, they hurried for the doorway. The torch's flickering flame danced with excitement as it approached the concealed entrance.

The door creaked open, revealing a descending staircase that seemed to disappear into darkness. The mercenaries hesitated for a moment, glancing at one another with uncertainty. Yet, driven by the spirit of rebellion, they descended, leaving the sounds of chaos above to grow distant.

The torch cast long shadows as they ventured into the unseen depths. The air changed, becoming stale and tinged with an odd metallic scent. The siege sounds softened, replaced by the calm echoes of their footsteps.

They stumbled upon a hidden laboratory, machines humming with an eerie vitality. The mercenaries gawked at the intricate display surrounding them, whispers of awe escaping their lips.

Their attention was drawn to a cylindrical containment unit, the source of a faint blue luminescence. With a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity, they approached. A mercenary, torch in hand, activated the mechanism, and the transparent surface revealed a shocking sight.

Within the confines of the container, a small unconscious figure—a brown-skinned child with cascading white hair—was present. The realization of her captivity within this arcane prison gripped the rebels' hearts.

Alarms blared, shattering the moment. The military would be alerted to the breach and closing in soon. Panic surged through the mercenaries. In a hurried frenzy, they released the child, covering her fragile form with whatever garments they could find. The urgency of escape replaced the earlier awe as they rushed to the surface,

As they ascended the steps, the sounds of conflict intensified. The fortress, once a symbol of authority, was now a battleground. The mercenaries emerged into the night, and the military greeted them with weapons.

The mercenaries—those still alive—fought back as much as they could. The mercenary holding the child ran with several others in tow; many of their brethren had fallen.

“Get in!” Their leader, Isabeau, urged them into a large carriage with a white tent over it.

The mercenaries bombarded the horse-drawn carriage, and it snapped to life as it ran across the cobblestone highway.

“What is that?” Isabeau asked after making sure that everyone took their seats.

The mercenary revealed the small child wrapped in cloth, and everyone stared in shock and horror at what the Empire could be doing to this child.

Before anyone could speak, a blast resounded through the air, followed by the carriage flying through the air and ricocheting off the side of the cliff.

The cold splash of the water ignited the girl's body, and her eyes snapped open, revealing red eyes.

An eerie surge of power whipped around and cradled her into a cocoon, floating her to the top as her unconscious body sailed far from the burning fortress.

Croger tipped his tricorne hat as the wind blew and swept his ear-length dark brown hair, a few strands of white at the ends, and watched the scene play out from afar. Like many other Sovran’s, he was also a Watcher to ensure things went as planned for the Arbiter.

“You aren't authorized to be here. Who are you?” A voice said behind him. He did not turn around to know who it was behind him.

“So, Lumos sends her Lichtkriegers to do her business now. But I'm sure you know very well who we are.” His tone expressed boredom that he wished to be anywhere but here.

He did not even need the man to say their name, as he had already come to his suspicions. “Why have you come back?” he asked, not turning around to face the person. The brown-haired man approached him, his blue eyes filled with intensity.

“It is all a part of the plan. All you Lichtkriegers and Lumos will finally see what we are capable of when we have been pushed to the brink.”

The blonde-haired Lictkrieger gritted his teeth. “Something priceless was stolen from Lumos. Is that what your group had come back for?”

This time, Croger faced his blonde-haired assailant and shrugged his shoulders.

“We aren't the only group with a grudge against Lumos. She did dismiss the Coven of Primal Weavers more than five hundred years ago.”

“So, you admit your groups are working together?”

Croger stood and looked up at the rainy sky. Droplets fell on his cheek as he took in the refreshing feeling on his face.

“Well? Answer me!”

“It's time for me to go; the job is complete.”

With that, he leaned over the side of the building and fell off it. However, nobody was lying on the ground when the blonde Lictkrieger rushed to the building's side.

It was as if he disappeared into thin air.