Early morning, five thirty, and six shadows glided over the snowy rat maze of downtown Trepedite, elongated by the maiden rays of the breaking dawn. Oblong in their shape, they most resembled rounded rhombuses than any recognisable aircraft. And even as the populous—roused by blaring evacuation alarms—glared into the sky, no one could quite understand what they were looking at.

The more perceptive, able to glimpse the shapes from the suspended trams, found them to be Spirits. Through the layer of frost on their windows, they could only conclude based on loose theory rather than informed discernment. Spirit incursions were rare but not unheard of. Often misguided by the bright lights of the uptown district, such sights were nothing of note.

But then those same people noticed the sirens attached to those cruising shapes.

Sirens that cast bold shades of blue and red into the city’s recesses where the morning light had failed to reach. Like the unmistakable toll of a fire engine, the speakers repeated a single message until their orders were inescapable.

“Geverde Disaster Rescue Team! Clear a path!”

The shadows were Spirits. Capable of controlled levatation, they soared through the chilled morning air on two leathery wings. Despite being riddled with shifting holes, moving across the skin like oil in water, they flew. Their pinprick eyes faced forward as they carried ten bodies each. An even mixture of Beak and human, the operatives were fitted head to toe in tactical gear. Somewhere between the outfits of an army soldier and paramedic, the ten men and women on each transport carried with them an arsenal of tools. Not including their training, they came equipped with everything from medical equipment to rope, harnesses to gas masks.

Where they differed were their specialisations. Many brought mining tools. Pickaxes and shovels intent on digging the injured out of the rubble. Others brought magically infused saws and axes, purpose-built for cutting through metal.

Yet such implements were commonplace in Trepedite, if not having mechanical alternatives. More local rescue teams were as well trained, and their veterans were as well versed in the art of urban rescue as any of Geverde’s finest. Instead, it was the third major specialisation amongst its members that made them so prized amongst their own kingdom, let alone any other.

The four transports encroached on their final destination and, at the behest of their handlers, began to circle the site. The rescue workers peered over the edge of their transport as they prepared their abseiling ropes.

A scarlet dome protruded from the ground. Magic, and a malicious kind at that.

Stretching from the surrounding roads, the dome encased inside it, a manufacturing plant with everyone in it. The captives' status remained unknown, but dead or alive, they were to retrieve as many as possible. Many of the rescue workers lamented, recognising the dome’s colour and the claw-like markings across its translucent surface. Telltale signs of the tragedies that had plagued human nation after human nation in the previous weeks. From the heart of humanity to the fringes of diesel’s influence, the mocking visage of the same scarlet dome had appeared across the species’ empire.

Each time, it took with it a tribute: every single human in its radius.

The rescue workers tied their ropes to the carabiners stitched into the transport’s harness and got into position. They took one final look at the police perimeter and local rescue teams raring for their turn to begin. They dropped.

Zipping down the line, their gloves grew hot from the friction as the dome drew nearer and nearer to their boots. Each worker inched closer and closer to the malevolent surface, not daring to touch it directly. No adverse effects from direct contact had been discovered, but none were willing to be the first to try.

They clamped up on their slack as their boots came mere centimetres away from the dome. They fastened their rope and confirmed their knots were secure. They gave their signals, and the final speciality of each team came into play.

Four individuals adept in Aetherology drew pole charges from their backs. Like other instruments of Aetherology, the devices were made with the sensibilities of a bygone era—encased in brass and packed tight with toothed cogs jutting from the body, interweaving the mechanical and the magical in a delicate harmony.

The charge came segmented, needing straightening on use. After locking each segment into place, the charges were driven into the dome before activation. Despite each member's expertise, little of it was required to operate their instrument of choice. Once the button was pressed and the gears began to turn, the charge’s directive was singular. Destroy magic patterns.

The charges let out sparks of green, weaving themselves into the silk-thin fabric of the dome and eating away at it. The wave spread, deciphering each and every claw marking and dispelling it. Like a virus, the destructive drive spread across the dome slowly, much slower than what was ideal. Despite the highest grade of implement Aetherology could muster, the raw power of unexplainable magic itself proved difficult to defeat.

Despite their impatience, the virus proved triumphant, cutting incisions into the barrier’s membrane wide enough for the teams to enter. They gave the signal, intent on a final approach.

Gas masks, eyewear, the covering of any exposed skin, and a final protective implement. They tapped the bracelets on their wrists against their bodies, and the magic imbued within them blossomed. Hard to describe yet easy to understand: a strong warding charm was likely the most apt analogy.

As fully protected as Geverde’s brightest minds allowed, the rescue teams made their breach.

The aura was thick, turning the crisp air viscous like a marsh in the heat of summer. The Beaks amongst the group, naturally more in tune with matters of Aether and magic registered it the instant they entered the dome. With their sensitivities facing imminent meltdown if it were not for the warding magic, they recognised both the lack of any chemical hazards, nor the need for any in the first place.

Like a cancer, the magic was malignant and efficacious, yet the Beaks understood that they were not the target of its directive. The beast in red tint cared only for their human teammates, oblivious to the red magic clawing away at their warding barriers.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The teams landed on the concrete sidewalk outside the factory’s west wall. For only a metre or so in front of their eyes did the city street look like anything so quotidian. Beyond that, it was an alien landscape of harsh contours marred by toxic red. As soon as their boots touched the ground, they unhooked themselves from the line and awaited the remainder of their procession. But a few metres in front of them were the eager local rescue forces, helpless until Geverde’s finest did their duty. They waited, a world apart.

The teams got into position as the Aether specialists handed out pole charge after pole charge to every teammate in their vicinity as each silently carried out their pre-briefed orders. Pole charge in hand, they ran to the barrier’s edge and snapped them into place, aligning them with the circular edge as close as a straight line could be. The line of charges eventually cleared almost twenty metres from end to end, with four Aetherology specialists kneeling beside it, evenly placed and equally prepared.

The charges activated. Orders stronger than their breacher cousins, they were created for the express purpose of demolishing on a wider scale. Gears turning and magic patterns firing, they were what sticks of dynamite were to firecrackers. Green magic fervently latched onto the red membrane and began to do its work. An equally malignant force, eating away at the red evil layer-by-layer, like a horde of ants to a rotting corpse.

The barrier lifted, although recalcitrant to the bitter end, fighting tooth and nail like a rabid dog to keep its form and continue its directive. As it lifted, the tainted Aether escaped, acting as problematically as any other hazardous gas. It charged the makeshift perimeter in rolling clouds, like a torrential wave with all the hunting instinct of a pack of rabid wolves. The local emergency services, shielded by the same magic that had, up until then, protected Geverde’s finest, charged forward in a torrent of their own.

Geverde’s rescue workers were overwhelmed by the tidal wave of police, firefighters and medical services as they rushed into positions around the factory’s perimeter. Door busting, window smashing, the operation came under full swing like clockwork striking the hour, and Geverde’s team allowed themselves to breathe a sigh of relief.

The Beaks looked around at each other, reassessing their position as the initial chaos subsided and the red tint drained from their bone-white masks.

Yet none could find the masks with gas filters and glass lenses. From Beak to Beak, the growing realisation began to send pangs of panic through each and every one of them. They began to look around, verifying their positions, some even looking at where they remembered a human teammate to be standing no more than a minute ago.

There were gaps amongst the eighteen remaining.

A few began to run into the building, pushing past the rescue workers only starting to cross the threshold of the factory’s outer walls. More tainted Aether escaped, more malice dispelled and dissolved into the neutral Aether outside, yet even as the morning sun’s rays finally penetrated even the inside of the factory floor, there was not a single sign of life.

Evident signs of struggle. Knocked over workbenches, hurriedly discarded tools, emergency alarms still blaring their red hue uselessly into the mist. A picture-perfect freeze frame of what the present could only assume was some sort of ‘final moment’ of the victims’ lives.

They still searched, combing through the still-life with the combined forces of all rescue workers still present. Searching under desks and in cabinets, crying out the names of their missing comrades until their voice boxes crackled and sparked.

Provenance watched as the last vestiges of the short-lived yet admittedly awe-inspiring exhibition dispelled into the morning Aether. His humble hotel room’s view barely cleared the roofs of the buildings across the street, yet he had observed the marvellous display through the generous gap between two city blocks before him. What was ordinarily a bustling morning market turned black with the fall of dusk had been utterly deserted. The streets were quiet, save for the few balconies that could get a clearer view of the scene.

Provenance had observed the view over a morning cup, not so much enjoying it as he was overseeing it. As someone with no stake in the operation, he found less satisfaction in its completion than he did in his coffee. His guest the night before had proven more than competent in his method of operation, leaving Provenance nowhere to offer his expertise without coming off as crass. Seeing his comrade off as they left the city its final parting gift was the least he could do.

Even if his guest did not realise it, they were but two beings with the same final goals; there was mutual respect in that no matter how far their paths strayed.

His guest was more infamous in certain circles for an unparalleled ability to invest in opportunities long-term. Whether the goal be monetary or theological, the bread would bake in the oven for years at a time, its product always more than making up for the wait. Provenance, believing more in a quantitative approach to his methods, had only recently taken notes from his guest’s handbook.

He’d leave only a handful of loaves where an entire bakery once stood, entertaining himself with the odd muffin or puff pastry.

Puff pastry. Breakfast was sorted.

But before that, there was still time for a phone call. There was no phone in Provenance’s room. He had neglected to pay for what was nowadays a common luxury. The discretion coupled with the view from the window had been more than enough for him. After all, even if there had been, there was no chance he was using it, even if the room was booked out under a fake name.

He pulled on his overcoat and stepped outside, ducking under the ceiling light hanging by a thread and taking caution with his footwork, stepping around the ominous stains patchworking the faded blue carpet. He came to the elevator shaft and called it, deciding to play the game he would most often play in such situations.

He closed his eyes and listened for the rattles, gauged the incremental volume increase and waited.

“Four, three, two—”

The elevator screeched to a halt in front of him. Half a second off, as always. Taking the time to listen was a habit he had developed by himself, but the value of listening was something he had learnt from…an acquaintance. He stepped inside, leaving his daydreaming on his floor and descending to the first.

The lobby was as empty as the day before, leaving only the tired old lady working the receptionist desk to hold the fort.

“Good morning,” Provenance nodded, not waiting for a response before heading for the exit.

The street was still deserted, and Provenance had admittedly let slip the curfew order from his mind before stepping out into the street. Feeling aware of something beforehand took away the necessary urgency needed to act wholly natural. But instead of turning tail, he kept forward. He turned left, trekking along the sidewalk with his hands in his pocket and eyes on the concrete.

A police patrol turned onto the street as he reached the jet-black telephone booth, sandwiched between a used goods shop and the entrance to an adult entertainment parlour. He entered the booth as the patrol made a final approach.

“Hey!” an officer shouted, leaning from the passenger window. “You deaf? There’s a curfew!”

Provenance turned, stretching his mouth into his best imitation smile.

“Thank you for the warning,” he began. “But I don’t believe those rules apply to me.”

The officer paused, his slight twitching and swaying only the involuntary variety. He blinked, then nodded.

“I see. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

Provenance shut the booth door and began to dial a number he had only recently committed to memory. The dial tone rang once before the operator answered, much faster than he was used to in other less human-middling nations.

“Hello, I’d like to place an international call on urgent business to Regalda city in the Kingdom of Yarro, area code four two three, house number six…seven zero.”

The operator confirmed the request, and Provenance waited for the connection. He closed his eyes once again.

“Hello, this is Dr Herrel Fraddick speaking.”

“Hello, Fraddick. We spoke on the phone a week ago regarding your sponsorship. Congratulations, my business partners and I have decided to fund your research into Aether erasure technology.”