A peculiar cluster of Aether receptors, swaddled in the poorest branches of Fadaak, lit up like neurons in a waking brain. A low humming terminal of activity amongst a disorganised mishmash of misaligned buildings and mangled streets. Such a place was secluded yet hospitable, unlike the desert. Residents could raise suspicions, but in such a ghetto, few were willing to act on it.

Three communication stations fought for space into the apartment. A space more reminiscent of a black-market animal enclosure than a rentable room. Yet, the fact it had four unbroken walls made it the best in the area.

Each station processed oncoming signal after oncoming signal, sifting through channels for a recognisable voice or a specific string of words. Any indicator of whom they were listening to and what the message concerned.

The keywords the three interpreters received were disjointed and nonsensical, yet they were used to this. Often, these keywords were indeed unrelated and random. Jargon, chosen by enemies to throw the interpreters off their tails. They were trained to identify even subtle words that could be woven into everyday conversation.

This assignment, they were handed down three main key phrases. Witch, in the city, and Hardridge.

All three interpreters had cocked their heads at the last term. Hardridge was an uncommon name, and the General who had tied it to his legacy was largely unknown outside of Sidos and Geverde.

They paid it no heed, however, and got to work.

For hours they toiled until moonlight betrayed the many cracks riddling the walls like bullet holes. Their scribbling had slowed under candlelight. Even a military would rest at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

The last wafts of street food markets had dried up roughly an hour ago, leaving the three with only a sterile, cold dryness. A pristine stillness, only ever interrupted by the occasional pop of a distant gunshot and wailing of sirens.

Aryka had wrapped herself in a thin blanket the moment the sun had fallen. She was weak to the cold, and her mind struggled to keep on task. Such an environment had no clouds, and any remnant heat would escape in an instant; much like a corpse.

She had lifted her feet into the swaddle, tucking in everything apart from her arms and head. In the stinging chill and dull candlelight, an ‘a’ could look like an ‘e’, and phonetics could lose their distinctness. She pulled off the hair tie keeping her wavy brown hair in check. She leaned backwards, hoping that rubbing her temples would jumpstart her brain.

Her two co-workers, one of whom she was vaguely familiar with, had continued unabated by the elements. How? She was not exactly sure, but she was slightly jealous of it.

She felt the crystalline air sting her nostrils as she inhaled, the cold freezing her muscles from the inside out. White radio static massaged her ears into a deep, senseless lull as she felt herself surrender to the stillness. Just five minutes.

The static churned like continuous white waves lapping at a shoreline. But enveloped in the sound was something else; something orderly, with a clear pitch and rhythm.

She tore herself out of the cold’s lulling grasp and lanced at the knobs across her receptor. She dialled the machine and its magic to harmonise with the inbound signals. The white noise began to warp and shift, revealing more and more of the sound’s rhythm and pitch. The crumbs of noise began to form a trail, and the trail led to words. They became clear, and Aryka feverishly wrote them down.

“-had a hunch he was bullshitting. Well, it was worth a shot was it not? I mean, Hardridge? If we had won a witch like her over, she would've solved our problems with the F.S.A. that day. Of course we had to try.”

The voice was gruff and tipsy. Too jovial for such a time of night.

“He was wrong in this case, but his network is still expansive, so try not to mouth off at the breakfast. If it weren’t for his tipoffs, your baby boys in blue wouldn’t bust a single F.S.A hideout all year.”

The second voice was wispier and flowed from Aryka’s headphones like nectar.

“Pah! He’s nothing but a Help & Labour trader,” the gruff voice grunted.

“And he owns half the city,” the sweet voice replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

The line cut, and Aryka was left with white noise. Two out of three keywords were good enough for her.

Evalyn watched the small hands awkwardly grasp the pen. It had only been a week or two since she had taught Iris how to hold one properly, so it was no wonder she was still not used to it.

They had spent the last two days holed up in their hotel room, Evalyn overlooking her study just as she had promised to Elvera. Iris had studiously kept her head in the books, but even Evalyn’s attention would wane from time to time. Her brain would yearn for something more stimulating.

She had set aside Iris’s handiwork until Iris finished studying. A small stack of paper, ten pages thick lay on the bed beside her study space—the room’s coffee table. Each page had been a different attempt at visualising a suit of armour. The first two attempts had not evolved much past a simple cluster of oblong circles and guiding lines. However, the third attempt had broken down the entire structure into parts.

Designs for gauntlets filled the top left corner, sketching different angles and positions, breaking the fingers down into their individual segments. She had tackled the leggings in a similar manner. The chest plate remained whole, the pencil lines carving out a rough, elegant shape. In its centre was a smooth orb, designed to store any excess material.

The helmet, however, remained unadorned with detail. A vague cluster of shapes and lines formed the building blocks of a head, but not necessarily a helmet. Evalyn flipped through the pages, watching how each piece gained more lines and detail. But the helmet remained unchanged.

She would have to ask her if she needed any help with it. Evalyn was in no rush, truly; but she could not wait forever either. Evalyn wished she could, but if she took too long in mastering herself, Iris’s worth as a witch would continue to diminish. She would return to the fate of a rat in a laboratory, the fate that Evalyn had saved her from.

As far as she was concerned, ‘ward’ could not begin to describe the connection she had to the little jacket thief. She was not going to lose her now.

Night fell, and the cold set in. Evalyn had shut every window and closed every curtain, yet still, she felt her toes curling, yearning for any extra quarter degree of warmth. She pulled the covers up to her neck and instinctively dived underneath until she had tucked away her reddened nose.

The sudden movement prompted a rustling by her side. Iris’s small body pressed against hers, her face in Evalyn’s chest, burrowing further as if there was anywhere to go. Evalyn could not help but grin maniacally as she watched her chi-…her ward sleep so soundly.

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Evalyn would give anything if it meant she could stay that way forever.

“If only Elly were here,” she said, giggling softly.

The telephone rang.

Evalyn watched the telephone and confirmed with her ears that she was not hearing things.

It rang twice, three times before Iris began to stir. Her impossibly fragile brow furrowed with discomfort as the sound invaded her sleep. Evalyn sighed. The markings up her arm and cheek glowed softly, warming the covers. She extended her hand, and a spindle of gold reached for the phone, a loyal vine doing its master’s bidding.

“Hello?” Evalyn whispered as the glow subsided.

“Evalyn, it’s me,” Elvera said from across the line.

“Hi, Marie. Let me sleep.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Elliot got us a lead.”

Evalyn’s interest was piqued. She rolled over and sat up straight. “What did you find out?”

“The security council is in cahoots with a slave trader that owns half the city. That was where the tipoff came from. As far as we can tell, that leaves only one suspect.”

“Workar…”

“You know about them?”

“I’ve been in the city enough times to have heard. They’re the ones that own the massive tower, right?”

“Biggest in the city. The Security Council is meeting with him tomorrow, presumably to discuss you.”

“Is this line safe, Marie?”

“It’s being rerouted through one of our comm stations Fadaak has let us set up. I’m keeping all our official muscle on the leads they’ve already gotten. But any Wizards or Witches eager enough to take another contract, I’m pointing them towards the tower. Your being there is up to whether you sign the deal or not.”

“I’ll be there,” Evalyn said, her words decisive.

“I thought you’d say as much. Schedule’s a bit tight, so let’s just say I owe you one until I can pay you,” Elvera said, a hint of humour finally gracing her tone. Evalyn smiled.

“Thanks. For doing this, I mean.”

“Doing what?” Elvera asked.

“Believing in me. This all feels like a wild goose chase sometimes.”

“Don’t get me wrong. Them having your name is one thing, but they knew the timing of your mission before you did. That’s a matter of national security I’m obliged to investigate.”

“Obliged? I didn’t realise that was a Special Operations job.”

“Yep, assuming its ours. Busting moles better than pest control," she said. "There isn’t much of a plan, but I’d rather you not do anything rash, especially with Iris around. Just sit outside, wait for anything bad to happen and pray that nothing does.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

Evalyn leaned backwards, her body yearning for something else to hold its weight.

“How’s Iris?” Elvera asked. The voice through the phone was altered by static, yet Evalyn could clearly hear Elvera’s smile.

“She’s sleeping. Knocked herself out as soon as her head hit the pillow. It happens every time.”

“Kids.”

“Yeah…listen for a bit.”

Evalyn passed the phone to the unconscious Iris. Evalyn waited, moment after moment as Iris breathed in and out, while Elvera listened.

“You’re all giddy about it,” Elvera teased.

“Yes, I certainly am.”

Evalyn could feel it. Nothing gut-wrenching, but a bad taste hung in the air like a miasma. A sour, off-putting feeling that things were not right. But perhaps that was the context given to the tower; the ugly shade and putrid smell it took on once one knew of its purpose.

Considering the empire it ran, perhaps it was more suitable to call it a castle.

Workar Tower stood in the heart of the city’s business district. It was, by far, the most iconic landmark between the Northern Chain Ridge and the shoreline it loomed over. A multi-rectangular monument of glass and brick that stood head and shoulders above the skyline. Several segments rose like earthly rock formations, only to refine into a single spire at its pinnacle. Brash yet elegant.

As far as architecture went, she could not fault it. Evalyn could approve of its design all she wanted; the feeling in her stomach was not going to change.

Seven. That made seven people she could reasonably assume were Aether-infused. Based on looks alone, they were unremarkable. The brutish coats and emotionless scowls were only slightly different to the enslaved crowd they camouflaged against. But Evalyn could spot them. Not with infallible accuracy, however. She was certain there were more. Perhaps many were already in the building.

She watched the revolving front door spin and spin, never ceasing its movement. People passed through with little effort, moving like ghosts. So far, nothing was amiss, yet she could not be completely sure. She had no contact with anyone else on the case.

The Security Council were due to arrive in roughly five minutes. Assuming nothing went awry, the meeting would start in twenty.

Evalyn sat in wait, and Iris sat doing nothing in particular. She had no idea of what was about to happen, largely because Evalyn had not had the time. A quick 'tell you when I get there' was all she could afford before she watched Colte enter the building. By then, radio silence had become imperative.

“Do you mind, ma’am?”

A soft voice followed by a shoulder tap brought her attention upward. A slender man in a navy-blue business suit gestured towards the vacant space.

“Of course not,” Evalyn said, moving over.

“Thank you,” the man nodded, readjusting his sunglasses. He sat down with a grunt too pained for his age and combed through his hair with slender fingers.

Evalyn returned to her surveillance for the Aether Infused, spotting another pedestrian that fit the bill. She watched them walk down the sidewalk and past the building’s front door. They looked left, then right before hailing a cab.

“Guess we were wrong.”

Evalyn hesitated, her brain struggling to register what the man had said. She kept her eyes on the woman entering the bright yellow taxi until it drove out of sight.

“She looked like a Witch to me. What do you think, Mrs Hardridge?”

Evalyn reached for her gun.

“Ah! Now hold on.”

The man did not look in her direction, and the sunglasses kept the movements of his eyes well hidden. Both his hands were in plain view. Evalyn gripped Iris and tugged her closer. Iris, only just registering the situation, shifted closer.

“I haven’t done anything yet, officer. It’s best if you don’t start shooting strangers with no reason for doing so.”

“I have plenty of reason,” Evalyn muttered.

“I’m sure you do, but if you could prove it, I wouldn’t be here trying to explain myself to you, now would I?”

Evalyn’s hand did not part from her pistol, and the man barely stirred from his position. Supreme confidence.

“Now, the fact that I know who you are tells you a few things, no?”

“S.H.I.A.”

“Indeed. A little birdie named Jamie told everything he knew about you, which, fortunately enough, was not much. Geverde has done a decent job in hiding you away, haven’t they?”

He leaned forward, turning his head like a well-oiled machine.

“He also told me about a little girl you were travelling with. Isn’t she adorable? Is she yours?”

Evalyn stayed silent.

“I thought not. You both have outstandingly unique hair. Have you thought of dyeing it into something less conspicuous?”

The man’s shaded eyes did not move from Iris for much too long. He was drinking the image of her like a bricklayer gulping a cold beer on a summer day. A smile—almost of relief—adorned his otherwise unremarkable expressions.

“In exchange for this information, I set him up with a deal.”

“You-”

“Yes. You should hold yourself and your intuition in higher regard. Although I was not investing all my resources into covering my tracks, I certainly did not make it easy.”

“You’re a slave trader. Why would you help the F.S.A.?”

“The F.S.A. is not my enemy, nor are S.H.I.A. my allies,” the man chuckled. “I do not care what Help & Labour does once they are taken off my hands, nor do I care what those organisations do with the money I lend them. That is up to them.”

“But why help any of them?”

“Because. The Help & Labour trade is a side project. Helps me grow my influence, so to speak.”

Evalyn stared the man down, her gaze freezing over despite the heat.

“Fucking what? Side project?”

The organised trafficking of people was nothing more than a side project?

“Yes. A means to an end. To own half a city while bringing about its downfall. I burn down cities too, Mrs Hardridge. Just in different ways and under different banners.”

“What banner would that be?”

The man got up, uncaring for Evalyn’s grip on her firearm. He turned towards them and reached into his suit jacket. Evalyn flinched and he hesitated. He smiled, reassuring her that he was not looking for a fight. Not yet.

He removed a business card and handed it to Evalyn, but she did not take it. He instead turned towards Iris.

She watched him with a glare that would scare off any rabid dog, the edges of her hair tingling with anticipation. His smile did not wane, and he instead placed the card beside her.

“I shall be off then. Guests to entertain.”

He turned his back and walked to the edge of the street, looking left and right like any good civilian would. Nothing of the utter chaos or twisted motives showed itself. An unrivalled level of restraint, poise, and disgusting gentlemanliness.

Either that or the world was looking fondly on him. For what, Evalyn could not even entertain the thought.

“By guests, I also am referring to your peers. I’m a Wizard myself, so I know how to put up a fight.”

He finally turned, removing his sunglasses.

A sickly yellow sheen coated his eyes, staining his blank pupils a putrid off-white. They resembled rotting organs, innards that were never meant to see the light of day.

“Do not take me lightly, Wish Bearer. Your friend may be in danger, so I will see you at the top.”

Evalyn glanced at the business card. It bore no Workar insignia, only the man’s name and motto.

Recres Wesper

Until the Day Utopia Begins