Seven days after the imperial ambassador’s murder.

New Dawn’s HQ, Jagda, 2:47pm.

The corridor of the facility lay deathly quiet.

Droves of enemy bodies lay strewn across the floor, soaking in the scent of seared metal that permeated the air. Deep furrows streaked with incandescent ridges covered the once-clear walls. Carved by the torrent of lightning Devan had launched, these red-hot scars led to the blast door, where a glowing, deformed circle had been hollowed. Liquid metal dripped from the edges, sizzling upon landing on the floor.

Devan frowned at the bloody corpses, the scene redolent of the war that had swept Earth and had held it in its clutches for five long years. Far from faded, the scraps of memory blazed into a conflagration that burned the present away, threatening to plunge him into that nightmare again.

Shaking his head, he cast the memories away. “Get ready,” he said to the rest of the assault team, veteran soldiers of Jagda’s militia.

There were less than seven minutes until the place exploded.

He called for the Gift, and the flows of power glimmered into being, settling inside his arm. He twisted these silvery threads, shaped them into a new form, then imbued his will into the construct, and flung the power out.

The door snapped from its hinges, a loud screech slicing through the air. The room beyond stood in full view.

Rifles raised, the militia’s soldiers marched inside.

Numerous large screens dotted the walls, hanging above the ring-shaped platform that ran along the circumference of the circular room. Some showed the outside of the facility, captured by cameras tucked away in small gaps, hidden from sight and stray gunfire. Another set displayed various insignia belonging to gangs: a winged skull, a roaring beast, a fist framed by a circle, two crossed daggers… And one screen showed the progress of the data transmission currently taking place.

Can’t let it finish.

As Devan lowered his gaze, he locked eyes with a burly man wearing a dark blue uniform. The man responsible for the massacre of Devan’s people – the Earthborne. The man who led the insurgents on Jagda. The leader of New Dawn.

Scenes from the shabby camps where the Earthborne had taken refuge from the war flashed in front of Devan’s eyes. His mind juxtaposed their faces with his cousin Michael’s, the differences erased as a dreadful possibility took root. If Devan had merely been one of the many – sent to Jagda to acclimatize to the new world – those hollow eyes and that decrepit visage would have been...

Fury boiled inside him, an inferno beneath the coldness his glare exuded. He’ll pay dearly for this.

Six minutes.

“So, you’re the ones who killed my men,” the leader said, ambling over to the platform’s railing. “Can’t believe the militia had so much bite. Was it those cowards up in the clouds? Did they support you?” He leaned forwards, eyeing the intruders. But even from this distance, Devan could tell that the man’s stare stuck mostly to him.

“Well, no matter. It’s already started,” the man continued, raising his hand in a relaxed manner. Two wiry, pale-faced men flanked him.

Their unnaturally fluid motions caught Devan’s eye. If they were augments, he needed a plan fast. He scanned the room, taking note of the enemy soldiers’ positions. There were eighteen of them, sixteen riflemen and two snipers. He couldn’t keep track of those numbers – not with two augments in the mix.

Despite his power and training as a Hand, he couldn’t afford distractions when facing them. The enemy soldiers would provide that in copious amounts. The militia would have to deal with them. And I’ll take out the snipers and augments.

Five minutes.

Two metal shafts on the floor shot up with the hiss of pneumatics, their underside topping anti-infantry turrets. The turrets whipped towards Devan, their automatic targeting system already locked, their firing chamber primed to fire beams of heated plasma.

“Behind me!” he said, thrusting his hands forwards.

The Gift surged through him, through the crudely shaped spell construct, and formed a vertical cut in space in front of the group. The turrets fired and their beams struck the spatial distortion, bending away and colliding with the back wall.

The two wiry men jumped over the railing of the platform, landing heavily on the floor. They shot forwards from their crouch, dashing towards the militia’s soldiers, their movements a blur – they had all but shed their human disguises.

Turrets first. “Grenade!” Devan said to the soldier behind him.

Hidden behind his helmet’s visor, his eyes turned golden, the events of half a second into the future leaping into view. It was the ability his Sight granted him – a power inherent to every Oracle.

He drew the spatial distortion back to him, then changed the flows that had conjured it.

The soldier unhooked a grenade from his belt and tossed it forwards.

As the Gift’s power surrounded Devan, it encompassed the grenade as well. Then he cast the warp spell.

The world rippled. For a fraction of a second, at the very edge of perception, the metal walls and floors, the soldiers, and the screens, they scattered into iridescent motes. Then came a rush of coolness and pressure, like he was submerged under water. The motes snapped back into fixed colours, painting a new landscape.

He appeared right behind the turrets. A wave of force pushed the grenade in the direction of three enemies. Turning around, he conjured a transparent barrier behind him.

Gunfire roared. An explosion. The surface of the barrier rippled as bullets and fragments of the grenade’s metal body shattered upon striking it, their vestiges milled to a fine powder that drifted through the air as smoky wisps. Screams and wails. Three down.

Devan pressed his hands against the turrets. Arcs of electricity cascaded down his fingers, frying the circuitry. He drew his pistol and raised it, pointing the tip at his three o’clock. Using the information his Sight fed him, he adjusted the angle so the sights lined up on where an enemy would soon be. Then, he twisted the space around him, warping atop the platform on the far right of the room.

Pulling the trigger, a flash of white spurted out of the muzzle. Bang! The enemy soldier’s head lurched back from the impact, and the man crumpled to the ground. Turning the pistol several degrees to the left, Devan tapped the trigger again. Bang! The second enemy dropped dead.

Devan’s gaze swept across the room. The militia’s soldiers had spread out, taking positions behind cover, and opening fire on the enemy. The enemy riflemen had done the same. Not them. Then he spotted the two snipers. They had remained on the platform, lying on the perforated metal, the barrels of their rifles just slightly past the edge.

He let the Gift rush through him, the flows of power already shaped in the form that would conjure blades of force. They materialised around the snipers. Then he clenched his fist, and his power sliced through them. A second later, he jumped back down to the main floor, landing in a crouch, then snapped his head upwards. Two left.

The augments were upon him.

Four minutes.

Devan felt something coating him, coating the Gift inside him, with tar – one of the augments’ abilities. He could overpower it, but doing so would leave him open to attacks for a moment – a moment he couldn’t afford.

Instead, he let the Gift permeate his body in its pure form. The flows wobbled about – too slow for him to make use of them, but just enhancing his body was enough. He was far from defenceless in close combat.

The first augment swung at him. He stepped forwards and ducked, left arm going up to parry the blow; then his right fist hit the augment under the jaw. The second one punched at Devan’s face, and he stepped back just out of reach. Duck and dodge, he focused on defence.

Three minutes.

Sweat dripped down the side of his face, the use of his Sight taking a heavy toll. He thrust his hand out to redirect one of the augment’s punches, just barely missing. Damn! Its behaviour had changed from the vision. His Sight was reaching its limit. He crossed his arms defensively in front of his chest just as the augment’s blow connected, hurling him a dozen metres back.

His arms shook violently. A bone had likely fractured. Biting back the pain, he reshaped some of the power inside his arms to wrap around the bones. It’ll have to do.

Relaxing his fists, he lunged at the augment nearest him. Punch at his left, kick at his right, another punch, left, right… For several exchanges he held the advantage, then the second augment joined. He had to take a gamble.

The augments were more machine than man and they attacked in predetermined sequences. If he got them to perform a specific one, he could stagger them both and buy enough time to kill one.

The first augment swung from his right side, the second one punched from the back, left leg swipe, again from the back, right, left, right…

Two minutes.

The augment in front swung with its arm; the one behind swiped with its leg. There!

Devan made a low jump, shifting mid-air so his body passed just between the two attacks. He unsheathed his daggers, and upon landing threw them into the screeching mouths of the augments, his arms still empowered by the Gift.

They jerked back from the strong impact.

Devan lunged at the one on his right, grabbed its head with one hand, and punched the dagger’s hilt with the palm of the other, thrusting it through the back of the augment’s neck.

The augment fell prone onto the ground, its limbs convulsing. A few seconds later, its movements stilled.

The second one managed to dislodge the dagger from its throat.

Spinning around to face it, Devan spotted a device in its right hand – small and unassuming, save for the red button – the detonation controller.

He drew his pistol from its holster, squared it at the device, and fired. The bullet shot through the casing, tore the circuitry between the trigger and the transmitter, and broke through the other end, embedding itself in the augment’s hand.

The augment howled, and Devan fired five rounds into its screaming mouth.

It crumpled to the ground after that. He exhaled deeply, the adrenaline plummeting, allowing exhaustion to catch up. Finally, it’s ov—

The vision of being fired upon interrupted his thought. In the first fraction of a second, panic came with its chilly grasp, then his training kicked in. He dove to the ground, narrowly missing the bullet. He fell into a roll, then spun around to face his attacker.

The leader of New Dawn stared at him, mouth agape. “That kind of—”

Devan warped to his side. He slammed his pistol into the man’s head, knocking him out. As the leader was falling to the ground, Devan bound the man’s arms and legs with the Gift.

Now, it’s over. He looked at the people still fighting, the golden glow in his eyes fading. The headache that came almost brought him to his knees, but he held on.

“Members of New Dawn!” His words reverberated through the room. The sounds of gunfire paused. “Your leader has been captured. The augments have been destroyed. This battle is over!” A stunned silence took the room. “Surrender and drop your weapons!” he continued. “Or be made to drop them.”

***

Hotel “Silver Traveller”, Jagda, 8:17pm.

Back at the hotel Devan was staying at – mission or not, he could at least sleep comfortably when he wanted to – he sat down on the large sofa facing the window, drink in hand.

The army meeting had lasted longer than planned. Nothing new. They always found something else to add. What he hadn’t expected was to be held up in medical for over three hours despite being treated by adepts. Adepts specialised in healing for God’s sake. The bandages they had wrapped his arms in were also overkill. He sighed. Blasted procedures.

With the end of the war though, he could finally forget about them for a while. He was now officially on vacation.

He threw his head back, letting his mind simply wander as he stared at the shifting image that the light of the setting sun and the shadows painted on the white ceiling. Despite the quiet easing his mind, he didn’t succumb to fatigue and close his eyes; no doubt, he'd welcome the morning upon opening them again.

This had been his sixth major mission in a row – well over a year that he’d been away from Ascion. As a reminder of the fact, Michael’s face was popping up in his thoughts more often as of late. Devan would need to buy at least one souvenir, or the little guy would never let him hear the end of it. In fact, he would need to buy one for both Michael and Ayelin. Though, Aster’s sister was admittedly easier to placate.

He chuckled. Who would have thought he’d be calling the King’s name so easily?

Languidly raising his drink, he stared into the amber liquid and the glimmer the last few rays of sunlight made. He took only a small sip, enough to experience the sweet taste, and let the burn linger.

His communicator rang.

His eye twitching, he glared at the device. The red light meant the call was coming directly from the palace, and only Aster – or rarely Jarem – used that line.

Refusing to part with his drink, regardless of the caller, he took his communicator and answered it. King or not, he was on vacation, and they’d better damn well not press him about his conduct.

The fuzzy hologram stabilised, showing Aster leaning on the large table in his office. His usually handsome face looked haggard, as if the man hadn’t slept in the last couple of days.

“Your Majesty,” Devan said.

“Devan, it would appear I’m cutting into your break time,” Aster said in a playful, yet tired voice. “I apologise for that. I detest breaking my promises, but the state of the Domains appears deaf to my pleas.”

“Is Jarem still unavailable?”

“That’s right.” Aster regarded him silently. “You look worse than usual.” For about half a second, Devan entertained the thought of telling his King to look in the mirror. Being the loyal subject that he was, however, he decided against it and kept quiet. “You’ve used your ability.”

“…Only my Sight.”

“For a prolonged time, I imagine. You didn’t use the other one? Good. I’m sure that Ayelin has told you enough times what the consequences are.”

“Has something happened to the Kingdom?” Regardless of the danger, Devan wouldn’t stop using his ability. There was no point to it otherwise.

“At least pretend you’ll be more careful. And no, the Kingdom is fine. But that won’t last much longer.” Devan sat up straighter, hearing Aster’s voice turn grave. “A week ago, the imperial ambassador, Kentor Mannock, was murdered on Radaar. Just a few days after his sudden leave from the discussions regarding the Earth issue. I need you to look into it.”

Devan blinked. “That’s all well, but – wait, you want me to go to the Empire?” He frowned in confusion. “No matter where the ambassador had been prior, the crime happened on an Empire world – that’s their jurisdiction.”

“Indeed, and I’d have never suggested this under normal circumstances. These aren’t. They pulled out evidence that the perpetrator was an Earthborne.”

Devan shot up from his seat, the drink spilling across the floor. “How? You passed the law binding them to the core and mid-worlds. No spaceport officer or ship captain would dare go against it.”

“Whatever the case, they demanded Earth be given to them. When I refused, they began preparations for war. The Empire’s wanted one for a while, they just needed a reason.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Too little. A month; two at best. That is why I need you and your Sight. I cannot afford to lose you, and yet I cannot send anyone else on this mission either.” Aster sighed, shaking his head at the irony. When his eyes landed on Devan again, his gaze was solemn. “Devan Anders, hear my orders. You will go to Radaar and uncover whatever this plot may be and who is behind it. A fake identity will be provided to you – an Awakened of the lower sphere – and you will act within its bounds unless your life is in danger.”

“I understand,” Devan said, regaining his composure. “I will complete it without fail.”

Aster stared at him wordlessly for a moment. “Don’t forget what you are. Two Oracles can win any war, and I’ll take the casualties over losing one of them.”

As the call ended, and the encroaching night began swallowing the waning memory of sunset, a chill ran through Devan. The mission this time would be far worse than Jagda. He sighed. This would be another sleepless night. He had far too much to think about.