“…I will repeat myself, once,” said the man in the neatly pressed charcoal-colored uniform coat. His combed-back hair was dark as night, his bright blue eyes shone like morning frost. He held something in one hand, a strange metallic device with a curved wooden handle and a long, hollow metal tube facing outward.

“Answer my questions,” he said coldly. “Clearly. Concisely. No slurring, no mumbling. Obey, and I will guarantee your safety. Disobey, and I will have no choice but to use this. Understand?”

Presumably, the other man, standing across the room and facing the coated man, nodded. Of course, it was impossible to tell for sure. As for what he looked like, what he was wearing…

Well, it wouldn’t matter in a moment. Best forgotten.

“Good.” The black-coated man breathed deeply, suppressing barely-concealed impatience. “Again. How many people live here?”

“Three,” the other man said.

The charcoal-coated interrogator lifted an arm. The two men facing each other were suddenly flanked by numerous figures in dark uniforms and heavy black leather boots that thumped away through the home, into kitchen and study and washroom, up wooden stairs creaking underneath the weight. Then all fell silent, save for the occasional skyward groan of a floorboard.

“Who are they?” the charcoal-coated man demanded, waving his free hand at what he saw behind the other man— what would probably be two frightened, huddled masses. It was, again, impossible to tell for certain from here.

“Family,” the other man, the father, answered. “My wife and son.”

“Job?”

“I’m a fisherman. My boat is docked down at the Falls,” he said slowly. “My wife is a tailor. She works at—”

“Any other relatives?” the man asked sharply, cutting him off.

The father paused. “Not anymore,” he said grimly.

“I see,” the charcoal-coated man said. The apathy was plain in his voice. It meant nothing to him.

Apparently, that was the last question. An oppressive silence fell over the room, save for the rifling of a coat pocket, twice, then the harsh flick of a match lit. The orange flame danced, casting eerie shadows upon the walls in the almost-darkness. The tip of the coated man’s cigarette glowed faintly red as the seconds dragged on.

The lights were off, now. Stupid fool. Stupid, stupid Flock-galed fool.

The thumping, then the men themselves, returned abruptly— prompting the man in the coat to pull the cigarette from his mouth. He turned toward one man in particular, a taller man he had to look up at.

And nearly saw. Fear and panic thrummed. A heart thumped loudly. Too loudly. Could it be heard?

“All clear, sir,” the tall uniformed man said.

“Not yet,” the charcoal-coated man said, dark smoke billowing from his lips. Those glassy blue eyes did not see what they should not. He replaced the cigarette and turned back toward the family, three figures clutching each other tightly, as if they sought warmth. Perhaps they did. Those eyes seemed as if they could freeze the room solid. “Step right,” he grunted through clenched teeth. The family obeyed swiftly, shuffling to the side.

A feeling of dread completely blew away the smell of tobacco as the man approached a rather large cabinet. He tried its door— locked. No need for a key. Not this man. If he wanted something…

The charcoal-coated man applied a bit of force, bending and crunching polished wood. He ripped the door away, exposing expensive innards. The cabinet shook, freeing ornate ceramic and glass wares from stacked shelves inside. Treasures to some, they broke into shards. The shattered objects at his feet were of no interest to the charcoal-coated man, and— after carefully eyeing up and down— neither was the cabinet itself. It was not a show of strength, the furniture was simply delicate. And in his way.

He set the broken door on the carpeted floor, sighing with a hint of disappointment. He sought the lie, smelled it in the air. The man spun sharply, blasting his long-backed coat with deceptive smoky air.

“Follow,” he commanded. He thumped toward the entrance and flicked the cigarette behind him. “Stay quiet.”

Heat flooded the room as an orange light raced across the carpet. The man, charcoal-colored coat illuminated, reached for the door…

“Dad…?” asked a quivering voice. “Why are they doing this?”

The room froze, defying the flames. Time grew still.

“Scold him.”

The meaning of those words was crystal clear: there will be no tolerance for talkative children. Not a shred.

At least, it sounded clear to the one who spoke.

“Even if you tell us to stay silent,” the father protested, voice rising, “How can you expect a boy his age to understa—”

A firecracker sounded.

Firecracker? Really?

Oh, of course. It’s the festival.

The father sobbed a name, desperately calling out to her between anguished gasps. She fell into his arms, still.

That horrible, charcoal-coated creature— for he could not possibly be human— barked something incomprehensible, dusting off his coat. Orders. Who could listen to orders, at a time like this?

What was her name, anyway? What was his?

Obedient nameless peons moved in to collect the father. He had sunken to his knees. He was cruelly ripped from the lifeless woman and restrained, head pressed to the ground as they tied his arms behind his back. The coated monster stared down at the man like a bird of prey observing a mouse— blue eyes cold as winter ice, a trace of amusement curving his lips. He spoke.

I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I only need to remember one thing, after all.

The room began to warp and twist. The heat intensified. Heat so terrible, searing skin and bone. Searing his soul down to ash and cinders.

Did he remember? That face. Those eyes. Haunting him.

Yes. Those eyes, he would remember forever.

The door to the orange sky… to the burning city… swung open. Thickening smoke solidified into dark gray walls as Luke Nixus opened his eyes, ending another night.

A second firecracker confirmed his suspicions. The morning racket stemmed from a nearby celebrator of the Empire’s birth.

But, he realized, this isn’t Aetas Origo.

It was time to get up, regardless. He had come to this place for a reason. He lazily stretched a pale hand over to a wooden nightstand, switching off an alarm clock. It was mere moments from ringing, according to the silvery hands. Luke felt as though those minutes were vital, that the firecrackers had cost him something precious.

Luke sat up, trying to ignore the unruly barrage of sound in the distance. Immediately, black curls obstructed his vision. He brushed them back with a hand absentmindedly as he reached down beside the bed. He fished up a large cylindrical bag, letting it thump onto the white bedsheet. He brushed his hair aside again with a yawn— once more it fell back into place right away— and unclasped the bag. The firecrackers continued in their obnoxious way. Who would have thought burning bamboo could create such awful noise?

This isn’t any city in Sirius. Flocks, I’m not even in the Empire anymore, Luke thought with a scowl. People in the neutral territory are this enthusiastic?

As if in response to Luke’s frustration, the early morning disruptions finally ceased, allowing him to stand and slip on a white woolen shirt in blissful silence. A pair of gray trousers followed, rounding off the intended look of ‘ordinary.’ He strived for a plain appearance; it was all he could do to offset his eyes. Those bring enough stares. No need to attract even more attention. He slid his feet into a plain pair of leather traveling boots and grabbed one final article of clothing— a sky blue jacket— and threw it over his shirt. Before clasping the bag back up, Luke eyed a certain photograph nestled inside. His face turned somber, just for a moment.

Of course I remember. I don’t need dreams to remind me.

He slung the dark blue bag over his shoulder by its strap and left the inn.

———

Luke strode into the middle of the empty cobblestone street and stopped, open sky blue jacket shifting in the wind. It was a pleasant feeling, walking about in the open like this. It was quiet now that the firecrackers had stopped, the only thing he could hear were morning songbirds. He slipped a map from his pocket and began a slow, unsure walk as he read.

His objective in this village was simple. Safe passage north through the neutral territory— a thin strip of highlands in central Asundria, eastern edge bordered by the Cliffs. In days past, the neutral territory— and beyond, to the west— was a larger, grander country known as Altair. But such days were dead and gone. Today was the First Day of the Ninth Year. Already, nine whole years. Not eight and a day, of course, but nine in full, by decree of the Imperial calendar— it had begun on zero rather than one. Gone indeed.

Luke looked up from the unfolded map, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the rising yellow sun. He hadn’t managed to adjust to the brightness of morning before reaching his destination. The past several weeks, he had been traveling by night. But the danger had passed as soon as he made it into Altair. Most of it, anyway. There were rumors of the neutral territory, that the emperor sent tax collectors this far north, and even bands of soldiers to enforce it. But that couldn’t be true. It would violate the Agreement. Still, a little caution never hurt, and he scanned his surroundings.

The village was composed of spaced-out tiny, square huts of logs light and dark brown, all one floor high with flat roofs. The inn he had arrived in looked identical to most of the homes, save for a wooden sign at the front announcing itself. Patches of grass were sprinkled with the color of vegetables, green and red and yellow of shapes he could not pick out from this distance, marking well-tended gardens. Luke could even see some swirlsheep and chickens in fenced-off areas. But he was not here for any of that.

In center view stood something utterly unlike the rest of the village: a large gated stone structure. Practically a mansion by comparison. By the height and windows, the house was a comparatively-impressive three stories of smooth light-gray stone, its top floor nestled underneath a gabled roof of slate rather than wood or thatch. Upkept bushes dotted with various berries surrounded the building, part of a gated garden-like interior carpeted by fields of trimmed grass.

So, there was a survivor of the transition after all. That bloody, violent transition of ages which marked the birth of the Terra Daeva Empire. He had seen similar on his travels, but he tended to forget after so many hamlets and villages of nothing but wood and thatch. Not many things— inanimate or otherwise— survived the destruction. Here, it was called the Razing of Altair. Different places had different names for what the Empire had done.

Luke pocketed the map and approached the white wooden fence curled around the property. He gently shoved the unlocked gate forward, then sauntered to the front door, passing over dark-gray slabs of stone running from the gate to the house itself. Luke rapped on the wooden door with his knuckles. It wasn’t long until he could hear someone within, slowly shuffling toward him.

A figure appeared on the other side, visible through a translucent cutout of glass shaped like a bird with a long tail pointed skyward.

A moment after, the door pulled back to reveal a young boy. He had striking ginger hair, light green eyes, and a youthful, tan face peppered with barely-visible freckles. While his hair was curly, it wasn’t nearly as disastrous and messy as Luke’s, instead kept neat and clean. He wore a turtleneck sweater, a rather mockable choice had this been Aetas Origo instead of… wherever.

I’ve already forgotten the name, Luke realized. He had even checked the map a moment ago. It wasn’t that he had bad memory… he just didn’t care to remember the name of a place he’d never visit again.

“You must be Luke Nixus,” the young boy said after a moment. His hand clutched the knob as if he were ready to pull the door shut again.

“Yes,” Luke said, uncertain. “I… was expecting someone, you know… older.”

“I am older.” The boy frowned. “Your grandfather’s letter said you were fifteen. Well, I’m sixteen.”

“I mean…” Luke sighed. “Is Orcus Alder home?”

The ginger-haired teenager narrowed his eyes.

“No, he isn’t,” he said slowly.

“When will he return?” Luke asked, speaking with more speed and impatience than the easygoing teenager dressed in a light green— no, pine green— sweater.

Pine green. That’s how you know you’re in the middle of nowhere, completely bored out of your mind. You start thinking about the shade of some kid’s shirt.

“Don’t know,” the youth said, shrugging indifference. “This evening, maybe. Orcus is a busy man.”

“I see,” Luke said quickly. “I’ll wait, then.” The boy was a fool, but it wasn’t worth getting agitated over. That could get in the way of his goal if the boy turned out to be someone important to Orcus Alder, and he needed that man to enter Mirastelle easily. He had other ways, but he’d rather not resort to them.

Luke turned and left the way he came without waiting for a response or an invitation inside and heard the door close behind him. He crossed the stone-slabbed path and shut the gate behind him. Quietly, he settled down on flattened earth, folding his legs. He propped his head against the white fence enclosing the Alder residence, then slid the blue bag off his shoulder and dropped it onto his lap. After lifting his head to pull his jacket’s hood up and over, Luke’s first instinct was to take a nap. He was definitely no stranger to sleeping outdoors. He could sleep pretty much anywhere. Waking up, grumbling about fireworks? Had he grown too used to the quiet countryside?

He slept there— head tilted back, hands on his bag’s strap. A thief would have a hard time wrenching it away that way. The low temperature— winter was only a month or two off— the occasional gusts of icy wind, even the glaringly bright blue morning sky, none of it really seemed to bother him.

No, he was used to this.

———

“Is this him?” Levian Vega asked, voice echoing off the walls as he approached.

“Yes, Master Vega,” Typhos said softly.

The sky above the nameless Empire-ruled town was a single shade of gray, just emerging from the black night. In a few hours, celebrations of the Ninth Year would begin.

Typhos stood before the seated silhouette of a broad-chested man in a narrow alley lined by stuccoed walls close together, colored dark and gray, perhaps even in daylight. The man at ground level rested against the nebulous wall with eyes closed, still. Short as he was, Typhos did not have to lower his head far to see the man’s face.

Levian strode through the alley in his traditional coat uniform— dark in color and neatly pressed. In the light, the shade could be identified as a smooth charcoal. He knelt and inspected the fallen man with inquisitive blue eyes.

At a quick glance, Levian’s coat was that of the Empire’s Military Police. Such a coat bore an embroidered symbol on the back— a minimalist sketch of a certain sort inside a black circle. The type of sketch specified one’s position, though the exact meaning would usually be unfamiliar to a passerby. Citizens didn’t need to know every rank— and often didn’t. A simple circle on the back featuring some sort of design was more than enough of a tell— it was illegal to wear anything overtly similar in the Empire.

An elderly gentleman passed the mouth of the alley from the street outside, gait relaxed. He wore a simple hat and civilian’s coat, flat color with no markings of any kind. He glanced toward the three, then continued on his way.

To a civilian like that, the sight probably seemed obvious. A short boy, blonde of hair and youthful in all but expression, had called an officer to assist carrying his drunken father home. Something like that. What else would be happening at this hour?

Notably, the elderly man did not tip his hat. Once a sign of respect, no longer. Stories of Empire officers misinterpreting innocent gestures— a tip of the hat, or reaching for a knife in the brim?— had spread through the Empire like wildfire. Leave them to their business, people learned, and quickly.

But… perhaps he did know. The truth.

Truth, that the slumped man in shadow was no drunken father, and truth that the boy was no mere boy. Just after the elderly man disappeared from view, steel whispered on leather as Typhos drew his weapon.

“Should I kill him?” Typhos asked softly.

“I don’t hear any irregularities in his breathing or footsteps,” Levian said casually. “He saw nothing, and even if he did, so be it. We risk further discovery making a bigger mess.”

The subdued glint of metal faded into the darkness. That man was lucky— unbelievably so— and he’d never know it. If it were just a bit lighter, and he happened to see the crimson innards of ‘the father’ strewn below, staining the pavement…

“Understood, sir,” he said, pulling a pale hand from his hip sheath. Yes, that elderly man was definitely a lucky one.

“So,” Levian began, “What say you, Ty? Who’s our thief?” Cold blue eyes touched the fallen man. “Another one of Rhea’s dogs?”

“It would appear so,” Typhos replied calmly, proffering a large brown envelope. Levian rose, snatching the envelope away with a much bigger hand. The difference of age between the two was palpable— Typhos was obviously a teenager, no amount of mature expressions could change his beardlessness. It was only the surface of how little the pair had in common.

Typhos was draped in a ragged, patched cloak; an unsightly mix of browns and grays, dirty, ripped, and tattered at the bottom. It looked as though it had been torn and restitched numerous times, and was in desperate need of a wash. A hood concealed the upper half of his face, and the full scope of his unkempt hair. A simple black cloth mask concealed the bottom half. Too fair skin—like that of a ghost— showed sparingly around his scarlet eyes. The odd combination gave him an unsettling quality; most adults were nervous around him.

Levian stood tall— properly tall, perhaps a foot or so above Typhos. He was contrastingly well-dressed, his black-buttoned charcoal coat completely clear of dust and grime. He appeared to be well into his thirties— Typhos wasn’t sure— perhaps even a bit older. His face was clean-shaven, save for a thin dark mustache running along his upper lip. Matching dark hair atop an angular head had been combed back; he wore no hat or cloak and made no effort to conceal his identity.

With eyes like crystalline ice, Levian examined the label on the front of the envelope, printed in small font. Typhos had already seen it.

Jester, it read.

“This town is very close to the border,” Levian said, opening the envelope and riffling through the stack of papers as he spoke. “It’s a shame he noticed you trailing him. A dog of Rhea venturing up toward Altair at the same time we are? How curious.”

Levian stuffed the papers back inside, folded it up and tucked it away inside a charcoal pocket. He grinned as he strode out of the alley.

Typhos wore a blank expression as he eyed the gruesome corpse of the man he did not know. His dirtied cloak whipped in a passing gust.

“Come along, Ty,” Levian called. “My little apprentice.”

He turned to follow, and found himself staring at the back of that coat again. Out in the streets, dimly lit by fading lanterns and a sky two or three shades gray, the coat’s symbol was far more visible— the minimalist sketch was that of a vulture. Cathartes, one of the Twelve Flocks. That wasn’t unusual, given the Province they were in. No, far more telling was that the sketch was surrounded by a diamond, not a circle. Typhos knew what that meant, as did every last man, woman, and child living in the Empire. Even that old-timer would have noticed, had it not been so dark.

It was the crimson diamond insignia of Terra Daeva. Absolute authority given only to six, authority to govern a wide-reaching nation of millions. A select few granted the illustrious gift of serving directly beneath His Majesty Amon Munitio, First and Righteous Emperor of Terra Daeva.

An Elite.