Shrine: a city that serves as a monument to the sins of our fathers and the sins of their sons. A throne for the wicked and a prison to immortalize the damned. The city of Shrine was a refuge away from our doomed world, away from the wounds of our own design. Shrine was meant to be a new home. To rebuild. To prosper. To grow. A world touched by advancements so far beyond our comprehension that the uninitiated might consider them magical, even divine. Certainly there was power. A deep latent power that you can feel in the soil beneath your soles. In the air you breathe. In the water you drink, and in the water you pissed out. I truly mean it. You can feel an untapped potential there. That, over time, had given us strength. It had infused our people with a conviction to strive to even greater heights. This power seeped into our blood and bones, sharpening our minds and pushing our bodies to unprecedented levels of strength. But it wasn't magic. It was masked in the form of a temptress' song. A song which hinted at a tune of the lingering source of power. It resonated like a drum, pounding from behind thick walls and from within our hearts. Unknowingly, we sang along to its damnable chorus, striking steel against bone, trying to match the tempo of the world's beating heart. Whether by happenstance or fate, we had arrived, drawn to beat. A melodic drum that echoed from beneath the soil and then from within our own bodies. This drum beat pulled all of us into a seductive trance. Its resonance infected all of us to some extent. Certainly, the contagion was far more pronounced and virulent in others. Those are the saddest of tales, belonging to those individuals who were the most susceptible to its resonating frequency. In our folly, we had ignored the corrupted chorus which echoed back, we further ignored its lyrics and the hymns being sung and carried on, ourselves singing along in the orchestra of chaos.
Now every tale has many origins. Many strands of thread that, when pulled on, may unravel more than anticipated. Legends, intermingled with myth that may have once been based on faith emerging as the definitive truth. If you were to continue to pull, it would be easy to see the tangled web of history, but here is one particular thread, one particular strand on which you can pull. This strand is where the melodic beat of that wretched song changed its cadence and began an inescapable creep towards Shrine's crescendo.
At that time, I had been approaching adulthood. Yet, in the eyes of our people, I was just a boy named Serif. Serif Shrine. Born on Shrine to a bastard father and estranged mother who fled to a world beyond. While my name alone did not mean I was without prospects, no. The son of a thief and a liar certainly contributed to my lack of prospects. But names signify something. They convey ideas and meaning instantaneously. And some names on Shrine conveyed those ideas far greater than others. When you're born 'a Shrine', it means society has abandoned you, that the city has abandoned you.
Much like my father, I, too, was a thief. And I suppose a liar as well. All thieves are inherently liars, and as such, my father and I conspired with other thieves and liars. We were known by the Shrine Guard, but more so as a nuisance, unworthy of pursuit, but certainly worthy of summary execution. Usually by being thrown into the Well.
Living as a criminal in a city governed by sanctioned criminals has its benefits. The Tiers always have a grudge, a debt, some grievance that needs to be settled. And when one such issue was addressed, the need for retaliation once again had called upon the tierless members of Shrine. A profitable cycle. Certainly Tiers attacking one another outright would bring the city to the brink of another domestic war and that is a dangerous prospect. It hurts power. It hurts deeply entrenched groups and ideologues, people that do not wish to see their power be usurped or destabilized in any way. So the act of hiring criminals provided the facade of deniability. The Guard knew and the Tiers all played along. So as long as it kept the greater peace. My father and I, peacekeepers in the loosest sense, were criminals.. The term 'criminal’ lacks any sort of charm. Cheap and effective enough to not overstep the delicate balance. This balance allowed for precise and coordinated violence. Certainly we knew the risks. Capture meant immediate execution by the Guard, yet capture from one of the Tiers meant torture. Torture that would have even the most honorable men confessing to imaginary and abhorrent crimes that only devils could ever conjure in a dream. 'Keep the knife in your boot. Cut into your stomach, pull out your own damned heart before they catch you.' Is what my father would always say before the start of a new task. He would finish by adding 'or you'll wish you were burning in the fire of a thousand suns.' The Angellen people always have inventive and horrific ways to enact their justice on one another.
There was a plot brewing. A grandiose plan that would shake Shrine to her foundations. Rumors and whispers spread among the lesser folks. Some spoke of rebellion, while others spoke of fleeing Shrine to more prosperous lands in the stars beyond. That was my father's intention, no doubt. To start anew. To swindle, lie, and cheat those that were unknown to his usual antics. Those without prospects are easily swayed with sweet promises. My father was one such victim. Over several weeks, in the dead of night, my father met in secret with a prospective client. Yet, they always spoke outside, far from earshot and in hushed tones. Often several other local criminals would join them and disperse quietly, back to their respective spheres of control. My father, for all of his wickedness and treachery, remained quiet, refusing to tell me anything. Although, the rumors continued to reach my ears.
“Somethin' big. We do and we're free.” I heard him say, more to himself than me.
I wish I listened then. I wish that I had done things differently. Yet the scheme was too grand, too audacious to even have been believed. Looking back now, the perpetrators of the scheme all sought different ends. Some with the usual refrain of vengeance and hatred and others, the ending pursuit of power. A shift in the paradigm of power was about to occur. What was unknown then was how quickly everything could change; how quickly the Celestial body could shuffle her divine deck to deal a new hand.
The man who approached my father that fateful night was remarkably different. He was draped in a long, dark cloak. He was imposing,  similar in height to my father but with a primal aura, like a large, unpredictable cat poised to pounce. I had always thought my father to be a large, brutish man, but this stranger was most certainly far more threatening. Shapes of weapons were clearly visible in the contours of the cloak. Undoubtedly, he was from a Tier. At the time, I did not recognize the colors nor could I identify the strange mask he wore. I remember feeling uneasy. I remember him scanning his surroundings and then snapping his eyes into position, fixating on mine. While I wasn't necessarily trying to hide, I was trying to be discreet and he had spotted me like it was a game; as if he was searching for me. His gaze immobilized me. It was only after he looked back at my father I regained autonomy of my body. I was terrified of him. And, of course, now I know what they were discussing. Treason.
I moved closer towards them. I was curious. I wanted to know who this was.
“You'll know-” he said coolly. His voice was almost reassuring. Comforting. It dripped with confidence. He looked at me once again with blue eyes and back again at my father, “-you'll know. I myself, or one of my captains, will be here to gather you.” He brushed aside his cloak and rested a hand on the hilt of a long, curved blade bearing an insignia, The Dagger of the Fourth Tier. “Ensure you and your crew...” he trailed off, hinting at his final words.
My father nodded several anxious times as the client bowed slightly and walked back onto the path. His steps made no sound. Shadows clung to him, cloaking his form as he melded with the dark night, vanishing from sight. My father had stood for a moment longer, ensuring he was fully out of sight. He nodded again, as if convincing himself of his readiness..
I tried to ask in the quietest of whispers I could muster, “captains? Was he-”
He hissed a shushing sound and nodded towards our modest home.
We made our way inside and I asked again, in an excited whisper “who was that?”
My father turned to me, his eyes anxious, lip trembling, “that was the Commander of the Fourth. I think we are going to be alright. Better than alright. Rich and out of this shit city.”
He was right about the city being shit, but my imagination ran wild. A Tier Commander? Here? I was excited. I wanted to know more, but I could see my father was beside himself in either fear or anticipation. We sat in silence for nearly an hour until the several soft footsteps approached and broke the nervous silence. Soft knocks and then one by one, several familiar and new faces appeared, hardened and anxious faces. Apart from the initial hushed greetings and creaking from the door's hinges, everyone sat in silence. It took me several moments to understand what was happening. They were listening. Finally, my father spoke.
“Soon,” He looked at me with worried eyes and then continued, “at day-break, the Tiers will be engaging. No one here is to leave from this moment on.”
The air in my father's modest home went silent. He scanned the eyes of everyone gathered, as if trying to mimic the gravitas of Fourth Tier Commander. He then focused his eyes on mine. It was not the first time I saw him look at me with those eyes. It wasn't a look of concern or pity, it was fear, fear that I would sabotage the plan, a plan I had not the slightest inkling of knowing its extent. I straightened my back and met his eyes. I nodded. He remained unmoved, curling his lip ever so slightly. I grit my teeth as he looked away. I was angry. I am a disappointment to him. But this time, I was sure to show him and everyone that I'm deserving of respect.
Bells began to toll loudly from the Fulcrum. Moments later, the  Alignmentos Metrisei Spectheama guild’s rang as well. More bells began to ring from the Tiers above us. It was at that moment I realized the scope. A Tier Commander meeting with the criminal subsection of Shrine, both sets of bells ringing simultaneous. A sense of dread washed over me.
My father stood up. “Brothers. First the terms and then here’s what's goin' happen...”

Shadows are a merely a reflection of reality,
albeit a perverted reality.
They gain strength as the sources of light move further away from illuminating their true forms.
It is not in the nature of shadow to be evil; it is the nature of evil to seek refuge within the shadows.
Light can reveal uncomfortable truths,
shadows provide comfort, masking the horrors that dwell within.