The Commander of the First Tier, Commander Miron Madrigal strode through the stark, shadow-draped corridor, offering a nod to the stoic Metrisei assisting in the alignment that welcomed him. He made his way to the desk where a visibly bored Shrine Guard member sat. The guard gestured towards the side table, a familiar request Miron had encountered countless times. He placed ‘Equality’s Edge’ on the table. The Commander always carried just one weapon – it was all he ever needed. He forgot when the last time he actually swung it with the intent to kill even was. He feared nothing. Or, that’s what he told himself. He thanked the guard and moved onto the second room. The long corridor opened up into the Fulcrum.

Alone, his heart pounded a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He had usually come with the ‘Old Man’, Captain Orin Yera, as most Commanders brought their seconds to the council meetings, mostly to act as advisors. But it was early morning and Commander Madrigal thought the supposed invasion of their world was another overreaction. Despite his experience, a thread of nervousness lingered.

The enemy remained a mystery, their location elusive. ‘North-easterly direction’ was all he had heard. A guard tower under the Guard's control was reportedly destroyed. Yet that was not the cause of the bells triggering the chimes of alarm. What truly stirred the hive was the unauthorized use of a Metrisei alignment. That was all the information Commander Miron had received.

The chiming of the AMS Guild bells was echoed first by the bells of the First, followed by those of the Fulcrum. The other tiers were expected to join this chorus, amplifying the call. Yet, none of the other tiers' bells joined in this orchestral alarm. To Miron, the city seemed untroubled. 'But why take the risk?' he pondered. When the bells rang, all of the commanders were to report to the council. That was the directive the commanders had agreed upon after much debate. 'How many rings? Why are we being summoned like children? Who decides when to ring the bell?' were among the questions the Shrine Guard Commander grappled with when the early-warning plan was first being devised.

His captains, his warriors, his family – all were now preparing the tier for an unknown event. That was the order before Commander Madrigal had left. 'Remain vigilant and wait for my arrival.' Yet, as Miron Madrigal, Commander of the First Tier, entered the Fulcrum's corridor, he braced for a different kind of warfare.

In the Fulcrum, battles were often waged with venomous words and veiled threats. Oftentimes, during the council meetings of the tier commanders, the arguments would devolve into who could make the best joke at the other’s expense, drawing the most laughter from those assembled. In fact, the council meetings were quite fun. They allowed Miron to identify future allies and assess potential threats. Long gone were the days of open war in the streets. The Sixth often vehemently claimed that many such battles were instigated by the First Tier.

 During times of great turmoil, some arguments did come to blows. Several deaths in the Fulcrum were chronicled in the histories of Shrine. The most consequential of deaths sparked whole wars within the cities. Others led to day-long sieges, only ending when someone important enough had died or enough blood had been spilled for a truce to be called. Such conflicts always harbored the risk of the Underkin revealing their lingering presence. A nuisance that would usually harass the Guard’s towers or the forests of the Second. They rarely made their way into the city anymore. Not enough blood was spilled anymore.

Miron tried to recall the last time words were exchanged that led to a duel from which someone had died or been grievously wounded. Certainly none under his tenure as Commander of the First. A title he held for nearly forty-years, having taken it from his father, who was killed by such a duel.

 Miron entered the main breach of the Fulcrum. The Fulcrum was perhaps the largest above-ground structure in the city. While only a dozen stories tall, small in comparison to the Ascari Tower, it was wide. Reaching from from the very bottom of the Fifth tier’s floor nearly to the Fourth. There had been a time when those living on the Fourth tier used to walk on its multi-domed roof and even built illegally constructed structures, much to the dismay of the Shrine Guard that enacted overzealous punishments. Many innocent people died in the fighting.

In that instance, the tiers refused to get involved in neighborly squabbles. The squabble that nearly destroyed the entire existence of the Fourth Tier. Not merely the Tier itself, but the citizens of Shrine. The Guard viewed anyone living there to be one in the same. 

He saw Shrine Commander Hanish Harlon standing in his ridiculous armor. His pale, smug face seemed to be exaggerated from the polished glow of his armor. To his left, a staircase that led down to the prisons. Ancient, carved rooms, their purpose long forgotten, but now found a new purpose by the Fifth and the Shrine Guard, jailing and torturing the citizens of Shrine. Across the hall, the upper quarters of the Shrine Guard. And below that, The Vault. A rather unimpressive name for some of Shrine’s most closely protected artifacts. The weapons of old. Relics of a bygone era where the children of Angellen could freely summon and sheath their weapons within their minds. Notable objects Miron knew to exist in The Vault were several strange cubes that were considered fuel for the Warlocks, a whole host of unique weapons that were supposedly carved from the bones of the Goddess Lucinda herself. The most famous of which, the legendary Eighth Tier Commander’s sword, ‘The Admiral’s Blade.’ In addition, an ugly dagger that the Fourth use as their standard and a large red cloth said to be a piece of the original sail from The Zedrich herself, the Free Sail’s infamous ship. 

It was still early morning, and the sun’s rays bathed the Fulcrum in a warm, radiant glow. The architects of which were long dead, but their genius remained. Light bounced from wall to floor and then back up again, combining into what seemed to be the impossible, solid light above the crescent shaped table. The room was always well lit, even when the council normally met, after hours, at dusk. Miron always thought entering this hall to be sacred. A gift that only few people ever should receive the privilege of seeing. Most who ever did attend, rarely did deserve such a privilege.

He passed the discolored patch of floor, a silent reminder to the Fulcrum's merciless history, and wondered if he would ever see a fresh coat of scarlet added to its legacy as Commander. Or perhaps, it may be his own pool of blood someone would stare at one day.

Supposedly, the stain was that of a now long dead Fifth Tier commander that failed to make enough people laugh with his jokes. Or didn’t realize people were no longer laughing. Miron tried to recall his name. He knew the slain commander’s name was in one of the few books in the First tier’s modest library. He had read it in his youth, but like with most things Miron read, he forgot. Miron tried to remind himself to ask his daughter when he returned to the First. The smarter and eldest of his three children. 

They should really place a plaque there or something, he thought. But the stain looked unusually noticeable this morning. Maybe it was the angle. Or maybe he had never been in the Fulcrum quiet this early before. The Tier commanders weren’t usually keen on early morning meetings. That’s when tempers usually caused the worst.

Miron continued forward, ascending the short flight of stairs to the designated seats. The ‘seats which decided the fate of all worlds’, they often said. Those words were etched into the front of the crescent table. Perhaps, there was a time in history when those words held truth. It was a grandiose idea of self-importance that permeated every council meeting held in the Fulcrum. Miron himself would be the first to admit he succumbed to the same trappings of grandeur. The Council of the Tiers. Where the fate of the children of Angellen converged.

Present were only three of the usual ten commanders, each without their Seconds. An unknown representative sitting in the Seat of the Fourth Tier commander, the Lead Archaeologist Clay, Commander of the Fifth, and the Shrine Guard Commander were the only individuals around the Crescent table. The representative from the Fourth and The Guard Commander were locked in a silent duel of wills.

Commander Dwalin Clay of the Fifth Tier, appearing as bored as the earlier guard, sat engrossed in a book. He was smaller in stature and a merchant by trade. His beard was the most masculine thing about him. Miron always noticed how clean his hands looked and always thought that was strange for someone that called himself ‘The Lead Archaeologist’ to have hands such as those. Long, thin, fragile looking fingers. Miron speculated that Clay did not use the title ‘Commander’ for a particular reason. He never appeared ready for any manner of physical altercation. One does not become Commander of a Tier without earning it or, without having some sort of gift. Miron pondered over the nature of his own 'gift'. Miron inherited his station as did his father and his father before him. Nearly four-hundred years of Madrigals commanded the First.

Clay, the Lead Archaeologist, lazily turned another page. Miron found it odd to see people reading books purely for pleasure. But to read for pleasure and in public seemed unnerving. Miron’s daughter had the same, unusual tendency, requiring him to shout the command several times before she would even bother to lift her nose from the pages. Clay was much the same in this regard. But to read a book at a time such when the city may be under attack seemed absurd beyond belief. Maybe this whole affair was a misunderstanding.

“Good day, Gentlemen!” Miron tried to sound energetic. Mostly for himself than those. He felt tired. Clay’s eyes remained on his book, and with a yawn, grunted softly. Guard Commander Harlan and the unfamiliar captain sharply turned their heads toward Miron, both acknowledging his presence with a mixture of disdain and indifference, before resuming their visual standoff.
“Captain?” Miron’s voice trailed off in a suppressed yawn. He was trying to remember the young captain of the Fourth tier. 

“Castielle Carne,” Guard Commander Harlan answered for the Captain. Miron nodded and then turned back to Captain Castielle. His eyes remained fixated on the smug face of the Guard Commander who stood just beyond the center of the crescent table.
“Oh. Captain Carne. Pleasure to see you again. It’s been some time.” Miron recognized the face but couldn't recall who Castielle was, or if they had previously met formally. Castielle responded with a soft grunt of acknowledgement.
Miron smiled but thought if he himself grunted it would garner more attention.

“Is Commander Amir already on approach to greet our unwanted visitors?”
Castielle hesitated with his response. “We are making final preparations before any engagement with the enemy.”

“So the threat is real?” Miron was about to take his seat but remained standing, feeling uncomfortable ever since he had entered.

“Indeed it is.”

Commander Miron looked at Guard Commander Harlan who remained stone-faced. “So the threat is serious?”

“Deathly.” Captain Castielle Carne responded for the Guard Commander, maintaining eye contact with the Guard commander.

Guard Commander Harlan stayed immobile. His hands folded in front of him. He stood confidently but with a scowl on perpetually smug face. Miron needed more information.

“I see. Okay. Shall we ring the bells again? Where are the-”

“Wait. We will wait, Madrigal.” Guard Commander Harlan interjected.

Miron pressed his lips together, feeling out of place still on his feet. And perhaps the Guard commander was correct, or maybe he too was blind to what was going on. The air hung heavy with a palpable tension, prompting him to ease it by moving to sit down.

“So, Command-” Miron corrected himself, “Archaeologist Clay, how’s the book?”

Lead Archaeologist Clay raised his hand and performed a shooing motion as if waving off 

a fly.

Miron nodded sorrowfully and lowered his eyes and then turned to the young Captain of the Fourth.
“I see. Captain! How is the Fourth? How are the renowned assassins?”

“Thriving, Madrigal. We are thriving,” came the clipped response, laced with a pride that bordered on defiance.

It wasn’t unusual for Tier Captains to often sit in place of their Commanders, but it was unusual for junior captains to do so. It was especially strange to not address each other by their status. Miron ignored the slight, placing the lack of etiquette to ignorance. The Fourth were usually an overly brash group, outlaws and social rejects that abhorred authority, but they weren’t stupid. He suspected the Captain knew exactly what he said and how he said it. But why he would show such hostility so early in the morning was usual. That’s how the floors get a fresh layer of paint sometimes. People tend to be grumpy in the mornings.
The Shrine Guard Commander let out a laugh, sharp and mocking, as if the concept was a joke too bitter to swallow. “The Fourth is thriving?” 

“You laugh now, but you’ll cry later.” Captain Carne responded.

He had that familiar tone in his voice. When someone was moments away from crying. Miron knew the tone well, having trained boys into men and having known loss and sacrifice himself.

“Ha. Perhaps the Guard shall uplift the roots this time instead of just trimming the weeds,” Guard Commander Harlan continued, each word a thinly veiled threat.

Miron, standing behind his chair, felt the weight of the room's history pressing down on him. The Fourth Tier captain's eyes burned with a fire that spoke of deep-seated anger and unresolved conflicts.

“Gentlemen,” Miron interjected, nodding first to the captain, then to Guard Commander Harlan, his voice steady, betraying none of his inner turmoil. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Yes.” The Guard Commander snapped, his gaze cutting.

“Yes.” the Captain responded, equally firm.

Lead Archaeologist Clay turned another page.

Miron sighed and then finally took his seat.

To Miron, the chair was less a seat and more a throne—imposing yet invariably uncomfortable. It was too large. While the padding had been replaced several times throughout the decades, it never felt enough and it always itched. He felt non-existent thorns were still on the wood, where every subtle movement would be met with a new found respect for nature. He felt it today more than he ever had. An uncomfortable itching on his legs and back. He ignored the strange, yet familiar sensation. More pressing matters were at stake, or so he thought. Though the immediate emergency appeared resolved, Miron sensed the real battle was unfolding right here in the Fulcrum. There was an awkward silence. The air was thick with the weight of unsaid words and the echoes of some unresolved history between Captain Castielle Carne and Guard Commander Harlan.

“Commander, is our city under attack or not?” Miron's voice carried a tinge of impatience. He tried not to sound impatient, but the itching was beginning to aggravate him.
Guard Commander Harlan paused, his eyes briefly meeting Captain Castielle Carne's before looking away towards Miron.

“You’d think not, judging from the urgency of the tiers that have gathered.”
“And here I thought I was going to be late.” Miron smiled and nodded at Captain Castielle Carne, trying to get a better understanding of the situation. Or maybe trying to cool the simmering pot. Beside Captain Carne, Lead Archaeologist Clay seemed to be in his own little world, even when there was an obviously simmering pot threatening to boil over. 

A silent understanding prevailed that weapons were to be left outside the inner sanctum of the Fulcrum. The Shrine Guards pretended to ensure that by confiscating weapons.The stains on the floor spoke to the reasons for such measures. Except Shrine Guard Commander Hanish Harlon was exempt from that rule. He had always paraded himself in front of the council in full regalia and kept his weapons on display. He wanted to appear as the adult in the room. And, in many respects, he had to be. The Tier commanders did behave like spoiled, petulant children at the best of times. He made the point of demonstrating his stature with not one, but two artifact weapons. His bone sword which he named ‘False Peace’ and one of the four gauntlets that helped end the War of Tiers, supposedly. The war being ended, in part, by killing enough people that fighting couldn’t continue.

Shrine Guard Commander Harlan looked unimpressed with the bubbling pot, but still maintained a safe distance from the Fourth Tier Captain. He wasn’t wearing the gauntlet, but held a hand to the hilt of False Peace.

Suddenly, the door to the Fulcrum swung open with a bang, rebounding off the wall. An intoxicated druid stumbled into the hall. He belched loudly. Miron thought he felt the reverberations.
Guard Commander Harlan turned with a scowl that would melt stone.

The bearded druid’s shirt was unlaced and hung open as if he was in the process of dressing himself but gave up. The opening revealed a plumb, round stomach that starkly turned into a heavily muscled chest patched with patches of red hair and perhaps mud. Streaks of some kind of discoloration were his chest, suggesting he was rolling in it. He took the long way round to his seat. He groped along the wall for non-existent handrails. He approached the stairs leading to the crescent table. He swayed with each step. He tripped going up the stairs. A dull thud echoed around the room. Miron suspected that he may have hit head.

Shrine Guard Commander Harlan sighed heavily. “Commander Moon. Are you seeing stars?”

“I’m here! Where? Where are they? Where are they! The Second will only defend our forests. We do not-”

“Take a seat, Commander Moon.” Guard Commander Harlan’s voice was as if he were talking to a child. A child that had been up too late and refused to go to bed, “there is much to discuss.”

Commander Moon grunted unwillingly and squinted at Miron.
“Why are you here? In my house?”

Miron sighed and put a hand up to his forehead as if scratching an itch and whispered in a low tone that was still undoubtedly heard by everyone else.

“Commander Moon, you’re in the Fulcrum.”

“Ah, right. We,” he burped, “we will not leave our forest to fight battles you fools started.” 

His speech was slurred and omitted a sickly odor. Commander Moon pointed at the still empty chairs. “Where is everyone?”

“Late.” Captain Castielle Carne’s voice was sharp.

“Who in the Devil’s hairy ass are you?”

Captain Castielle Carne cocked his head at Guard commander Harlan, expecting him to

answer that question for him again.

Guard Commander Harlan obliged. “That is the bottom Captain of the Fourth, representing Amir.” 

Miron then detected the pungent odor emanating from Commander Moon. He tried not to, but could in fact smell several distinct scents. The mixture was that of: sweat, dirt, a hint of wine, urine, bad breath, and the unmistakable smell of poor hygiene. The array of odors induced a minor headache in Miron. He attempted to disregard the overwhelming array of scents.

“Where’s the assassin, eh?” mocked Commander Moon, twisting in his seat as though expecting to find Commander Amir lurking behind him. 

The distinct click of heels echoed in the hall, heralding a new arrival. Miron recognized the sound. One of the few joys that came from attending these council meetings was to see her, Stalker Odette Al-Dias. She walked with purpose. Each foot striking the stone beneath as if she were trying to damage the polished finish. Her tall frame was accentuated by her flowing curls of black hair. Although happily married, Miron couldn't help but appreciate the sight. Al-Dias climbed the stairs, taking two at a time and then halted as if she slammed into an invisible barrier.

“Go wash your ass, you pathetic disgrace,” she commanded. Miron couldn’t contain himself and laughed. This drew laughter from everyone as well, including Commander Moon himself. Despite the chairs being spaced at least twelve feet apart, Al-Dias theatrically moved her seat closer to Captain Castielle Carne, who for a moment, too flashed a soft smile at the remark.

Miron couldn’t contain himself and laughed. This drew laughter from everyone as well, including Commander Moon himself. 

The chairs were separated by a minimum of twelve feet, but Al-Dias made a show of moving her seat closer to Captain Castielle Carne, who for a moment, he too flashed a soft smile at the remark.

Stalker Al-Dias adjusted her tunic and then spoke in her usual direct style.

“The Sixth engaged the golems. Both the Battlemaster and Arcanarch are dead. They sustained heavy casualties and have retreated and are currently regrouping. The enemy is approaching North-East of the city. Nearly fifty golems and approximately a hundred lesser creatures as their rear guard.”

The hall was silent. Miron saw Captain Castielle Carne smiling. Miron suspected he was no longer laughing at Stalker Al-Dias’s remark, but something far more sinister.

Commander Moon looked as if he were sobering up and turning a sickly pale color.

“The Battlemasterr? The Sixth is in retreat?” Guard Commander Harlan almost shouted and seemingly forgot to close his mouth.

Archaeologist Clay raised his head, “golems?”

“Yes-” Al-Dias began to speak.

“The Battlemaster is dead? That’s confirmed?” Guard Commander Harlan shouted again. This time it was more of a statement, that he needed to hear himself say the words to believe it.

Al-Dias continued, “yes. And yes, Golems. Creatures made from rock, similar to the creatures employed by the Strands. They are capable of hurling giant spears which travel as fast as lightning.” Al-Dias as if describing what a dog looks like to a child.”

“I know what golems are!” Lead Archaeologist Clay slammed his book down.
“The Strands are attacking again?” Guard Commander Harlan scoffed, pointing a sharp finger at the Shrine Commanders, “you’ve allowed this to happen. All of you. Your complacency and inaction-” 

Guard Commander,” Miron cut in, “rash actions could unify them against us.”

“And who’s to say they haven’t already? The city is under attack, Madrigal!”

“Not yet. Soon, perhaps, but we have time to-”

“The Sixth has been defeated! The Battlemaster is dead-”

“There’s only, what, a hundred enemies, that’s insignificant-”

“Insignificant?”

Captain Castielle Carne laughed. The room went silent as everyone turned to face him.

“You see how complacent we’ve become? How do we have ‘archaeologists’ and ‘administrators’ masquerading as ‘commanders’?” Captain Carne’s voice was mocking and sarcastic. He waited a moment, seemingly expecting someone to challenge him. No one did. Captain Castielle Carne continued. “We’ve brought this on ourselves. We look weak. We are weak. This is your punishment.”

The doors crashed open, halting the commotion. A breathless Metrisei, known to Miron as the Arcanarch's pupil, burst into the chamber. He was not a difficult person to recall. Aris Ascarian was tall and thin, his usual pale face was now red with exertion. With disheveled dark hair and attire stained by sweat and mud. This disheveled, frantic version of Aris Ascarian was a stark contrast to the composed figure Miron usually saw around the grounds of the Ascari Tower.

Metrisei Aris Ascarian ran towards the crescent table, he was shouting, “we need to field the tiers with legacy blades, immediately!”

“I agree!” Captain Castielle Carne shouted in a clear tone.

The shout surprised Miron and appeared to surprise the Guard commander as well. There was something he didn't understand about Captain Carne. There was a missing piece.

“Control yourself-” Guard Commander Harlan tried to speak, Aris Ascarian ignored him.
“The Arcanarch is dead, as is-” Aris Ascarian, gasping for air, his face etched with desperation, turned to the Guard Commander. “You must assemble the Guard. Everyone. The Last Tier, we need the people-”

Guard Commander Harlan scoffed loudly and seemed to smile and then his face morphed from smug to concerned. Silence enveloped the room, broken only by Aris Ascarian's labored breathing. 

‘We must-open the vaults,’ Aris said in between gasps of air.

‘Absolutely not!’ The Guard Commander's firm rejection was echoed unexpectedly by the Fourth Tier Captain.
“The giants-”
“Golems!” Lead Archaeologist Clay corrected smugly, while looking at Stalker Al-Dias. She appeared unimpressed.
“The giants-golems are-the Sixth, they won’t die!” Aris Ascarian gasped again, “the enemy, they die when struck with the legacy weapons.”

The door leading to the hall opened once again. The Commander of the Seventh Tier, Administrator Silas stood with a confused expression on his face.
“Did I miss something?”
Guard Commander Harlan cursed loudly. “If only you fools had you heeded the bells, we’d have avoided this chaos!” He growled in frustration and then pointed to Aris Ascarian. “You. Shut up. You,” he pointed to the Commander of the Seventh, “take your seat.” Administrator Silas shuffled quickly to his seat. Guard Commander Harlan looked at the gathered Commanders with threatening eyes, seeming to dare someone to speak. The speed in which the Administrator made his way to the seat was surprising fast for someone his age.

Aris Ascarian’s eyes widened and he stood up straight and tall. It looked like he was trying to establish his presence, perhaps even try to intimidate the Guard Commander. It didn’t work. 

“The Vault shall not be opened under any circumstance!” Guard Commander Harlan’s voice was definitive. There would be no further debate on the matter.

Aris Ascarian looked as if he had just been punched in the gut. He had caught his breath but the wind looked to have been taken out of him once again.

“We need a plan-”

Aris Ascarian regained his composure. “Harlan. Listen! Whatever is attacking us-”

“Golems!” Lead Archaeologist Clay chimed in once again.

Aris Ascarian glanced menacingly towards the Fifth Tier Commander.

Lead Archaeologist Clay swallowed and then stuttered several times. “The Fifth do trade with them, the Strand folk, those creatures-the golems-are vulnerable to the old relics.” 

Aris Ascarian’s expression softened. He turned to face Guard Commander Harlan who at that moment was looking around the room. “We need The Vault opened now.”

Guard Commander Harlan whirled around and looked up at Aris Ascarian, gripping the hilt of False Promise.
Miron’s hand went for his own sword, he had to defend Aris Ascarian and didn’t particularly care for the Guard Commander, in fact, Miron thought that the city would be better off without the petty tyrant. His hand gripped his belt but found nothing. Equality’s Edge was in a whole other part of the building. ‘If a Metrisei is slain in the Fulcrum.’ Miron shuddered at the thought. 

Stalker Odette Al-Dias stood with remarkable speed, interrupting the scene. Miron wondered if she too was feeling the strange sensation under her feet. But she faced south-east, towards the direction of the Third Tier. Then, Miron felt it as well, an unnerving feeling. This time it wasn't the strange itching sensation, it was something else entirely. He, too, stood, causing the Stalker and Commander to share a mutual frown of concern. Something was coming.

Several piercing whistles ripped through the city's skies, quickly followed by the ominous echo of distant crashes and reverberating tremors.

As panic set in, the commanders all lept from their seats. Miron noticed Captain Castielle Carne quietly moving away from the crescent table. He winked at Miron and then casually walked out of the Fulcrum, contrasting the rush of others towards the front steps of the Fulcrum to witness the unfolding disaster. 

The Third Tier’s perch had been struck. Plumes of dust were rising as debris fell like shooting stars onto the tier below. Stalker Al-Dias rushed off without a looking back. Guard Commander Harlan started to call after her, only to halt and summon a nearby sentry, his expression mirroring the collective shock.
“Call the Guard!” Guard Commander Harlan shouted again, his voice was deeper now as if his throat was raw. “Everyone! Withdraw everyone from the towers to assist in securing the Second.” Harlan turned to face Commander Moon, seeking confirmation.
Commander Moon's face drained of color, a stark paleness overtaking his usually rosy cheeks, as nausea threatened to overwhelm him. 

“The Underkin-” Commander Moon burped, spitting on himself. He tried to reach for the wall and stumbled.

Aris Ascarian stretched out his arms to try to brace the druid, but Aris was all limbs and no muscle, his tall, slender frame doing little to slow the heavy druid as he fell.

Miron gritted his teeth. A sharp scratch was felt on the sole of his right feet. He looked around at the other commanders, but they were statues, unable to look away from the raining chaos.

‘He was right. We have been complacent.’’ Miron looked away and down at his feet with a frown.

Aris Ascarian, standing on the front steps of the Fulcrum, couldn't see the Ascari Tower from his viewpoint but offered a silent prayer for its safety. To him, the tower was more than just the legacy of his ancestors, but a home; while being situated on the First Tier, far from the center of the city, it was the heart of Shrine, its most treasured edifice. The mere thought of its destruction sent a shiver down his spine. 

Pulling himself together, Aris faced Shrine's most influential leaders — the Commanders. They were gathered there, struck by a mix of awe and horror at the sight of The Perch's ruin. With a sense of heavy responsibility, Aris initiated the daunting task of guiding Commanders Harlan, Miron, Moon, Lead Archaeologist Clay, and Administrator Silas back inside the Fulcrum. It was time for a critical strategy discussion on their next steps in this unprecedented crisis.

More than two dozen Shrine Guards had already joined them, and a steady stream of additional guards continued to trickle in, readying themselves for duty. A palpable nervousness hung in the air; Shrine had faced attacks before, but nothing of this magnitude. Previous incursions, typically small-scale raids by groups from the Strands, had mostly been aimed at pilfering from the Seventh Tier. Such attempts, driven more by greed than strategy, never posed a real threat to the heart of Shrine – The Vault or the inner sanctum of the Ascari Tower, where the city's true treasures were safeguarded. Despite this, there had been rare instances of rogue bands bold enough to try.

The threats to Shrine often stemmed from within, internal conflicts that spilled enough blood to stir the creatures in the north. To counter this menace, a network of Guard Towers and fortifications was established, primarily aiding the Second Tier in managing these disturbances. The creatures, typically reclusive, rarely ventured near the city. Aris Ascarian, despite his extensive studies, had never encountered a living underkin-creature. Research conducted by the scholars of the Nomothetic Ktirio guild focused on understanding their anatomy and behavior, painting them as mindless, irrational beasts driven to frenzy by the scent of blood.

The underkin's attacks lacked sophistication; their tactics were straightforward, often involving rushing and overwhelming their foes en masse. However, they seldom targeted lone individuals, displaying a rudimentary level of reasoning. The most significant onslaught followed the War of Tears, a time when Shrine nearly succumbed to their sheer numbers. Yet, it was not these creatures that now commanded the council's immediate attention. The more pressing threat was posed by the golems, capable of hurling devastating javelins that could wreak untold havoc on the city.

Gathering his composure, Aris silently repeated a mantra to himself: ‘I can do this. I can do this.’

The thought of sitting seemed distant to everyone, except for Commander Moon, who appeared barely able to keep his balance even while seated. A peculiar sight caught Aris's attention: Commander Madrigal was shuffling about, his expression one of apparent discomfort. Aris wondered if concern for his family was the cause. He remembered the Commander of the First Tier has children – the eldest daughter, often seen reading near the statue of Saj’a Raise, and the mischievous son who liked to pelt the same statue with stones. Aris vaguely recalled there might be a younger daughter as well.
“Are you alright, Commander?”

“Yes. Really. Just a strange itch.” Commander Madrigal shook his head and raised a hand to not worry Aris.

More and more people began to enter the Fulcrum. Tier Captains and Metrisei.
The Guard Commander was shouting and told the guard to shut all of the doors, ordering everyone that didn’t need to be there removed. The threat of violence was implied.
The only door that remained open was the large front door which had a dozen guards blocking. The merchants and citizens that predominantly resided in the Fifth wanted questions answered.

Aris could see Captain Orin Yera speaking to Commander Madrigal. The captain looked calm while the Commander continued to look more uncomfortable.

Several minutes had passed and the air was split again by multiple piercing whistles from above. Everyone remained still and then the crash could be heard and then felt the shaking.

Aris looked up to the ceiling of the Fulcrum. He closed his eyes.

“Near the First!” A sentry called out from the main doors of the Fulcrum.

Aris opened his eyes and noticed how oddly beautiful the Fulcrum’s ceiling was and how much it reminded him of the tower’s ceiling architecture. The crashing sound came from the North East. Where the First Tier and Ascari Tower called home.

Aris attempted to call out, inquiring about what had been destroyed, but found his voice reduced to a mere whisper.

Commander Madrigal then shouted, “what was hit?”
“The lower reach, sir.”

Aris exhaled, unaware he was holding his breath. He considered sitting beside Commander Moon, but then looked at Commander Madrigal. Both exchanged a knowing glance, a silent communication in their shared concern.

Aris's mind was consumed by thoughts of the Ascari Tower. He envisioned it tipping over and collapsing in a cloud of dust and despair. All of the work would be lost in an instant. He swallowed hard. If the Ascari Tower suffers the same fate as the Third’s Perch, it would be devastating. He swiftly banished the thought before it could take deeper root in his mind. ‘The Ascari Tower will stand for ten-thousand years and then ten-thousand more!’ Aris repeated the Tower’s slogan. He was the acting Arcanarch now. His voice mattered. It meant something. People listened to the Arcanarch. People bowed when the Arcanarch spoke!His master and several of his friends were dead. Now, it was time for Arcanarch Aris Ascarian to rise and confront this daunting challenge head-on!
“Gentlemen!” Aris’s voice was ignored or lost in the commotion. The air was sucked out from Aris. He tried again, louder, “we need the warlocks!” Again, Aris was drowned out by the myriad of conversations and clamoring feet. ‘We’re doomed.’ The negative thoughts slowly crept into Aris’s mind.

“Gentlemen!” Commander Madrigal’s voice cut through the chaos, commanding attention, causing Guard Commander Harlan to straighten as well. The room fell silent, all eyes turning towards Commander Madrigal who was tapping his foot with evident agitation or discomfort. “Telemancer. You were saying?”

The room looked towards Aris. He hated the term. Metrisei measured the distances between distant stars! Bending the very fabric of the universe to create alignments that allow travel beyond our world! Freed our people from a dying world! Aris ignored the term when he realized he now had everyone’s attention. Or perhaps after he saw Commander Madrigal cock his head. ‘Speak.’ he said, with just a look.

Aris thanked the Commander of the First Tier and continued.
“We need communication. First we need more Warlocks. We need to allocate at least a dozen to each Tier—”
The Administrator was about to speak, but was cut off again by Aris.

“Just a moment,” Aris began, “we must consider opening The Vault—” 

“No,’ came the Guard Commander’s immediate, unwavering interjection.

There was a long pause. A moment of consideration. Aris wanted to scream. Aris's mind replayed the harrowing scene of the Sixth Tier's desperate battle against the golems. The warriors, famed for their formidable swords, struggled in vain; their blades merely glanced off the golems' hides.

Aris faced the Guard Commander, a mix of desperation and resolve in his eyes. “Please, Commander,” he implored, ready to drop to his knees if it would make his pleas heard. “I’m begging you to listen. These creatures–their skin is not of natural processes, defying natural laws. Only one member of the Sixth was able to kill several of the golems, which substantially halted their advance. He was using a relic blade.”

“Who managed it?” asked Commander Miron, his interest piqued.

“He was last seen valiantly fighting amidst the chaos. He didn't return with the wounded and me; I fear the worst”

“Who?” The Guard Commander pressed. His interest seemed to be punitive measures.

“Captain Lane.”

“Excuse me!” The Guard Commander asked, his tone irate, “Lane has a relic?”

“We have greater concerns right now, Guard Commander. But if you must know, I believe he removed it from the corpse of Captain Riles. They work. I swear it. On the Divine above, they work. They kill the golems.”

“Yes, Aris. I don’t doubt it! The fact of the matter is I do not wish to open a box that took years of blood and treasure to seal.” He tapped his hand on False Promise, one of the few relic weapons ‘in the wild.’ “These nearly cost us our civilization.” The Guard Commander looked as if he was considering the request. His voice softened. 

Aris had learned from a young age that when you push your point in a debate, stop when the interlocutor seems to be considering your agreement. But Commander Madrigal didn’t grow up in the Ascari Tower.
“I strongly support this request. I will not send in the First without some of these weapons-if it is true,” Commander Madrigal said, pointing at Aris, “what he said about these creatures being difficult to kill, we need to use everything we have.

Guard Commander Harlan growled in a low tone. Aris didn’t know what to make of the tone. But saw Commander Madrigal move in closer.

“I know Aris. He’s next in line for Arcanarch for a reason. We should do what he suggests.”

“I don’t care about the opinions of the Metrisei or the opinions of any tier.”

“We will come and take them, Harlan.” Commander Madrigal’s voice was softer now. He said the threat loud enough for Aris to hear, but quiet enough to not undermine the Guard Commander so openly.

The Guard Commander tapped on False Promise. He smiled, a wicked grin on his smug face.

The Commander of the Seventh, Administrator Silas broke the silence. “We-”

Aris braced himself for the expected response. The Seventh, notorious for their self-interest, often hoarded their knowledge and resources. The Administrators lorded over the unique brilliance of what Warlocks were capable of. They chose to keep the vast majority of which locked away, and those that were supplied to the Tiers were loaned, requiring members from the Seventh to conduct regular maintenance and replacement.

Some men would sooner watch their world burn before they would sacrifice any of their power or authority.
The Administrator continued, “we all must do our part. We will activate additional warlocks and supply them, on loan, to each of the Tiers.”

At this Aris' expression brightened.

“Thank you, Administrator. And I, as acting Arcanarch, will ensure every Tier is given three of the AMS guild’s Metrisei to aid in the assault.”

The Guard Commander sighed, a conflicted expression crossing his face, before finally nodding in reluctant agreement. “We stand on a precipice. And while I hate to agree with you Madrigal-”

 Aris held his breath and waited for the Guard Commander. At this moment, Shrine Guard Commander Hanish Harlan controlled the fate of Shrine.

“Only the Commanders, the Captains, and select members-"

Aris exhaled

“I’m not done,” he said, casting a disapproving glance at Lead Archaeologist Clay and Administrator Silas, "those so-called commanders who are not combatants shall decide the allocation of these weapons. A maximum of five per tier.”

Guard Commander Harlan froze in space and then spun around towards the back of the Fulcrum. “Wait!”

The gathered group turned, seeing an empty space.

“Where did Carne go?”

“Captain Carne? I saw him sneak out the back door when the Perch was hit.”

Guard Commander Harlan paused for a long moment. He waved over a Shrine Guard captain and whispered in his ear. 

“Thank you, Commander!” Aris exhaled forcefully and bowed, trying to keep the Guard Commander focused.

The Guard Commander looked up at Aris. “Yes. The weapons. The Fourth is to get nothing. Do you understand?” Harlan cleared his throat to reiterate. “Nothing. But remember my words now, Aris Ascarian,” he concluded, 'the onus of retrieving these relics post-war falls on you.”

There was a definitive threat in his voice.

From the back of the room, a clear, an authoritative voice broke the tension. It belonged to the Mystarch, Kara Kazarian, her words carrying over the assembled group despite her being partially obscured by Commander Moon’s slouching figure. “We must prioritize the safety of our non-combatants,” she asserted. “The children and the elderly are moved to the safety of the Sixth Tier crypts. I’ve discussed this with the acting Battlemaster, Captain Lane, and he concurs with the plan.”

Aris, recognizing the voice, turned and saw her moving towards Commander Miron Madrigal. “Mystarch! I had assumed—” he started, his tone tinged with surprise. However, realizing the urgency of the situation, he quickly refocused. 'Yes, that's a prudent measure. Are we certain Captain Lane is still coordinating these efforts?'

“Indeed, I’ve ordered the Metrisei to begin for those who wish to seek refuge,” the Mystarch replied, her voice firm. “The Sixth Tier is actively preparing a counter-offensive, and the immediacy of arming them is critical. Furthermore, the Third has rallied their forces for a direct assault.”

Guard Commander Hanish Harlan looked like he wanted to explode. “What? Is she insane? The arrogance!”

“I suspect it's more about vengeance, Commander Harlan,” Commander Madrigal interjected with a hint of cynicism. “Revenge can cloud better judgment.”

Commander Moon, who had perked up a bit, added with a sardonic tone, “I just hope their aim is towards the golems and not the Sixth!”

As they spoke, additional shrill whistles from above prompted a momentary silence in the room. Everyone tensed, anticipating impact, but a wave of relief followed as the sentry declared, "No hit, sir! It missed and landed well beyond the coast.”

Commander Madrigal shifted restlessly. "Perhaps their accuracy leaves much to be desired, or could it be that the Third’s offensive is yielding results?" he pondered aloud.

Mystarch Kara Kazarian cast a glance at the still-seated Commander Moon. "The enemy has drawn significantly nearer. We must prioritize moving non-combatants to the crypts. Minimizing casualties will also lessen our troubles with the dirt-eaters.”

“Yes, I agree," the Guard Commander concurred. "Commander Moon, I recommend you return to the Second and fortify its defenses. The Guard Commander signaled several sentries and beckoned Aris closer. "Aris, ensure the Metrisei assist in evacuating non-combatants to the crypts. And make it clear – only non-combatants. Any able-bodied individuals found shirking their duty under false pretense shall be bound and beaten by the Shrine Guard and disciplined post-conflict.

Aris agreed, accepting the task of mobilizing the tower for evacuation purposes. However, he privately questioned the harshness of the Guard Commander's orders regarding potential cowards.

“Mystarch!" Aris called out, trying to find the smaller in stature Lady Kazarian amongst the group. He spotted the Mystarch with a fixed glare at Commander Madrigal, an expression he had not witnessed in the decades of knowing her.
“Yes, Aris?”

“Did you hear?”

She offered a knowing smile. "The preparations are already underway. I've arranged for the Aetherarchs to coordinate on the Tiers and secure the crypts' entrances. I’ve also divided the Lucidarchs to meet with the Captains of the Tiers while they await our instruction.”

Aris wrestled with a rising tide of self-doubt. 'Is Mystarch Kazarian positioning herself to be the next Arcanarch after all this?' he pondered. His thoughts are a whirlpool of confusion and uncertainty. 'But she's a woman.' he reminded himself, only to counter his own archaic notion. 'Yet, traditions are not set in stone.' He couldn't deny her capabilities – her intellect, her strength, her apparent superiority in so many ways. 'Is she better suited for the role than I am?' The question lingered, daunting and heavy, stirring a mix of insecurity and reluctant admiration within him. 

Commander Madrigal bounced on his heels as he spoke to the First Tier Captain, distracting Aris. 

“Commander Madrigal, are you alright?” Aris knew it was crucial to ascertain the state of the Commander of the First Tier, especially given his pivotal role in any potential strategy against the golems. His apparent nervousness was indeed a worrying sign.
“Me? Oh, yes, I'm fine. It's just my boots, or perhaps my socks. A strange scratching sensation, but it's nothing of consequence, really.”

“Oh?" The Mystarch inquired, stepping closer with heightened interest. "What sort of itch are you experiencing, Commander?”

Aris looked unsure and returned to face Guard Commander Harlan who had resumed barking orders at the guard.

“Shall we go retrieve the weapons, Commander Harlan?”

Guard Commander Hanish Harlan frowned as if regretting the decision. 

“The gauntlets and legacy weapons inside shall not be disturbed under any circumstance.”

“The weapons of legacy should be the only weapons we require, Commander.” The Mystarch’s voice was smooth and calm, as if they were discussing art or any other mundane thing.

“Captain Lawrence will escort and monitor you, he knows which will remain undisturbed. The Vault is to be sealed immediately after, do you understand, Captain?”

The captain responded with a stout salute and hurried off.

Beneath the Fulcrum, two Shrine Guards stood on duty, snapping to attention when Captain Lawrence, Commander Madrigal, Mystarch Kara Kazarian and the unceremonious sound of a shabby wooden cart being dragged by Aris Ascarian came into view. The group hurried down the corridor as above the city, the now familiar howl made itself heard again. The volley landed and a dull rumble vibrated through the walls. They moved faster, Captain Lawrence was already holding a very long and slender key for preparation for the first locked down.  Each key on the chain had its own distinct shape. The key chain made a unique, audible jingle as he walked. It rattled and clanged in memorable notes.

“Step aside!” The Guard Captain shouted.

They approached the door and Captain Lawrence fiddled with the lock, Miron nodded to the stoic guards and wondered if they were aware of what was going on. They were too far below the center of the Fulcrum to hear any of the conversation that transpired above. They most certainly felt the rumble and the howl of the projectiles launched. Miron didn’t seem too certain himself of what was transpiring. An attack of some. A strange sensation he tried to attribute to poor quality socks his wife had knitted, or even shards of glass placed in his boots as some kind of prank by his son.

The first door was made of heavy wooden beams and wrought iron bars. When Captain Lawrence unlocked the first door, the Shrine Guards helped slide the doors into a small pocket in the wall. The opening was only large enough for one person to enter and Miron was impressed at the ingenuity. Miron Madrigal took a step forward, prepared to follow into the room, but just beyond the first door were heavy iron bars and a low ceiling. Miron looked down the small corridor which was called ‘The Vault’. Each door, scarcely a foot from the next, formed a claustrophobic corridor of reinforced security. The complex locks on each door spoke of an obsessive dedication to safeguarding the contents within. This was going to take some time.

Miron turned to face Aris who was already ducking his head. He noticed a scar on his forehead then, just above the widow’s peak in his hairline.

“Bump your head before, Aris?”
“I’ve lost count.”

“Was the first Ascari as tall as you?”

“No,” Aris readjusted his grip on the cart, by all accounts he was of average height, and at that time, was perhaps no taller than the Fifth’s Commander.”

Captain Lawrence opened the second door. It was secured together by heavy iron latches. No one was able to maneuver beside him to help as he grunted with exertion when hoisting them off of the hooks. The third door had several locks. He muttered out loud a series of numbers as he counted through the keys. “Six, eight, ten.” There seemed to be more keys than doors, but the third door had three separate locks.

Miron, Aris Ascarian and the Mystarch, Lady Kazarian all shared awkward looks. The Mystarch smiled. Aris in particular looked upset, but wore a fierce expression of determination on his face. 

"Aris, how did Master Eldrian die? Why was the AMS out there so soon?" The question, blunt. Miron wanted to know how and why the Sixth Tier had engaged in the early morning hours by themselves. He hoped the answer might shed light on the events preceding the Perch’s fall.

“The Custodians saw unregistered signatures pierce the veil-”

“They were wholly unrecognizable.” The Mystarch exhaled with what appeared to be admiration and pleasure. “Completely unique! A new, absolutely fascinating discovery! A perfect alignment. An incalculable alignment. A marvel!” She seemed to be overjoyed and excited.

Aris frowned at the Mystarch. “I was already awake and I went to wake the Arcanarch. The Custodians shut the veil, but it seemed a lot of intruders entered before we could do so. The signatures were detected North East of the city, far on the plains.”

“We had to investigate. As Lady Kazarian stated, the alignments were too symmetrical, too precise.”

“Yes, they were.”

“The Sixth’s Metrisei was the closest. Upon entering, we were hounded by the Battlemaster and he insisted that he come with us.”

“He knew there was going to be trouble?”

“We suspected and told him. I told him. There were too many signatures. Too many alignments from an unknown source. The origin was from one of the Strands. We appeared to be under attack.”

Miron didn’t understand the nuances of what was being said. “I see. And my original question?”

“Ah, yes. The Arcanarch was hit by a spear.”

“A spear?” Miron looked confused.

“Those creatures are throwing them. Javelins I suppose is a more apt term.”

Miron thought about the devastation wreaked upon the Third Tier’s perch and could only imagine what one of those projectiles would do to a body. Miron wondered if anything would even be left after that.

As they progressed through the labyrinthine series of barriers, the air grew heavier, and the silence more profound. The last door into the first space was opened. The interior of The Vault was utilitarian, a stark contrast to the grandeur Miron had envisioned. He had always imagined items stored within The Vault to be exhibits similar to that of the Nomothetic Ktirio guild. Within their halls, all manner of curiosities were displayed elegantly with detailed histories and placards. ‘Here lies X, used in X during X by X,’ he thought wistfully, hoping the stewards of The Vault would have done the same. Instead, Miron was able to see through the bars and was dismayed. Swords hung from frayed ropes attached to wooden pegs like what one would find in an old home where wet jackets would be hung to dry.

The weapons were old. Antiques. Miron had not the slightest clue of their approximate age, nor did anyone else for that matter. Most bore an eerie, bone-white hue. Not quite white, but a soft yellow. Others appeared almost blue in pigmentation, while a long, thin blade was spotted with black, as if afflicted by some disease.

These weapons sat unused and untouched for perhaps eighty years – Miron wasn't quite sure, but they were a far cry from his expectations. Kara Kazarian, however, seemed eager to venture inside and moved in closer, brushing up against Miron. Her perfume was overpowering in the confined space, prompting Miron to subtly distance himself. It bore no resemblance to any fragrance he knew; in fact, he found himself longing for the company of Commander Moon instead.

Aris Ascarian, the acting Arcanarch, appeared unperturbed by the scent or the grim surroundings. His focus seemed entirely on the task at hand.
“We are able to hurry this up, Captain?”

Captain Lawrence halted what he was doing and turned to Aris. Both cocked their heads.

Miron smiled, admiring the bravery. ‘This Metrisei is going to get himself turned into a forgotten stain on the floor if he’s not careful.’ He then grimaced as the itching had resumed again.

Kara glanced back at Miron, a smile playing on her lips. "Are you feeling alright, Commander?" she inquired. "You seem uncomfortable."

Miron, though unsettled, ignored the itching and renewed his excitement at the prospect of wielding a relic weapon. His thoughts wandered to his grandfather's old blade, wondering if it was among those stored within The Vault or lost to time, buried under dirt. The discomfort of the persistent scratching was a small price to pay in exchange for the exhilaration of possibly handling a piece of his family's legacy.

“I’m fine. Something’s wrong with my boots. I will need to get back to the First quick. You’ll create a door for me?”

“Of course. I will even give a discount because of,” Mystarch Kazarian gestured vaguely, indicating the looming destruction of the city.

“The First is grateful. Thank you.” Miron said with a smile, trying to hide his disdain. The AMS guild often charged exorbitant prices for their services and Mystarch Kazarian had a reputation for being the worst offender.

"But where are the legacy weapons? The ones we aren’t allowed to touch?" Miron's voice trailed off.

Captain Lawrence cast a suspicious glance over his shoulder before his eyes settled on the rear of the chamber. Miron followed his gaze, spotting the distinctive form of Alistair Shae’s blade, a form he had only ever seen in drawings and heard about in stories as a child. The admiral’s sword had an elongated handle and a flat back that tapered into a double-edged blade at the point, featuring two holes near the hilt – supposedly for the wielder’s index and middle fingers. The weapon, though formidable, appeared awkward, uncomfortable, and unwieldy in design.

Beside the Admiral's blade lay several pyramid-shaped metallic objects, their purpose and origin a mystery. Adjacent to them, a collection of gems – rubies, diamonds, sapphires – sparkle dimly in the muted light of the vault.

Once one of the doors was opened, Aris Ascarian maneuvered the shabby wooden cart through the narrow space. "We'll place them all in here," he announced, gesturing towards the cart. "I suppose you get first pick, Commander!" His voice held a note of respectful camaraderie. "Also, thank you for helping me – us. Our slain master, Arcanarch Eldrian would have appreciated your support," he added, his eyes seeking reassurance from Mystarch Kara, who remained intently focused on the weapons ahead.

As Captain Lawrence worked on unlatching the door leading to the first set of weapons, Miron's gaze lingered on the relics beyond, each potentially holding a story yet to be told.

“I’m hoping to find my grandfather’s old sword. I’m just hoping it’s not stored back there.”

Mystarch Kazarian laughed. “You boys are always chasing grandpa’s legacies, aren’t you?”

Miron and Aris Ascarian shared a frown.

Aris Ascarian hesitated. “Be careful with these. They are sharp.”

Captain Lawrence climbed unceremoniously over the wooden cart and squeezed awkwardly between the hunched over Metrisei and Miron. 

The howl of a volley was dampened, but the vibration was felt.

Aris seemed startled and bumped his head and cursed. “Curse the fate of the Eighth!”

“It’s alright. Move, I can do this faster.” Miron leaned down and picked up a sword from the floor, blowing off a layer of dust. To his touch, it felt surprisingly dull. "How do we sharpen these? Do we even have time for that?"

“Are you dull, Commander?” The Mystarch retorted.

Captain Lawrence shouted“The Commanders and Captains are waiting!” Miron squeezed by gently grabbing the weapons into the cart. It was too dark and had to move slowly so as to touch any of the edges of the weapons. But even in the dim light he noticed how each looked unsharpened. “This is not good. They’re all dull?”

“Are you dull, Commander?” The Mystarch retorted.

“Yes? What?”

"Your mind does the sharpening."

Miron, confused, asked, "What? How?"

"I really wish you read more, Commander," Kazarian sighed with a hint of exasperation and amusement.

"They wrote about this?" Miron asked, now more baffled than before.

"Yes," Kazarian replied with a smirk, enjoying the light-hearted banter and then turned to Aris Ascarian. “Is this  plan going to work, Aris? They don’t even know how to use these.”

“They will. They do. It’s in our blood, Kara. I believe.” Aris tried to sound hopeful.

Initially, when Miron had lifted the bone weapon from the ground it felt unusually heavy, significantly heavier than that of any weapon he had ever held before. The frayed and broken ropes indicated they spoke to the others being equally dense. There’s no way to swing this accurately. His mood turned bitter. He thought how this whole endeavor was a waste of time. That the city will be destroyed and everyone dead before the Tiers get a chance to fight. He wondered if the people of Angellen had even wielded these weapons. How Guard Commander Harlan carried False Promise around on his belt all day.

Then an unexpected sensation washed over him. The sword, though foreign and ancient in his grasp, hummed with a quiet intensity, as if pulsating with life. He could feel a subtle vibration, a call that seemed to resonate deep within his bones, inviting him to bond with it. A bonding that felt natural and easy.

Holding it more firmly, Miron experienced an inexplicable familiarity, as though the weapon recognized him as much as he was trying to understand it. The sensation was both eerie and exhilarating, a merging of spirits between warrior and weapon. It felt as if the sword was not merely an object to be wielded but an extension of his very being, seamlessly integrating into his essence.

The sword's contour seemed to align perfectly with his grip, its balance so natural that Miron found himself marveling at the connection. It was as if the weapon was tailor-made for him, or perhaps, it was adapting to him in real-time. The notion that this bone weapon could be absorbed into his mind, becoming a part of him, was both bewildering and intoxicating.

As he tentatively maneuvered the sword, experimenting with a few cautious swings within the narrow confines of the Vault, the bond deepened. The movements felt instinctive, as if the sword was guiding him, enhancing his natural motions rather than resisting them. The realization dawned on him that this ancient artifact was more than a tool for battle; it was a companion, a guardian that had chosen him as much as he had chosen it.

Miron stood there, transfixed, a sense of power and purpose flowing through him. The weapon, once dull to the touch, now seemed alive in his hands, its potential limitless in the mindscape they shared. In this moment, he understood the true essence of the bone weapons: they were not just to be wielded but to be united with, in mind, body, and soul.

“Hey!” A shout came from down the corridor. Captain Lawrence screamed again, “hurry up! The Commanders and Captains are waiting!”

As Captain Lawrence's shout echoed down the corridor, urging haste, the sword in Miron's hand began to shimmer, its form blurring at the edges. It felt as if a sudden chill coursed through his veins, a sharp, piercing sensation that momentarily gripped his mind, not unlike the onset of a sharp headache that threatened to split his thoughts apart. However, this discomfort was fleeting. As Miron exhaled, releasing the tension and embracing the foreign presence seeking refuge within his consciousness, the sword's physical presence dissolved entirely.

The initial discomfort gave way to a soothing warmth that spread from the center of his mind to the furthest reaches of his body. It was as if a missing piece of his soul had clicked into place, filling him with a sense of completeness and serenity he had never known. The sword, now vanished from his hand, had seamlessly integrated into his being, leaving no trace of its physical form but a profound connection in its stead.

Turning to face Mystarch Kara Kazarian and Aris Ascarian, Miron felt a blush warm his cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and awe at the experience. 

“We are waiting, Madrigal.” Mystarch Kazarian said with a kind tone.

Miron looked at her and then back at the weapons. “I guess I won’t have time to go change my socks after all.” Realizing there was no time to dwell on the moment, he quickly moved to transferring the weapons into the cart.

Kara Kazarian watched him with an intrigued expression. “You’ve found the one you liked, did you?" she teased lightly.

Catching his breath, Miron managed a smile, "It found me, I guess. Made a convincing argument I couldn't refuse." His voice held a hint of wonder, still processing the surreal bond he had just formed.

“Did you name it yet?” The Mystarch asked, leaning against the wall. The whole morning she seemed at ease with the situation, as if the crisis was happening to someone else and she was there to give support. Miron could see from the corner of his eyes that she peered through the bars. There certainly wasn’t much space to help, but Miron thought she could at least look a little uncomfortable while he had beads of sweat running down his nose.

“That would be rude. We’ve only just met.”

“Boys love naming their new toys.”

As he reached for another weapon to place in the wagon, his hand brushed against a sword that resonated with a deep connection. Recognition washed over him — it was undoubtedly his grandfather's sword. Clutching it with a renewed sense of purpose, Miron thought of Madark. ‘I need to give this to my boy one day. He’ll name it something childish, like Claw, or Ravager.’ he murmured.

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

As Miron reached for the next weapon, his gaze fell upon a slender, elegantly long sword with a narrow, straight blade designed for thrusting. The hilt was intricately designed, offering both beauty and balance, while the blade itself bore black spots, a testament to perhaps its age or soot. Its design was such that it favored finesse over brute force, a weapon for a true duelist.

"Yes! That one. Place that in the cart," Mystarch Kazarian directed, she tracked his movements.

Miron complied, carefully positioning the sword at the opposite end of the cart. Suddenly, another muted whistle pierced the air, followed by a tremor that shook the earth beneath their feet. As the vault quivered, Mystarch Kazarian reached into the cart, her focus intent on the weapon.

In the chaos, the sword Miron had felt a connection with, slid from its precarious perch atop the pile. In a cruel twist of fate, it sliced across Mystarch Kazarian's little finger, severing the tip just below the nail. With a hiss of pain, she quickly grasped the slender sword with her other hand, absorbing it into her being as Miron had done with his.

Miron watched in stunned silence, his eyes flickering from the Mystarch's face to her hand. Despite the violent tremor and the sudden injury, he couldn't help but notice the elegance of her hands, now marred by a grotesque wound.

She stared at Miron. The message was clear. Saying nothing, Miron turned back to his task, continuing to load the weapons. Beyond the cart, near the entrance, Aris Ascarian seemed oblivious to the incident, focused entirely not hitting his head.

The moment left Miron with a complex swirl of emotions. The awe of witnessing another bond with a weapon so intimately contrasted sharply with the grim reminder of the dangers they all faced, not just from their enemies but from the very power they sought to wield.

Miron cleared his throat to call out to Aris but froze as he watched Mystarch Kazarian sucking on wounded finger.

She temporarily removed the bloody finger from her mouth. “All done, Aris, pull this out!” And then resumed the disturbing act. She smiled at Miron through blood stained teeth.