The crimson grass rippled like an ocean beneath the morning breeze, stretching to the horizon where the broken moon hung faintly visible in the daylight sky. Lira raced across the plains, her bare feet barely touching the soft, resilient blades that gave the Empire its name. At twelve years old, she moved with the easy grace of someone born to these endless grasslands, her dark hair streaming behind her like a banner as she chased after the small herd of spiral-horned khalga that served as the lifeblood of her tribe.
"Yah! Yah!" she called out, waving her arms to guide the stocky, shaggy beasts toward the eastern pastures. The khalga responded to her familiar voice, changing direction with surprising agility for creatures so stout. Their thick winter coats were beginning to shed, leaving tufts of prized wool caught in the crimson grass—treasures she would collect on her way back to camp.
The Ayun-Khet, her tribe, were known throughout the Empire for their brilliant textiles woven from khalga wool dyed with pigments from the native plants. Even now, Lira wore a vest of intricate red and gold patterns that her mother had—
She cut the thought short, focusing instead on the task at hand. Three years had passed, but memories still surprised her at unexpected moments.
The largest khalga, an ornery bull she'd named Storm Cloud for his dark gray coloring, tried to break from the herd. Lira whistled sharply—two high notes followed by one low—and the beast grudgingly rejoined the others. She grinned with satisfaction. The herders had been teaching her their ways since she was old enough to walk, but only recently had the khalga begun to respect her commands.
By midday, Lira had guided the herd to the fresh grazing lands and settled herself atop a small rocky outcrop to eat her lunch—flatbread wrapped around spiced dried meat and fermented milk curd, washed down with airag, the mildly alcoholic drink all Empire children were permitted in small quantities from an early age. From her vantage point, she could see three other tribal encampments scattered across the plains, their round felt-covered gers with colorful doorways standing in concentric circles according to family rank and lineage.
Beyond them, to the north, rose the gleaming white tents of the Great Kahn's central encampment, where emissaries from all seventy-three tribes gathered to counsel their leader. The massive white banner bearing the Empire's symbol—two crossed sabers beneath a vigilant eye—snapped in the wind atop the highest pole. Twice yearly, all tribes would gather there for the Grand Meeting, bringing their finest goods to trade and their strongest warriors to demonstrate their skills.
As she ate, Lira watched six riders approach her tribe's encampment from the Kahn's central camp. Something about their pace made her stomach tighten. Not traders, whose horses moved at a leisurely trot, nor were they the colorful messengers who delivered ordinary news between tribes. These were Rift Watchers, their dark crimson uniforms visible even at this distance, their horses pushed to urgency.
After her meal, Lira collected tufts of khalga wool, carefully storing them in the small leather pouch at her belt. Horsemaster Jelme had promised to teach her to spin thread this winter, a skill that would elevate her standing in the tribe. Most orphans struggled to find their place, but Lira had proven herself useful and quick to learn.
As the afternoon sun began its descent, she herded the khalga back toward the encampment, singing an old herding song whose words she didn't fully understand—something about stars guiding lost travelers home. The song had been her father's favorite. He'd sung it on their many travels when she was small, his deep voice carrying across the plains as they moved with the seasons.
The massive ger that served as the tribal meeting hall came into view first, its intricate designs and crimson door flap marking it as the heart of the Ayun-Khet. Around it clustered the family dwellings, smoke rising from their central openings as evening meals were prepared. But today, no children played between the structures. Instead, a solemn crowd had gathered around the Rift Watchers' horses.
She hurried the khalga toward their night pen, her heart pounding with a nameless dread.
"What's happening?" she asked an older boy as she secured the pen. Bataar was fifteen, apprenticed to the tribe's weapon-master and uncharacteristically grave-faced.
"Outpost Vigil has fallen," he said quietly. "The east flank of Fort Dauntless was overrun three nights ago."
Lira's hands froze on the pen's latch. "Captain Varro—"
"The riders brought his sword back to the tribe," Bataar confirmed, his voice gentle. "They say the outpost was lost to the last man. Only a young guardsman named Nevin survived—ordered to flee and bear witness so the Empire would know what happened."
The world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Captain Varro had been her guardian for three years, ever since the daemon attack that took her parents. He'd built their small ger at the southeastern edge of the camp, taught her to track and hunt, held her through nightmares when the memories grew too strong. He'd promised to return to the Rift Watchers soon, but not like this. Never like this.
"The Watchers are calling for warriors," Bataar continued. "The Great Kahn has ordered Fort Dauntless reinforced. Every tribe must send their strongest."
Lira barely heard him. She pushed past the older boy and ran toward the gathering, slipping between the adults until she reached the center. There, presented with solemn ceremony on a crimson cloth, lay Captain Varro's sword—the curved blade still stained with the unnatural black ichor of daemon blood. Elder Khorchi was receiving it with formal words of acceptance, honoring the tribe's fallen son.
She stood frozen, staring at the weapon that had been as much a part of Varro as his laugh, his stories, his patience. The sword he'd promised to teach her to use when she turned fourteen.
"He fought to the end," one of the Rift Watchers was saying. "The young guardsman Nevin reported a red daemon led the attack—the first of its kind seen in a century. All defenders fell at their posts. None retreated."
"What aid comes to strengthen Fort Dauntless?" Elder Khorchi asked, his weathered face grave.
"The other nations have pledged support," the Watcher replied. "Weapons and materials are being sent, but what we need most are warriors. The Great Kahn calls upon all tribes to send their strongest. The daemons grow bolder with each passing day."
Lira felt tears spill hot down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Around her, the tribe's warriors were already stepping forward to volunteer, honoring Varro's sacrifice with their own commitment. She slipped away from the gathering, moving on numb legs toward the small ger that had been home.
Inside, the twins Temujin and Bortei—the other orphans under Varro's care—sat huddled together by the cold fire pit. Bortei's eyes were red-rimmed, and Temujin's face was locked in rigid denial. They looked up when Lira entered, hopeful for a moment, then collapsed back into grief when they saw her expression.
"Is it true?" Bortei whispered.
Lira nodded, unable to speak. She crossed to the small chest where Varro kept his few possessions and pulled out the worn leather scabbard he'd been crafting. It was meant to be his gift upon his return to Fort Dauntless—a new sheath for his old sword, decorated with the symbols of the Ayun-Khet. She clutched it to her chest and finally let the sobs come, deep and wrenching.
The three orphans held each other as night fell, sharing stories of their guardian in hushed voices. Varro teaching Temujin to track rabbits across the crimson plains. Varro braiding Bortei's hair with warrior's knots before her first riding competition. Varro carrying Lira on his shoulders at the autumn festival, letting her see over the crowd to watch the fire dancers.
Later, as the twins finally drifted to fitful sleep, Lira sat by the entrance of their ger, staring up at the broken moon. The scabbard lay across her lap, her fingers tracing its unfinished patterns. Three days ago, Captain Varro had faced a daemon of crimson hue, the first seen in a century. Three days ago, he had fallen defending the outpost, his promise to return home broken forever.
She thought of the Rift Watchers calling for warriors, of the nations sending aid to Fort Dauntless. The daemons were growing bolder, and Fort Dauntless needed defenders. In two years, she would be fourteen—the age when the tribes allowed their young to choose their paths.
Lira wiped away her tears and gripped the scabbard with new resolve. Her path was already clear. She would learn the sword as Varro had promised to teach her. She would stand at the Rift where he had fallen. And when the time came, she would face the crimson daemon that had taken her guardian, carrying his unfinished scabbard as a reminder of her purpose.
"I will make you proud," she whispered to the night sky, a sacred vow only the broken moon would witness. "I will finish what you started."
---
The early morning mist hung over the Magiteks training field, the vast expanse of charred earth and scattered target dummies stretching toward the horizon. A thunderous boom echoed across the grounds as one of the Magik Cannons discharged, sending a blinding blue bolt of energy into a distant target. Crown Prince Somnus Lenundis stood on the observation platform, his left eye glowing with the faint blue luminescence of his Magik Circuit while his right remained covered by a carefully arranged lock of light blue hair. His white crow-emblazoned cloak fluttered in the cool breeze as he watched the battalions below prepare the newest models of Magik Cannons for deployment. The massive weapons gleamed in the dawn light, their barrels inscribed with intricate Magik Circles that pulsed with various colors as the Magitek operators loaded standardized Mana Ore into their chambers. Another cannon fired, the concussive force rippling through the air as a target dummy was instantly vaporized. Lenundis absently traced his fingers along the smooth surface of his Illusory Orb, still in its dormant cube form, as he contemplated the bitter truth that he had never once activated it since the day it was bestowed upon him. With his Incomplete Magik Circuit, the legendary relic remained silent, unresponsive to his touch—a constant reminder of his perceived inadequacy.
"Always found it odd they're called 'Orbs' when they're clearly cubes," remarked Ardorius Cenoris, who stood beside Lenundis at the platform's edge. The Captain of the Royal Guard was a head taller than the prince, his silver armor catching the morning light and the White Crow insignia cape draped over his broad shoulders. A deafening blast shook the observation platform as three cannons fired in unison, their mana beams converging on a single point and erupting into a spectacular explosion that sent dirt and debris showering into the air. Cenoris didn't flinch, his short golden hair ruffled slightly in the breeze as his brown eyes tracked the movements of the Magitek battalions below. "Another of those mysteries from the War in Heaven, I suppose. Father says the name comes from what they become when activated, not what they are in slumber."
Lenundis tucked the cube into the folds of his royal garments as another cannon discharged with a resounding boom. "The archives say they were named after the First Mystic King's weapon," he replied, his voice carrying the polished eloquence that came from years of royal education, easily cutting through the distant shouts of Magitek operators calling out targeting coordinates. "When he activated his Magik Device during the War in Heaven, it took the form of a perfect sphere—a glowing orb that could reshape reality itself." He gestured to the sky, where High Veil, the floating palace of House Somnus, hovered majestically above Noctisveil. A barrage of smaller Magik Cannons peppered the field with rapid-fire shots, the staccato blasts reverberating across the training grounds. "No one remembers exactly what it did, only that its spherical form became the symbol of the Mystic King's lineage, passed down through the bloodline of Somnus."
He paused, a wistful expression crossing his features as he gazed at the distant silhouette of the floating palace against the morning sky, illuminated momentarily by the brilliant flash of the largest cannon yet—a prototype siege weapon that unleashed a devastating beam of concentrated mana energy, carving a trench 50 feet deep into the reinforced target area. "Father believes the Illusory Orbs were created to mimic that power—nineteen pale reflections of the original. But even those reflections are beyond the reach of most."
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The heavy tread of multiple boots ascending the observation platform's stairs drew their attention. Lord Foghorn Luceronis, Master of Coins, appeared at the top of the stairs, flanked by two of his personal guards. His imposing figure, draped in expensive fabrics embroidered with the golden scales of his house's sigil, approached with purpose. The permanent scowl that seemed etched into his face only deepened when he saw the prince.
"Your Highness," he said with the barest minimum of courtesy, his bow perfunctory at best. "I see you're admiring our kingdom's resources being squandered."
Cenoris stiffened beside Lenundis, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt. The tension between Lord Foghorn and the Crown Prince was no secret among the court, but such open disrespect bordered on insubordination.
"Lord Foghorn," Lenundis acknowledged with a measured nod, his royal training masking whatever irritation he might have felt. "I trust the Table's meeting concluded satisfactorily?"
"Hardly," the older man scoffed, gesturing broadly at the training field below. "While you play with your toys, the real business of the kingdom continues. The Table has concerns about this... excessive commitment to the Empire."
"The Table approved the shipment of twenty cannons," Lenundis replied evenly, watching another successful test fire below. "We're merely ensuring they work properly before sending them."
"Twenty!" Lord Foghorn's voice rose sharply. "That number has mysteriously grown to thirty since yesterday. And now I hear whispers of sending Magitek operators as well?" He stepped closer, the morning light catching the gray streaks in his otherwise dark hair. "Each of these weapons costs the treasury more than funding the entire eastern garrison for a month. Each Mana Ore depleted here is one less for our own defenses."
A sudden commotion erupted below as panicked shouts rose from the third battalion. One of the Magik Cannons began to emit an alarming high-pitched whine, its inscribed circles flashing erratically between crimson and violet—colors never seen in proper operation. The Magitek operators scrambled away from the malfunctioning weapon as its barrel vibrated violently, the unstable mana reaction causing the very air around it to distort.
"Djit'ma!" Cenoris cursed, his hand instinctively moving to draw his sword. "Clear the field!" he bellowed down to the soldiers, his commanding voice carrying across the training grounds. The officers below were already evacuating their squadrons as the cannon's whine reached a fever pitch.
Lenundis's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, his royal training giving way to decisive action. "The Mana Ore's destabilizing," he said, spotting the telltale flickering of blue light within the cannon's chamber. "If it detonates at full charge—"
Before he could finish, the cannon erupted in a blinding explosion of raw mana energy, sending a shockwave rippling across the training field. The blast knocked several nearby operators off their feet and sent a plume of debris and energy skyward in a chaotic fountain of blue fire and smoke.
"You see!" Lord Foghorn's face reddened with vindication as he pointed to the smoking crater. "Unreliable, dangerous, and wasteful! This is what you would send to defend our allies? Weapons that endanger their users as much as their targets?"
As the dust settled, Lenundis scanned the field anxiously. To his relief, the Magiteks were already picking themselves up, their enchanted armor having absorbed the worst of the blast. The standard-issue protective gear—inscribed with defensive Magik Circles designed specifically for such mishaps—glowed faintly as it dispersed the residual energy. A few soldiers sported minor cuts and bruises, but nothing serious enough to warrant immediate medical attention. The cannon itself was reduced to a twisted heap of scorched metal, the Magik Circles that once adorned its barrel now nothing more than charred etchings.
"That's why we test them here, Lord Foghorn," Lenundis replied calmly, though his fists clenched at his sides. "Better to discover flaws now than on the battlefield."
"And how many more will explode before your 'testing' is complete?" Foghorn demanded. "The Table's Exchequer recorded eight malfunctions this month alone. Eight cannons lost, each worth more than—"
"I'm well aware of their value," Lenundis cut in, a rare edge entering his voice. "Both material and strategic."
"Are you?" Foghorn's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps Your Highness can explain why the projected expenditure for this project has doubled since its approval? Or why Captain Ardorius here—" he gestured dismissively toward Cenoris, "—has requisitioned three additional battalions of Magiteks for 'training exercises' along the western border? The very border that, coincidentally, connects directly to the Empire?"
Cenoris stepped forward, shoulders squared. "Those deployments were scheduled months ago, Lord Foghorn. Standard rotation of—"
"I wasn't addressing you, Captain," Foghorn interrupted coldly. "I'm speaking to the one who would be king." He turned back to Lenundis. "The Table deserves transparency, Your Highness. If you intend to commit Somnium blood to defending the Empire's Rift, at least have the courage to say so openly."
Lenundis stood silent for a moment, the weight of the accusation hanging in the air. Below, the Magitek officers had already begun their analysis of the explosion site, measuring instruments in hand, while engineers prepared the next cannon for testing. The routine continued despite the malfunction—adaptability in the face of danger, a quality his father had always stressed was essential in leadership.
"The Rift threatens us all, Lord Foghorn," Lenundis finally said, his voice lower but firm. "If it fails, the daemons won't recognize our borders or respect our sovereignty. The red daemon that breached last month was the first in a century. Something is changing."
"So we've heard," Foghorn replied skeptically. "Convenient timing, isn't it? Just as the Empire's trade delegation arrives to negotiate lower prices for our Mana Ore exports."
"You think they'd fabricate a daemon breach?" Cenoris asked incredulously.
"I think," Foghorn replied carefully, "that fear is a powerful negotiating tool. And these weapons—" he gestured to the field below, "—represent an unprecedented commitment to a foreign power."
Lenundis stepped closer to Foghorn, close enough to speak without being overheard by the guards. "I increased the number from twenty to thirty because the reports from Fort Dauntless indicated the breach was larger than initially reported. Not twenty daemons, but nearly a hundred. The Rift is growing unstable." His mismatched eyes bore into Foghorn's. "Would you have me ignore this intelligence? Wait until the threat is at our doorstep?"
Foghorn held his gaze for a long moment, then exhaled sharply. "The treasury cannot sustain this level of expenditure indefinitely, Your Highness. The Table expects a full accounting at tomorrow's session." He glanced down at the training field where another cannon was being readied. "And a plan to address these... technical issues."
"You'll have it," Lenundis replied. "The safety of all Erath's people remains my priority, Lord Foghorn. Including the Empire's."
Foghorn's lip curled slightly, but he offered a stiff bow. "Until tomorrow, then." He turned and descended the stairs, his guards following closely.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Cenoris released a long breath. "That man would count the cost of rope while drowning."
"He's doing his job," Lenundis said quietly, watching Foghorn's retreating figure. "The treasury isn't bottomless, and these cannons are expensive." He turned to Cenoris. "Were those deployments really scheduled months ago?"
Cenoris's expression remained carefully neutral. "The rotations were. The specific battalions... might have been adjusted recently."
Lenundis frowned. "You should have told me."
"You have enough to worry about without every minor troop movement crossing your desk," Cenoris replied, then added more softly, "and plausible deniability if questioned directly by the Table."
"I don't need protection from my own decisions, Cen," Lenundis said sharply, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture his tutors had spent years trying to train out of him. "I need to know what's happening, especially if it involves potential military support for the Empire."
Cenoris nodded, accepting the rebuke. "It was my father's suggestion. He thought—"
"I know what Commander Ardorius thought," Lenundis interrupted. "But the decision is mine to make, not his." He looked out over the training field, where another cannon was being prepared for testing.
Cenoris followed his gaze, his expression growing more serious. "About that malfunction earlier—it wasn't just a random occurrence." He pointed to where the Magitek officers were still examining the charred remains. "Those cannons require precise calibration before every deployment. The oscillation patterns in the tertiary Magik Circles must align perfectly with the resonance frequency of the Mana Ore. If they're even slightly misaligned..."
He traced a spiral in the air with his finger. "The energy feedback creates a cascading reaction. The primary Circles try to compensate, drawing more power from the Ore, which only accelerates the destabilization." He gestured to the twisted metal remains. "That's why the colors shifted to crimson and violet—the containment matrices were failing, trying to rechannel the excess energy through auxiliary pathways."
Cenoris shook his head grimly. "Our Magiteks train for years to recognize the early warning signs. Empire operators would miss them until it's too late." He turned back to Lenundis. "The Mana Ore housing, calibration tools, resonance monitors—these aren't just accessories. They're essential safeguards that require specialized knowledge."
Lenundis nodded slowly, the weight of the decision evident in his expression. "I need to decide today. Thirty cannons with operators who don't fully understand them, or twenty with Magitek crews who do."
"The Empire won't accept our soldiers," Cenoris said quietly. "Not officially."
"And the Table won't approve sending them," Lenundis added, "not even unofficially."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching as the Magiteks below reset the field. Finally, Lenundis turned to his friend, dropping the formal posture he typically maintained in public.
"Look, forget I'm wearing this stupid crown for a minute," he said, his voice lower and more casual than before. He tapped Cenoris on the chest with the back of his hand. "Just between us—you and me, like when we used to sneak into the kitchens at midnight—would you bet your life on these cannons? Not as Captain of the Royal Guard, but as Cen, the kid who lost three teeth trying to climb that tree outside my window."
A smile tugged at the corner of Cenoris's mouth as the formality between them dissolved. He drummed his fingers briefly against his sword hilt and let out a short laugh.
"Honestly?" Cenoris's expression turned serious as he gazed down at the smoking remains of the cannon. "These things pack enough fire-power to level a daemon battalion, but they're only as good as their position. All it takes is one daemon—just one—to slip through that hell-fire, and these expensive cannons become sitting ducks." He made a slashing motion with his hand. "They need infantry support. Boots on the ground. Flesh and blood standing between the Rift and these machines."
He drew his great sword in one fluid motion, the Magik Circles etched along its blade glowing faintly blue in response to his Complete Circuit. "When it comes down to it, I trust what I can control." The sword hummed as he channeled a thin stream of mana through it. "I'd stake my life on my own hands before any cannon, no matter how advanced."
Then his expression softened, and he gestured toward Lenundis with the tip of his blade. "And yours too, of course. If you weren't busy wearing that crown, you'd be the best fighter among us. Not that I'd ever admit that in public."
Lenundis watched as Cenoris sheathed his sword with practiced precision, the faint blue glow of the weapon fading as it slid back into its scabbard. The prince nodded slowly, his eyes returning to the activity on the field below.
"You're right," he said quietly. "That's exactly the problem. The ideal solution would be sending our own Magitek operators along with the cannons." He gestured to the soldiers in their Magik Armor, the defensive enchantments still shimmering faintly as they contained residual energy from the explosion. "Our Magiteks are trained from childhood with these weapons. They understand the calibration requirements, the maintenance procedures, the tactical deployments. With their armor, they can withstand both cannon malfunctions and daemon attacks."
He ran a hand through his light blue hair, revealing for a brief moment both his eyes—the glowing left and the plain hazel right—before carefully arranging his locks back into place. "But that creates an entirely different set of problems. The Empire would see it as an infringement on their autonomy, maybe even the first step toward occupation. They're proud people, Cen. They've been fighting the Rift for generations with minimal outside interference."
Lenundis's voice lowered further, nearly a whisper now. "And even if the Empire agreed, the Table would never approve sending our soldiers. Lord Foghorn is already complaining about the Mana Ore expenditure for these cannons—can you imagine his reaction if I proposed deploying actual Somnium troops? He'd call it a waste of 'valuable human resources.'" The bitterness in his voice made clear his disgust with such a cold calculation.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his position. "And the worst part is... I wouldn't approve it either. How can I order our people into that danger? Standing at the edge of that crimson hell, watching for daemons day after day, knowing the next breach could be their last?" Lenundis shook his head. "I'd be sending them to die, Cen. And for what? A rift that's been contained for centuries? I'm caught between my duty to help our allies and my responsibility to our own people."
Lenundis fell silent, gazing out over the training field. The morning sun had risen higher now, burning away the mist and casting long shadows across the scorched earth. After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice softer.
"I wonder what Aestalon would do," he said, almost to himself. "My brother always seemed to know exactly what path to take, even when all choices seemed wrong. Reckless, perhaps, but decisive." A sad smile touched his lips. "I miss that certainty sometimes."
Cenoris caught the note of sadness in Lenundis's voice and shifted uncomfortably. Aestalon had been his friend too—all three of them inseparable as children, racing through the floating palace corridors, practicing swordplay in the royal gardens, sneaking out to explore the lower city against their tutors' explicit instructions. The absence of the elder twin was a wound that had never properly healed for either of them.
"Well," Cenoris began, clearing his throat awkwardly, "he would've probably blown up half the cannons himself just testing them." He attempted a laugh that came out strained. "Remember when he tried to 'improve' Lord Ardorius's ceremonial armor before that parade? Father was furious for weeks."
The attempt at lightening the mood fell flat, leaving a strained silence between them. Cenoris rubbed the back of his neck, searching for something else to say.
"I mean, that's not to say—" he stumbled over his words, "—what I meant was—"
The sound of approaching footsteps saved him from digging the hole any deeper. Both men turned toward the source of the sound, Cenoris visibly relieved at the interruption.
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