Morning light painted Claydle Town in shades of gold that felt obscene. The sun should have had the decency to hide after what darkness had birthed, but it rose anyway, indifferent and beautiful.

  Astral Guard vehicles lined the streets—sleek frames marked with crimson crests bearing sunburst and crossed swords, polished metal gleaming while their riders documented horror. Guardians moved through the carnage, taking notes, marking bodies, recording destruction. Their faces stayed rigid, lips pressed thin. Their pens pressed deep enough into paper to tear it.

  The ten branded survivors sat wrapped in blankets near the fountain. Medics moved among them, some Eternas with healer specialty attempting to close the wounds, but the cuts ran too deep. The scars would remain, a silent reminder of what had been done here.

  Goodman Greenhorn lifted himself with trembling arms, his face aged a decade overnight. Cohort Chief Madison knelt before him, her expression carefully neutral as she listened to his account.

  "—and then they branded us. All of us." Greenhorn's voice was hollow. "They wanted survivors. Wanted us to tell everyone what happened."

  Madison's jaw tightened. Beside her, a squadron leader shifted uncomfortably.

  "The Protectorate must pay for this!" Greenhorn's hands clenched into fists. "They must!"

  "I understand your feelings, Goodman." Madison's words came measured and even. "But the Protectorate holds more influence in Mythosia than you give them credit for. Let us leave that for the High Council and His Majesty. My job is to understand this disaster and prevent more disasters if there are more to come."

  Greenhorn’s hands clenched tighter, but he said nothing. They turned away from him, walking toward where Madison’s squadron leaders had gathered. The squadron leader who’d accompanied her spoke first, his voice strained.

  “Chief, forgive me, but how could you be so cold? To speak such empty words to that man. He just lost everything!"

  Madison stopped walking. Turned. Her eyes hardened.

  "Cold?!" The word came out sharp enough to cut. "What do you want me to say? Promise him they'll pay? Can you guarantee that?" She gestured at the destroyed town, bodies still being recorded. "Look at this place. You think I don't want to gut every last Protector out there? But we are mere cogs in this massive machine. So let's do what cogs do and catch the bastards before they run off. That's the only way we can be assured of justice."

  The squadron leader's face flushed. He straightened, saluted. "Understood, Chief."

  At the town's entrance, hoofbeats announced new arrivals. Uil's investigation party—the guards Ruth had sent to confirm Konli's story—returned to find their homes destroyed, their families dead.

  Several dropped to their knees immediately, hands clawing at the dirt, tears cutting tracks through dust and grime.

  Uil lurched forward, searching face after face. "Have you seen my family! Tell me they survived!" He spotted Konli among the branded and rushed over, hands reaching for the boy's shoulders. "Konli, where are May and Piya?!"

  Konli screamed. The touch sent lightning through his branded flesh. Uil jerked back, and the blanket fell away, revealing the inscription carved into Konli's torso.

  “What is this?!" Uil scrambled backward, mouth working soundlessly, unable to pry his eyes from the carved flesh.

  Medics rushed to Konli as he collapsed. They eased him back down, but delirium had taken hold. "Not Ignaria," he muttered, eyes unfocused. "It wasn't Ignaria. I hate the Protectorate. I hate the Protectorate."

  Madison approached Uil. “What is this? This is the crowning jewel of the biggest atrocity done to Astralyans in recent history.” She met Uil’s eyes. “You’re the leader of the guards that just returned, right? May I have a word?”

  They spoke for several minutes—Uil's voice rising and falling, Madison's remaining steady and calm. Finally she released him and turned to her squadron leaders.

  Her watch lit up as she twisted its top mechanism. "Code 1. I repeat, Code 1. Possible Active Hostile Operatives in The Clero Region."

  Static crackled. "Copy, Chief. Is this confirmed?"

  "Did you not hear me? What part of that wasn't clear?!"

  "Yes, but you're not the only one. Multiple unverified Code 1s across the East of the Province. The Vice Warden is skeptical."

  Madison’s fist clenched. “Tell him it’s confirmed, damn it! It’s confirmed!”

  "Boss, it's not—" her squadron leader started.

  She glared at him. “Shut up.” Her attention snapped back to the watch. “They attacked a village east of here two days ago, Claydle yesterday—what do you think they’re just going to stop before Semlong?”

  She shouted to the assembled Guardians. "Everyone pack up! We leave one squadron, one medic team. The rest are moving out!"

  "Where to, Chief?"

  "Westward. We'll figure out the details on the road."

  The squadron leader stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Chief, are you sure about this? We don’t even know where we’re going.”

  Tch. I know. All I’m betting on is that they keep the same trajectory. I can’t sit here and wait for more information when lives are at risk.

  She turned away from him, moving toward her horse. “We do. We’re going to stop those bastards.”

  The Astral Guard mobilized. Eterna vehicles rolled out, formations assembled. Within minutes, most of Madison’s force was heading west.

  Behind them, Claydle Town smoldered in morning light. The branded survivors huddled under their blankets, marked forever with the Protectorate's message.

  Okorodu Village had never looked more alive.

  Crimson and gold ribbons snapped in the afternoon breeze, their colors deepening and brightening as clouds drifted past the sun. Every post, every railing, every available surface had been wrapped in Astralyn's colors until the village itself pulsed with patriotic fervor. The air carried the sweet, yeasty warmth of fresh bread mingling with cinnamon and cocoa from festival cakes cooling on windowsills. Silk ribbons fluttered against posts, sun-warmed and smooth, while the ground released the soft fragrance of scattered flower petals with each passing footstep.

  Osaze walked with Zen and Himeko through streets transformed into celebration, his grin threatening to split his face. The three wore their Aseryn—the traditional Astralyan garment worn only for Semlong, slipped over their everyday clothes. The broad outer garments draped open from their shoulders, their weight pulling them into long, deliberate folds that fell past their knees. The deep, muted crimson drank the light rather than reflected it, and as they moved, the wide shoulder panels shifted and parted, revealing glimpses of soft leaf-green lining beneath. A single line of gold thread, dulled by age and use, traced each collar and ran downward in continuous seams.????????????????

  The village square ahead bustled with last-minute preparations—merchants adjusting displays, performers warming up, children already running through the crowd in eager anticipation.

  "It's finally here!" Osaze's voice rang out, arms spread wide as if he could embrace the entire festival. "Astralyn is one year older baby! Don't you guys just love this nation!"

  "Yes, we do." Zen's tone was dry. "And our patriotism doesn't come from hearing various glorified war stories like yours."

  "And technically," Himeko added, her reddish-gold eyes bright with amusement, "Astralyn wasn't founded on this day. This is just the day the big battle happened at Semlong."

  "The Battle that began the legend of King Regulus I The Great! Of Astralyn!" Osaze wasn't deterred. "Tell me how this is not our birthday!"

  Himeko opened her mouth. "Well, technically—"

  "Nope!" Osaze cut her off with a raised hand. "No more technicalities today!"

  He took a deep breath, chest expanding, face tilted toward the sky. "Oh, this nation. I will defend it with my life."

  "And die like every other no-name soldier that falls in battle." Zen turned to face him. "Tell me, if that really happens—if that's your story—would you be able to stomach it? Dying with no name?"

  "Urgh. Sometimes I feel like I'm speaking to my dad when you talk."

  "Deflection!!" Himeko got in his face, her bob-cut hair swinging with the motion. "Answer the question, Mr. I'm-not-glory-seeking."

  Before Osaze could formulate a response, a voice boomed across the square.

  “Excellent!” Janson's hand came down on Carson's shoulder—a slap that echoed louder than necessary. "Now everything is set. Nothing can go wrong with the 12th ranked mercenary guild in Eon acting as security! You've outdone yourself, brother!"

  Carson signaled to a figure waiting nearby. The man who approached had weather-beaten features and a sword at each hip.

  Janson stepped forward, hand extended. "Welcome, John Dyke. Your reputation precedes you. The Miager House welcomes you and the Bronzelock Guild to Okorodu and trusts that we are in safe hands."

  John's handshake was firm, professional. "Of course. As long as your coin is good, no trouble shall come to you and your people."

  Carson watched the exchange without expression. Forcing me to hire this mercenary guild when none of them can even lick that freak's boots. The thought tasted bitter. We really have the Reaper in our village, yet we waste precious coin on them.

  Osaze's gaze cut across the square and landed on Janson like a weight. "That man irks me. Him and that wretched son of his."

  "Come on." Zen pulled at his sleeve. "Let's finish our walk around the village. If we take too long, we'll leave everyone waiting for us at the booth."

  They continued through decorated streets, eventually arriving at the Adeoti-Stirling Pleasantries Booth. The structure stood proud among its neighbors—larger than previous years to accommodate the joint festival's expected crowd. Inside, Iyabo and Boe made final arrangements while Sagan organized supplies.

  Sagan looked up as the children approached, then turned to Zen. "You, boy. Come with me."

  "Ugh, what now?" The words escaped before Zen realized it. "You don't have to give me the speech each year."

  They walked several paces away from the others. The sounds of the festival preparation faded slightly, replaced by the more intimate space between father and son.

  "I know this day has mixed meanings to you." Sagan's voice was gentle. "The memories it brings back. How are you doing?"

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "What do you want to hear? That I'm sad? That I miss my mum? Let's end this here. I don't need your talk."

  "Tell me, Dad—what do you see when you look over there?"

  Sagan looked toward the booth where Osaze, Himeko, and the others gathered, their laughter carrying over.

  "I see the dearest people to me. My whole life." Zen paused, his jaw working. "But do you know what I don't see? My Mum. My whole world. Leave me alone."

  He returned to the group, smile fixed back in place as he called out to Osaze. Only the tightness around his eyes gave him away.

  Osaze looked upon the booth with a wide grin. He stretched out both arms and hooked both Himeko and Zen in by their necks. "This is the last year we're going to be doing this, guys! After this we're off to become Eternas. Let's have the best festival ever!"

  "Your excitement never ends." Zen said.

  Himeko looked warily over to Zen. "For once, Osaze is right. Let's treasure all the memories that have been made here. We'll be leaving the village soon."

  Osaze's eyes shone. "Off to the Great Eterna Academy! That was our promise, right Zen? The first step."

  Zen smiled softly. "Yes, it was."

  Sagan watched Zen and his friends. The smile his son wore was all surface, and Sagan felt it like a stone in his gut.

  Leave the boy be, Ragnar's voice rumbled through Sagan's mind. Nothing you say will get through to him right now.

  How is it looking around the village?

  Somewhere outside Okorodu's perimeter, Ragnar prowled through forest undergrowth, his massive paws silent on dead leaves. Nothing of note. You don't really think something might happen today, right?

  The thought occurred to me, Ragnar. Sagan's mental voice carried the concern his face kept hidden. What better day to cause trouble than today?

  Let's hope you're wrong. There are far too many civilians here.

  As evening settled over Okorodu, Semlong had officially begun. The Adeoti-Stirling Pleasantries Booth hummed with activity amid the festival's growing energy. Iyabo stood at the back, finishing a large pot of jollof rice while Osaze and Osunde waited nearby, ready to start packaging. At the front, Zen arranged p?czkis with careful precision while Sagan filled bag after bag, passing them to Boe, Himeko, and Hanni, who each manned a spot around the booth.

  The children's choir passed by, their voices lifting in the traditional Semlong song:

  "? Years ago in a forest deep and bold

  Restless folk awaited a king

  A king to unite warring foes

  A king who goes where trouble shows

  Slew the Lovarns at Semlong plains

  Saved the land and our hope ?"

  Tom and Teo swayed with each step, their small faces serious with concentration, miniature Aseryn dragging behind them as they walked.

  Himeko's eyes lit up. "Oh, Tom and Teo are here!" She turned to Iyabo. "Mrs. Adeoti, I'm taking some pastries for the choir."

  Iyabo's head shot up from her cooking. "Missy, what did I say about calling me Mrs. Adeoti?"

  Himeko's eyes went wide. "Sorry, Aunty."

  "Much better! Of course, go ahead!" Iyabo returned to her pot. "Make sure to give them enough to stuff their little bellies!"

  "Thank you, Aunty Iyabo!" Himeko’s hands flew as she piled the pastries into a basket. “Come on, Hanni, won’t you give me a hand?”

  Hanni silently collected pastries alongside her. Once their baskets were packed, they headed into the crowd and caught up to the choir.

  The children rushed forward, faces bright with anticipation. “These are for us, right?!” they chorused.

  The choirmistress smiled. "Sure. Let's just have an unscheduled break."

  Elle, standing beside her, chuckled. "One of the pleasures of working with children."

  "Thanks, big sis!" Tom and Teo spoke in unison, already reaching for the bags.

  "Enjoying yourselves?" Hanni asked.

  "Yes, Miss Hanni," Teo replied, mouth already full of pastry.

  "Teo keeps messing up his lines," Tom complained around his own mouthful. "It's distracting."

  "And you keep bumping into me, but you don't see me complaining."

  Back at the booth, Iyabo approached the p?czki display. "It's been three years since we've had p?czki at the booth. They look so pillowy—just like Zora's." She met Sagan's eyes. "Was it you that made them?"

  "No. That would be my boy here." Sagan’s voice warmed. "He's been taking his time over the years to perfect her recipe."

  "They're amazing, Zen."

  Zen nodded, not trusting his voice. Iyabo walked back to her pot, leaving father and son in silence.

  Sagan turned to Zen. The boy's jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the pastries before him.

  "Leave it be, Father."

  Sagan returned to his task without another word.

  At the back of the booth, Osunde and Iyabo packaged jollof rice. Osaze's hand dipped into the pot. Osunde's eyes flicked up. Iyabo caught the movement a second later.

  "When did we raise a bandit, Iyabo?" Osunde's tone was dry.

  "A lousy one at that."

  Osaze swallowed quickly. "When do you think the play is starting?"

  "Is Valor the only thing ever on your mind?" The humor left Osunde’s voice.

  "It should be in a bit," Iyabo said. "I hope we get nice seats. It's so busy this year."

  Osaze dashed off without warning.

  "Wait! Aren't you helping pack the rice?" Iyabo called after him.

  He jumped onto Zen's back, arms wrapping around his friend's neck. "Are you coming to watch the play this year?"

  "No."

  Osaze's grip loosened slightly. He looked at his friend's face.

  "We all miss her. You're not alone. Never will be, Zen. Never."

  "I know. Don't worry, I'm good."

  "Then prove it. Come watch the play—I'll save seats!" Osaze was already running toward the central tent before Zen could respond.

  "Where is he off to?" Himeko asked as she and Hanni returned.

  Zen exhaled slowly. The booth stayed busy, customers streaming past as evening deepened.

  Sagan scanned the huge crowd, unfamiliar faces everywhere, scattered among neighbors and friends. His mental voice reached out to Ragnar.

  Is it possible he doesn't show up personally?

  He recognized us. He must know I have his scent. Ragnar's response came from somewhere beyond the village perimeter. If it was me and I wanted to strike undetected, it would make no sense to show up.

  Sagan hissed softly, the sound lost beneath the festival's noise.

  At the orphanage's edge, six figures gathered around a cart laden with bottles of oil, tied bundles of branches, and logs of wood. Laati and Rink led the group, their eyes fixed on the building.

  "We're really going to burn the orphanage down?" One of the younger members shifted nervously.

  Laati struck another match, watching the flame bloom before blowing it out. "What, you think we're out here for a jolly stroll?"

  Kevin emerged from the orphanage's front entrance. "Checked the last room. No one's home." The building stood silent, empty—everyone had gone to the festival.

  Rink distributed oil and bundles. "All right, we don't want to take too long and get caught. Let's get started."

  They moved through the orphanage methodically, soaking logs and branches in oil. The liquid splashed onto walls, floors, doors—every surface slick with oil in the dim evening light. The smell of lamp oil grew overwhelming, coating the back of their throats.

  While the orphanage reeked of lamp oil, outside the village, a group of men dressed in all black gathered in the forest shadows. Before them stood Mikel Luckard, wearing an Aseryn over his clothes. He surveyed his men with a broad grin, the only one smiling, rocking slightly on his heels.

  "Remember," Mikel whispered, and every man leaned in to listen. "Just go in and cause enough ruckus to make people flee the village, then get out yourselves. Word is Janson hired a guild for additional security, so you must not linger. But—and I can't stress this enough—this festival must end in disaster."

  Simon, head of Fathbelle Village's guards, nodded beneath his black covering. "Yes, Chief. We won't let you down."

  "I'll return now. Can't have them looking for me." Mikel turned to leave, then paused. "And boys? Don't get yourselves killed."

  From a nearby treeline, golden eyes watched the exchange. Ragnar's massive form remained perfectly still, his dark fur blending with shadows.

  Idiots, his mental voice reached Sagan across the distance. Do you want me to stop them?

  Only if they start to cause trouble.

  In the village square, Brute’s indistinguishable figure bounced from booth to booth, eating everything in sight. His massive frame should have drawn attention, but the crimson Aseryn draped over his shoulders helped him blend—covering the pristine white uniform beneath. Just another festival-goer in traditional dress, moving through the dense crowd.

  He stopped at a cheese vendor. "Yes, can I have that cheesecake?" He pointed with one thick finger. "What do you want, Cole?"

  Cole stood beside him, his eyes constantly searching the crowd, one hand hovering near his weapon. "How can you be so casual, Sir? The Reaper is here."

  "Relax. Your stupid anxiety will reach him if you're not careful." Brute took the offered cheesecake, then discreetly attached a tiny metal sphere to the underside of the booth's counter. His fingers flickered, and the sphere was in place. "With our eterna cores off, we must not draw attention to ourselves."

  They were walking around as regular humans. With danger's eyes looming, Cole's worry didn't diminish.

  Brute glanced at him. "He's but one man. You understand this, right? No matter how great he is, this village won't escape us. Leave him to the Commander." He took another bite of cheesecake.

  At another part of the village, Raido and Marsy strolled through the crowd, two operatives trailing behind them. Curiosity and wonder played across their faces as they took in the decorations and performances—to any observer, just travelers enjoying the festival.

  Marsy huffed. “Why did you have to send Brasin to that Reldo Town? It would be so much fun if he was with us.”

  "Do you think I care about your fun?" Raido's response was flat. "I don't hear you complaining that Sage isn't here. Or Maiko, for that matter."

  "Who cares about those two? They could go kill themselves for all I care."

  "This is why you were passed up for promotion, Marsy. You lack focus—something that makes Brute thrive."

  Marsy gritted her teeth but said nothing. She knew better than to argue further.

  Raido let out a quiet sound — something close to contentment. "After today, Astralyn will be baffled. 'Oh, what has happened to our nation?'" Raido's hand moved to his sleeve, withdrawing several tiny metal spheres. "One province, five regions, eight towns, forty villages. All in three nights." He dropped them as he walked, the small objects rolling in different directions—under stalls, into corners, between crates. "It has been an honour to take part in this spectacle." His lips twitched upward. "We shall end it well, whether the Reaper likes it or not."

  The spheres settled into position, unnoticed promises of destruction beneath the festival's joy. Dozens of them now dotted the village — on booth supports, under vendor stands, in shadowed corners.

  Night settled over the village. Children’s laughter mixed with merchant calls. The smell of roasted meat and sweet pastries filled the air. Okorodu Village celebrated its most sacred day.

  At the orphanage, Kevin stood back, surveying their work. Every surface dripped with oil. The smell was so strong it made his eyes water. "It's ready," he said. Laati held a match between his fingers, staring at it.

  Outside the village, Simon adjusted his black mask and checked his weapons.

  In the square, Brute attached another small sphere to a support beam.

  Raido dropped a bomb near the village hall.

  The children's choir began another verse, their innocent voices rising pure and clear:

  "A king who goes where trouble shows

  Slew the Lovarns at Semlong plains

  Saved the land and our hope"

  The festival glowed bright as night pressed close around the ring of lamplight. And in the east, Chief Madison’s forces raced westward, trying desperately to hunt down the Protectorate attackers before they could strike again.