The sun had only just begun to crest over the silver spires of K.P.P Fortress, casting golden beams across the frost-tipped rooftops, when Cassandra stood alone in her quarters, staring at the last traces of wax sealing a rolled dispatch. Her gloved hand lingered over the crest— her personal seal— a symbol of quiet urgency, pressed into crimson. The document was already on its way, but the weight of its implications hung in her chest like iron.
She had made the call before dawn the previous night. Four Postknights. Dispatched under cover of darkness. Their orders were clear: infiltrate Pompom Village, confirm the cult's presence, and, if possible, neutralize it quietly.
Her brother Colins led them— who is freshly promoted to S-rank only a week prior. There had been a ceremony, a brief recognition among peers, but no grand celebration. He had insisted on returning to duty immediately. That was his way: quiet resolve, no need for applause.
He was more than capable. A master of misdirection, an expert in shadow warfare. His knowledge of Echo Step— a high-tier stealth tactic developed during the Eastern Conflicts— was unmatched. Few in the kingdom could move like him: calculated, precise, and with an uncanny ability to disorient the enemy. Echo Step wasn't just silence. It was deception. It was art. And Colins was its most deadly practitioner.
Alongside him, two B-rank Postknights— Laira and Bronn— quick-footed and sharp-eyed. Loyal. Efficient. The kind of field operatives who said little but always delivered results. The remaining two were A-ranks— Kiro and Selvine— both known for their adaptability in unpredictable environments. Selvine, in particular, had once gone four days without supplies in the mountain region of Aldor and returned with not only her life, but intel that had shifted a border dispute. They weren't a squad. They were a scalpel.
Still, Cassandra felt the weight of the decision clawing at the back of her mind. She had sent them without higher approval—without informing the military council or Commander Orsic. But she hadn't acted recklessly. She had acted responsibly, as a leader who sensed that hesitation would cost lives.
The reports she'd gathered from Razille, the fragments from Captain Colins' previous patrol, and whispers in the wind— it all pointed toward something festering beneath the surface. A presence. A movement. The Ashlight Circle wasn't just a rumor anymore.
Cassandra adjusted the clasp of her coat and stepped out into the brisk morning air. The stone corridors of the Royal Garrison Hall loomed before her—cold, quiet, and reverberating with distant orders and the clanking of armor. She passed a few K.P.P lieutenants along the way. Some nodded curtly. Others looked away. That was expected. Postknights were respected— but not always welcomed— within these walls.
She walked with measured grace, each step echoing faintly down the corridor. Her mind turned not to the confrontation ahead, but to Colins and his team. She imagined them already deep within the region, cutting through misty woods, avoiding trade roads, moving like ghosts toward a village where truth hid in ash and shadow.
She had done what she could without causing waves.
Now came the part she dreaded.
Facing the tide.
---
Commander Orsic's office was a chamber of shadowed stone and polished iron, flanked by banners bearing the emblem of the K.P.P— silver hawks against a field of storm gray. The scent of old maps and aged parchment clung to the air, mingling with the ever-present odor of oil and steel.
Cassandra stood straight, posture firm. "Commander Orsic," she greeted.
Orsic looked up slowly from his reports, his sharp features unreadable beneath the angled light. "Postknight Cassandra. To what do I owe this... early intrusion?"
"I have a report to show you," she said without hesitation. "A growing threat. I've received intelligence confirming the activities of a cult— calling themselves the Ashlight Circle— in the region surrounding Pompom Village."
Orsic raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "A cult. In a farming village?"
"They aren't just misled villagers painting symbols in the dirt," she pressed. "They're organized, ritualistic. My Postknights witnessed scorched formations, evidence of vanished civilians, and signs consistent with dark magical invocation. We have reason to believe this group may be connected to the dragon incident from six months ago."
"Do you have proof?" Orsic's voice was cold and clipped.
Cassandra's jaw tightened. "Not yet. But—"
"Then what you have," he cut in, "is hearsay. Shadows and speculation. Hardly justification for the kind of military movement you're implying."
"I've already dispatched a small team under Captain Colins," she said. "They're trained in stealth and reconnaissance. They'll confirm it."
"You did.... what?" Orsic stood slowly, hands flat on the desk. "Without approval?"
Cassandra didn't flinch. "I knew you wouldn't approve. That's why I acted."
A pause. The tension between them sharpened like drawn blades.
Orsic scoffed. "Typical. Your Postknights always did have a flair for playing the hero. Riding into towns, delivering letters, and suddenly thinking they carry the weight of the kingdom on their shoulders."
Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "We carry more than letters, Commander. We carry hope. We go where others don't. We see what others ignore."
"Spare me the speeches," he growled. "The Council has heard nothing of this cult. Neither have my scouts. This reeks of political theater. You're seeking to boost your division's profile by staging a convenient 'rescue' mission. One your unit just so happens to be prepared for."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Orsic leaned in. "You want the public to chant your name the way they did for Cassius. Another 'legendary' Postknight to add to your little wall of glory."
Cassandra's fists clenched at her sides. "Commander, people are in danger. We've seen it."
"You mean your Postknights have seen it," he replied coldly. "They're not exactly unbiased witnesses."
The air thickened.
"Until verified proof reaches this office," Orsic continued, "your unit is to stand down. No further deployments. No further rumors. Do I make myself clear?"
Cassandra hesitated for a breath. Then nodded stiffly. "Understood."
She turned and walked toward the door, each step echoing with quiet fury.
As she exited, Orsic sank back into his chair, fingers steepled before his lips. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Let the pawns run their game," he murmured to himself. "It's the kings who decide when the board flips."