Warden Association
Seatlia, Capital city
Kettlia Region
Ashtarium nation
North American continent
November 22nd 2019
Nico moved down the corridor, its yellow walls stained by time and harsh fluorescent light. The hum of overhead fixtures buzzed like distant wasps, barely audible over the pounding of his thoughts. He couldn't shake the question that had gripped him since the summons—why now?
It couldn't be about Orlo City. The operation had been a bit... aggressive, sure, but he'd handled it. The threats were neutralized, the evidence buried, and not a single mundane had any clue they'd ever been there. His cleanup had been meticulous, surgical.
Maybe it's a commendation, he mused, the thought half-sarcastic. Promotion, even? It had been nine years since he was recruited into the Warden Association's inner circle. Nine years since he took the oath that made him more than a soldier—a keeper of balance in a world sliding into chaos.
He flexed his fingers unconsciously as he walked, testing for tension in the joints. Whatever this meeting was about, it wouldn't be routine. With the Director, it never was.
When he reached the door to her office, he paused, cleared his throat, and knocked.
"Enter," came the voice—deep, resonant, commanding.
Nico stepped inside.
The room was expansive, circular in layout, with towering shelves lining the curved walls, each brimming with ancient tomes and bound reports. Suspended from the ceiling were chandeliers forged from multi-colored crystals that cast fractured light across polished obsidian floors. At the far end, beneath a wide, arching window overlooking the glittering sprawl of Seatlia's commercial district, stood the Director.
She didn't turn to greet him. Her broad silhouette, backlit by the city's glow, exuded the kind of weight that made lesser men hesitate. She wore the standard black Warden uniform, identical to Nico's, save for the ornate insignias stitched into the fabric above her breast—markings of senior command. The Warden Association's emblem, a stylized eye within a triangle, was etched in silver across her back.
Gemma Ironwrought. A woman carved more than born. Her massive frame filled the space with a quiet threat, and the bun of black hair coiled beneath her officer's cap only emphasized her stern presence. She turned as Nico approached, her heavy boots echoing against the stone steps that led to her raised desk.
"You wanted to see me, ma'am," Nico said evenly.
Though he stood tall at six foot two, with stark black hair, pale skin, and blood-red eyes, he still felt small in her presence. The crow mask covering his lower face lent him a grim aspect, but next to her, it felt more ceremonial than intimidating.
"Yes," she said, her voice a rumble edged with iron. "I wanted to speak with you, Officer Angelo."
Even her words had weight, the kind that could flatten a mundane if spoken too close. There was no mistaking the giant's blood that ran through her veins.
"Sit."
He obeyed, surprised the chair bore her weight when she followed suit.
"You grew up in the city of Periun, did you not, Officer Angelo?" she asked, eyes like carved stone boring into him.
"Yes. Before the Association pulled me off the streets."
Periun. That name still tasted like ash on his tongue. Nico had clawed his way through its gutters, surviving by instinct and luck. A scrawny kid with nothing but grit, scraping meals from dumpsters, dodging rival gangs, and hiding from authorities. He'd been nothing until the bloodline within him stirred—until his true heritage, once buried in ignorance, awakened. That was when the Association found him. That was when he stopped merely surviving and began becoming something more. Something other. It was then he learned the truth, the kind of truth most people would never glimpse, let alone believe.
Magic was real. Not sleight of hand or stage tricks, but raw, ancient power that pulsed beneath the skin of the world. The myths, the monster tales whispered to children, the folklore of spirits and gods—they weren't stories. They were warnings.
And true power? It belonged to monsters. Not the fanged or horned horrors that skulked through nightmares, but the ones who wore suits, crowns, uniforms. Beings that walked unnoticed, manipulating economies, faith, and fear, controlling the very fabric of society from the shadows. All while the Mundane—blissfully ignorant—lived out their lives in a carefully curated lie.
"Why are you asking about Periun?" Nico asked, his voice tight, guarded.
"You also served there as a Junior Officer, did you not?" Gemma replied, her gaze unreadable.
"Yes. For a while." He paused, forcing a steady breath. "Before I requested a transfer to the capital."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't want to. That night—the real reason he left—still lingered like an old wound that refused to close.
"What's going on?"
"The Analyst Division just picked up a spirit energy surge in the area," Gemma said.
Nico frowned. "A surge?"
She nodded once. "The kind consistent with an Awakening. A powerful one. We're not certain yet if it's connected to the Laplace Seed Factor or if it's just a standard flare. Could be nothing. But we can't afford assumptions—not after what happened in Thornhill."
Nico's expression darkened.
"And you want me to investigate?"
"We need someone who knows the city. Someone who understands the terrain—and its ghosts." She leaned back, her chair creaking under her weight. "And we need someone with the skills to handle whatever this turns out to be. I thought of you."
There was a pause. Then she added, "Complete this mission, and I'll put your name forward to HQ for promotion consideration. You've earned that much."
Nico hesitated. Periun wasn't just a city. It was a graveyard of memories—and he wasn't sure he was ready to dig them up. But then again... when were they ever ready?
"Alright," he said, the word leaving his mouth like a reluctant oath.
****
Hovering above the city of Periun, Nico let the wind buffet his coat as his black-feathered wings unfurled behind him in silent motion. The skyline stretched beneath him like a map of faded memories and buried scars. Eyes half-lidded in focus, he extended his Internal Senses—an augmentation of his mental energy that rippled outward, sharpening his awareness and attuning him to the flow of unseen forces.
He was searching.
The Analyst Division had tracked the surge to the city museum, pinpointing it as the epicenter of the awakening. But by the time Nico arrived, the source was already gone—vanished without a trace. All that remained was the heavy imprint of energy so dense it shimmered in the air like a psychic afterimage.
And that was the problem.
The residual spirit energy was too rich, too refined to be a mere fluke. This wasn't a standard Awakening. No, Nico had seen this signature before. The slow churn in his gut told him what his mind refused to accept—this might be tied to a Laplace Seed. He had hoped, prayed, that it wasn't. But Periun had never been kind to Hope.
Nico's jaw tightened. He hated dealing with Laplace seedlings—offspring of chaos, seeded by the Dark Lord of Despair himself. Abominations draped in flesh, masquerading as human until the moment they didn't. Wherever they emerged, destruction followed. Cities burned. Lives ended. And the world tilted just a little closer to oblivion.
It wasn't surprising that one had surfaced here, not after what happened nine years ago. But Nico stopped himself before the memories could rise. That night… no. He wasn't ready to walk through that particular corridor of his mind. Not yet.
Gliding above the cityscape, Nico followed the faint spiritual trail through alleyways, rooftops, and open skies. His wings beat silently as his Internal Senses pulsed outward, scanning for residual echoes of the surge. Then he stopped, suspended mid-air as a chilling familiarity settled over him.
No… No… No…
The neighborhood below was all too recognizable. A park—sunlit and ordinary—lay beneath him, the scene deceptively mundane. Four figures stood there, talking casually, unaware of the eyes above. And then one of them turned to wave before walking off on his own. Nico's breath caught in his throat. The face. That face.
Jack Ryan.
A ghost from the past. A name he hadn't heard in years—a nightmare he thought buried. He hovered there, unmoving, watching as the teenager moved along the path below. With his Internal Senses still active, Nico didn't need a second glance. The soul core within the boy shone like a newborn star—brilliant, pulsing with raw power.
Novice realm. Recently Awakened.
It wasn't just the past catching up. It was a storm on the horizon, and the winds had just changed.