The capital of Zarion—Sylarfall—rose like a carved jewel from the spine of the ancient mountain, its alabaster towers cascading downward in perfect harmony with the roaring waterfall that spilled from the cliffs like strands of living silk. It was a city touched by gods and shaped by sorcery—a place where civilization danced hand-in-hand with the arcane.
Glittering rivers cut through the layered city like glowing veins, their waters infused with soft mana-light that shimmered beneath enchanted glass bridges. Upon their surface, Varn—serpentine beasts with lotus-back saddles—drifted gracefully, ferrying Kin citizens through the inner districts like living gondolas.
Above, platforms of obsidian and gold floated lazily in the sky, sustained by glowing rune circles that pulsed with slow, blue fire. Winged Varn, feathered and majestic, soared through the misty air, ridden by couriers, patrol guards, and elite traders, their wings beating rhythm into the city's heartbeat. Below, hulking, moss-coated Varn with thick rhino-like hides lumbered through cobbled streets, hauling carriages and glass-crystal carts filled with arcane cargo.
And in the midst of it all, a blur streaked through the capital—a figure in navy and gold, cloak flaring like a comet's tail.
Luna ran.
Her boots skated across marble paths and wooden walkways with the grace of a knight, though her breath came fast and her brow glistened with sweat. Her half-bunny ears twitched at every honk of a mana-bike, every bark of a merchant or clatter of hooves. A fluffy tail peeked out behind her, partially hidden beneath her royal-issue cape that flapped behind her like wind-torn silk.
"Sorry! Sorry—I'm in a hurry!" she shouted over her shoulder after colliding with a Kin vendor balancing a box of steaming bread.
"Watch it, you damn hare!" the man shouted, barely keeping hold of his cargo.
"My bad!" Luna called, already gone.
She darted past enchanted glass lanterns flickering with fire spirits, her hand clutched tight around a letter sealed in sun-gold wax. A billboard above her shimmered to life: animated glyphs displayed the date, weather, and a jingle for a mana-tonic that danced in its own bottle. Overhead, mages soared by on rune-forged discs, trailing the scent of lavender oil and ozone.
A holy cathedral loomed to her left, its obsidian walls etched with stained-glass portraits of long-dead Kin gods. Outside, a group of young centaur students scribbled notes beside a floating blackboard mid-lecture.
Far above, towering above all else, the spires of the Magical Council Hall pierced the morning fog like spears aimed at heaven.
She reached the staircase. Her lungs burned, her heart pounded, and yet she didn't stop. Step after step, her boots struck the stone rhythmically—climbing toward duty.
Inside, the air changed.
Magic lived here.
Marble floors hummed beneath her feet, etched with ancient runes that pulsed like breathing stone. Enchanted statues of ancestral Kin stood in each alcove—silent, yet watching, their eyes glowing faintly. She passed clerics whispering to scrolls that moved on their own, a fountain whose water flowed upward into light, and a chamber filled with blue orbs rotating gently—each one a recording of the continent's ongoing political unrest.
Finally, she arrived.
A single door awaited her at the end of the hall. Gold letters carved into black stone read:
ARKAN — HEAD ENCHANTER
Luna exhaled and pushed the door open.
A golden light flooded her eyes.
The room beyond was quiet. Spacious. At its center, a tall man sat in a high-backed obsidian chair, silhouetted by the sun streaming through an enormous arched window. Outside, Sylarfall's silver bridges glinted through the mist. The lakes, the rivers, the hovering towers—all were painted in morning gold.
The man turned.
Mr. Arkan was old—but not feeble. His short beard shimmered with streaks of copper and frost, and his ink-dark robes shimmered with subtle enchantments stitched into their folds. His left eye glowed softly, a magical lens of analysis and memory. His right eye—piercing green—met Luna's with the quiet sharpness of someone who saw more than he let on.
She dropped onto a chair with dramatic flair.
"Ugh! I'm done running today," she groaned. "I heard you needed a letter, and guess what—I delivered it." She held out the wax-sealed parchment like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Arkan accepted the letter with calm fingers and placed it on his desk.
"You did well," he said, his voice calm and deep, smooth like polished stone. "You should rest, Luna. Because we're about to leave."
She blinked. "Leave? Where to now? Another royal meeting? A school tournament? Some secret mission to impress a prince?"
He didn't smile.
"No. We're going east. To Velharest."
Her breath caught.
"…Velharest?" she repeated, quieter now.
He nodded. "Gather your squad. Light gear. No banners. We ride at dawn."
There was silence.
Then Luna stood, her usual grin tempered by something heavier.
"Understood," she said, voice low. "I'll assemble the team."
Her footsteps echoed softly as she left the chamber.
Silence returned.
Arkan remained seated, unmoving, as the wind outside stirred the banners along the city's tallest spires. A shadow passed over the city as a great winged Varn glided past the tower window. Slowly, he reached for the letter.
With a flick of his finger, the wax seal melted away in a flash of gold light.
He read.
His eyes moved line by line.
His brow furrowed. Then softened.
A small, tired smile tugged at his lips.
And then his expression changed.
All warmth drained from him. His jaw tightened. His shoulders hunched, as if a weight he hadn't carried in years had returned to roost upon his back.
He folded the letter carefully, reverently, and placed it on the table.
Outside, the light shifted. A wind rose, lifting the banners. Somewhere far below, a bell tolled across the valley.
He stood.
"Lab 014..." he whispered. The name carried a tremor. Not of fear—but of memory. Painful, old memory.
His eyes turned again to the city—so radiant, so full of peace.
"They're making their move," he said, quiet as storm winds. "After all these years... they finally dare awaken the storm."
He clenched his fist over the table.
"The world has unraveled long enough. Threads torn. Bonds shattered. Truth buried beneath generations of lies... But no more."
He turned, his cloak billowing like smoke across the stone floor.
"It's time someone wove the truth back together."