The skies brightened gradually as dawn broke over Calensport. Once more the common folk poured through its gates, swelling the streets in waves, just as they had the night before to hear the verdict. Now they came to see its judgment carried out.
They marched toward the execution field, an open expanse at the city's edge, broken here and there by groves of trees that threw narrow patches of shade against the sun. The air was thick with the sound of chanting, of songs raised in unison, of voices cursing and crying out. Some wept openly, others prayed beneath their breath. Armies lined a curved barricade that ringed the square, holding the restless crowd at bay, their ranks forming an iron wall between the condemned and the people.
Eryndor of House Valesse was dragged forward at last. His eyes were lifeless, pupils dilated as though he stared into nothing. His skin was pale and drawn, lips cracked, each step unsteady as soldiers hauled him toward the tree at the square's center. There they chained him fast, iron biting into his wrists and ankles.
Behind him, Sir Joras, Lady Ovelyn, and Lord Halric were driven forward as well. Their Loose chains were fastened to iron holds in the earth, forcing them to their knees in a grim row before the crowd. They kept their heads bowed, terror written across their faces. Lady Ovelyn trembled, her lips quivering. Lord Halric muttered prayers that broke into sobs.
A troop of Drakovar soldiers marched in, their armor clattering like thunder as they forced their way through the crowd. Mothers clutched their children tightly, pressed aside, some stumbling to the ground in fear. A man's voice rang out in protest. "Watch where you push!" His words nearly ended as he was struck hard across the face by a soldier's gauntlet. He crumpled, clutching his cheek, as the people gasped. Yet no one dared move.
The soldiers halted in formation. With a resounding stamp, they turned sharply inward, creating a narrow passage between them. Into this space stepped Lord Erry O'Kael of Drakovar.
Broad of frame, armored in steel scratched by war, he carried in his hand a massive geared sphere. It rattled and whirred as though alive, its casing a mottled bronze, patched with veins of silver and gold. Tiny switches lined its surface, flickering faintly. He caressed its edges with grim reverence as he strode forward.
A crooked smirk split his face as he raised his voice.
"Behold!" O'Kael cried, pacing before eryndor and his loyal nobles.
"The fallen Sovereign, and his strong men and women, perhaps." A portion of the crowd broke into harsh laughter.
"I stand here as witness of this execution, as law requires, in the stead of the Wardens themselves," he continued.
"The others lacked the stomach for it. Pah!" His spittle struck the ground as the crowd jeered.
He lifted the geared sphere high, tilting it so that Eryndor's reflection shimmered across its surface. "The Heaven's Blitz bomb" he declared.
"A weapon of terrible worth, and yet, what shame, that it was bestowed upon your hands eryndor"
With a flick of his wrist, O'Kael cracked several switches open. The sphere hissed and released a cloud of white vapor. Sections of its casing shifted, folding back and snapping into place, resetting with a sound like breaking bones. The sphere trembled violently in his palm.
O'Kael hurled it forward. It struck the ground with a heavy clang, rolling toward Eryndor until it slowed and came to rest at his feet.
At once, Lady Ovelyn shrieked in fear, thrashing against her chains. Lord Halric cried out, his eyes wild with terror. "Please! Spare me! Or banish me instead!" Lady Ovelyn's voice broke into sobs. "Let me go! For mercy's sake, let me go!"
But Eryndor did not move. His eyes, once a warm brown, were now darkened, hollow as pitch. He stared into the trembling sphere, saying nothing.
And then the memories came, vivid and merciless.
He saw himself as a boy, breaking bread in a dim tavern with his mother and little sister. His mother's arms wrapped him tight, holding him close, before she was torn away by men in shadows, whose faces he could not see. He clutched his sister's hand to his chest as his mother's cries echoed, words he could not forget, though time had blurred them into a final plea.
"Liora…" eryndor said faintly his voice cracking.
The geared sphere rattled and shrieked against the stones, vibrating like a beast in chains. Lord Halric and Lady Ovelyn cried out in terror, pleading frantically, their voices breaking. Eryndor and Joras, silent and hollow-eyed, gave no reply. From a distance, O'Kael laughed a jagged, cruel sound while the crowd roared.
"I wanted your heads!" O'Kael shouted over the rattling sound of the sphere and the crowd, his voice carrying across the field. "But Supreme Judge Marric said no. He wanted you to die with honor." He sneered. "Shame, then, that you meet death by your own weapon, the very weapon you turned upon your people!"
The mob erupted, spitting curses, chanting, their anger swelling into a storm. Yet not all joined in, some fell into quiet sobs, others froze, staring as though beholding a ghost, unable to raise their voices.
Eryndor's world drowned into silence. The sphere ticked. The mouths of the crowd moved, wide with chants and curses, but their voices vanished from his ears. Time slowed, every motion stretched thin, as if the world itself had become a distant stage.
From where nobles watched, Keith watched with a grim stillness. Then he slowly removed his hat, pressed it gently to his chest, and turned away. His lips shaped a low song as he walked back through the shadows of the colonnade, his voice faint yet steady:
"The sword drinks truth where no guilt lies,
A fallen star beneath the crooked skies."
He sang the refrain again, softer, until the crowd swallowed his figure.
Then the sphere ignited.
A lance of searing blue-white light tore upward into the sky, splitting the clouds with violent force. Winds howled through the square as Erry O'Kael stood unmoved, watching with a blank expression that betrayed neither pride nor pity.
From the burst of light came fire an eruption of consuming flame that crashed upon the condemned like a tidal wave. Eryndor, Halric, Ovelyn, and Joras shrieked as the fire enveloped them. Their cries rose above the chants, piercing, desperate, until even the loudest voices of the crowd fell silent. Their Flesh blistered, blackened, and flaked away as they writhed, chains rattling against the earth. And then, one by one, their screams ceased.
In moments, the fire died. The execution ground lay scorched, charred black as if struck by a god's wrath. What remained of eryndor and his loyal nobles clung to their chains, fragile, ashen shapes, already collapsing into dust.
Silence fell. No one spoke, no cheer rose, only the low whistle of the wind that swept through the field. Shame and unease filled the air. The people could not meet each other's eyes. Mothers wiped their tears, though guilt lingered upon their faces.
At last, the soldiers broke the stillness. One by one, their armored steps filled the square, retreating in ordered march behind O'Kael. The clank of steel echoed long after they vanished.
Then the skies darkened. A peal of thunder shook the air, lightning split the heavens in jagged arcs, and the people broke, scattering in search of shelter. Rain begn to fall, sudden and heavy, drowning Asterra beneath a curtain of storm.
Location: Solherene mansion in the west
Through the storm's veil, a mansion loomed, ornate, vast, gilded with wasted luxury. Inside, Lord Marric of House Solherene stood before the tall windows. Lightning flared, casting his face in pale blue light. Marric lingered for a moment only at the window, his eyes fixed on the storm, then he turned back into the shadows of his chamber and was gone.
Far to the south, Marien entered her factory. The place throbbed with iron and steam: brass walkways, towering vats bubbling with strange glowing chemicals, the hiss of pressure lines and the groan of gears. Workers in heavy coats and stained aprons rushed about, their hands smeared with grease. Others passed in yellow protective suits and masks, hauling crates marked with the sigil "Griuem".
"Move faster!" Marien barked, her voice sharp with fury. Soldiers filed past with purpose, engineers bent over sparking consoles, while military wagons rattled in through the rain. Lightning cracked overhead, spilling its blue glare through high glass panes.
Marien dragged a chair across the floor, collapsed into it, and leaned forward. A small orb turned over and over between her fingers as her eyes fixed upon nothing. Her face was set, blank.
And At the calvasset mansion, Sylven Veynar of House Calvasset sat in council. A banquet stretched before him, fruits, wines, gilded dishes gleaming beneath the sway of golden chandeliers. Statues and relics lined the marble hall, while a staircase of polished stone curved upward into shadowed chambers above. Nobles lounged at the table, their voices mingling in quiet debate. Servants wove through with silver trays, though Sylven raised a hand, halting them.
The rain and storm rattled against the windows, thunder shaking the chandeliers, lightning flashing across jeweled goblets and the nobles' cold eyes as their murmurs deepened into conspiracies.
In the north, the watchtower rose stark against the rain and storm, its stone walls glistening beneath the sheets of rain. Beneath it, in a small room crowded with scrolls, Master Yeru sat slouched in a crooked chair. The thunder's growl rattled the windowpanes as he uncorked a bottle and lifted it to his lips. He drank deeply, the sound of his swallow loud in the silence, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I do not know what the world will face with you gone," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the storm. He raised the bottle again, voice cracking as he spoke. "But as the heavens weep for you, I pray a force greater than yours rises to avenge you, old friend."
He drank again, heavier this time, then slumped back, the wood creaking beneath his weight. A rough song of sorrow spilled from him, low, broken, the kind of tune sung only by men who had lost more than they could name. The storm outside carried his voice into the night.
Far to the west, in the town of Olsmere, Mira sat quietly within a dim tent. Rain hammered the canvas above, its steady rhythm blending with the low murmurs of women gathered around. She stared out at the storm through a slit in the tent wall, her mind far away. Flashes of the night haunted her, the screams, the fire, the weight of loss.
Her teeth clenched as her gaze fell to her left hand, wrapped tightly in bandages. Her chest felt heavy, as if every breath dragged her deeper into sorrow.
A gentle tap on her shoulder pulled her back. Mrs. Trinket sat beside her on the cot, voice soft.
"Mira… you should eat something."
She set down a plate of bread and salted fish. Mira managed a faint, forced smile, her eyes dull with exhaustion. Around them, the other women ate in silence, their faces hollow, worn thin by grief and fatigue.
"The rain does not seem to be slowing," Mrs. Trinket continued, pulling a heavy blanket from beneath the cot. "And I worry for my husband, Keith." She says as she spread the blanket over Mira's shoulders and gave it a gentle tug. "But I worry for you too."
Mira leaned into the warmth, her lips trembling at the kindness. "Your husband should be fine. He survived the blast. Surely he can survive the rain," she said softly. They both laughed, a small, fragile sound in the gloom. Mira lifted the bread, bit into it, and chewed slowly.
Mrs. Trinket sat a while, her gaze drifting out the rain-smeared window. "I worked as a nurse once," she said, her voice carrying the weight of memory. "In the infantry of House Calvasset. I was part of the emergency unit that tended the wounded at the outer fields." Her lips lifted faintly. "That was where I met Lord Keith. He was a young soldier then, barely more than an aspiring noble, fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Calvasset troops."
Her hands rubbed together, warming themselves against the cold. "I was twenty-three. Every soldier wanted me, or so they said, some leered. But Keith… Keith was different. Gentle. Kind. He spoke to me not as a man desperate for comfort, but as a friend."
The rain pressed harder against the canvas as Mira listened quietly, chewing in silence.
"When his troop marched to the front, I would sneak letters into his pocket," Mrs. Trinket said with a small, wistful laugh. "Words of comfort, in case he never came back. Days, weeks passed before news reached us, of battles fought, of soldiers fallen. I prayed every time. And every time, he returned." She laughed again, shaking her head. "I was always too eager to tend his wounds. The others mocked me for it. Said I needed a real man, not a low noble."
Her eyes fell to the ring on her finger, which she turned slowly. "I was shy then, afraid to name what I felt. Falling in love was not as simple as it is now, it was slow, difficult, a thing one dared only in secret. I thought it was wrong to even want it."
Her voice dropped, hushed by memory. "One day, he told me his house had been summoned to Calensport. He might never return. I was furious. I wanted only to stay close to him. That night, rain falling just like this, I went to him. I confessed everything. I still remember his face—the shock, the joy. And that night, in an empty guardroom, we made love. He had been waiting for me all along."
The tent had grown quiet. Every woman in the room had turned toward her, their food forgotten, their tired eyes wide, drinking in her words.
Mrs. Trinket blinked, startled back to the present, and laughed softly. "Enough of that. I've spoken too much."
Mira reached forward, clasping her hands tightly. "Thank you, for the food, and for the story. You're the first to put a smile on this face since the night of the blast. If you don't mind… I would love to hear the rest of your story another time. But for now… could I be alone?"
"Of course," Mrs. Trinket said warmly, rising with the empty plate. "There are other women who might need me tonight. I am glad you are stronger and healing." She pulled open the flap, stepped into the storm, and lifted her umbrella against the sheets of rain as she vanished toward the other tents.
Mira lay back, curled beneath the blanket, the lantern's glow warm against her face. Tears slid quietly down her cheeks, soaking the fabric. She pressed her hand to her bandaged arm, clutching as if holding onto something unseen. The rain hammered the tent roof above, steady and relentless.