Rain hammered the scorched ruins of Sector 7, a once-thriving district of Vandrel now reduced to broken stone and ash. Military gliders circled above, their engines whirring like angry insects as Requiem Order troops marched in tight formations, sweeping the area for any remaining threats. The ground still steamed where blood and ancient ichor had mingled.
In the middle of it all, Elian Fyre knelt on cracked stone, chained and gagged, his body trembling—not from fear, but from the fading burn of the transformation. His shirt was torn, revealing blackened veins that pulsed faintly beneath his skin. His once-gentle brown eyes were now ringed with glowing silver.
Around him, soldiers whispered like crows circling a corpse.
"He's the one who did it… tore through that Ancient like it was paper."
"Is he human?"
"No. Not anymore."
Elian wanted to speak. Wanted to explain that he didn't mean to become a monster. That all he wanted was to save Sylvie. But all he could do was look at her, wrapped in a medic's cloak on a stretcher nearby. She was alive, but barely conscious. The blood loss was severe, and her ribs were broken. The guilt of injuring the very person he'd sworn to protect crushed him more than the soldiers' stares.
Then silence fell.
The soldiers straightened, forming rows. The air shifted. Authority had arrived.
Boots hit the ground with thunderous precision as Captain Sheane Heath stepped from the lead glider. He was a tall man with an imposing build, his coat flaring like wings behind him. His face was chiseled, dark eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow and a scar slicing down his left cheek like a mark from a past god. On his back rested twin Runeblades—oversized, brutal weapons etched with golden sigils.
Beside him strode a figure equally commanding in presence, but cold as winter steel. Lyra Deve, a ranked elite and Sheane's right hand. Her short white-blonde hair was slicked from the rain, and her gray eyes were unreadable. Her Requiem uniform was clean, crisp, but her gloves were bloodstained. Her movements were mechanical, efficient. She was the perfect soldier.
"Fyre," Sheane said flatly, stopping before the kneeling boy. "You've created quite the mess."
Elian raised his head. The chains binding his arms creaked as his corrupted strength fought against them involuntarily.
"I—I didn't mean to—"
"You ate a Guardian Ancient." Sheane's voice was calm but thunderous. "Do you know what that means? That power was sealed for a reason. You're not just a cadet now, Fyre. You're a national security crisis."
"He saved the district," Lyra said coolly, crossing her arms.
Sheane's eyes flicked to her, then back to Elian.
"He also endangered the entire city by going rogue. He lost control. Injured his own sister." He crouched before Elian, lowering his voice. "But... you survived the transformation. That hasn't happened in over five centuries."
A hush followed those words.
Sheane stood again. "From this day on, Elian Fyre is no longer a civilian. He is property of the Requiem Order. His body, his mind, and his power now belong to Vandrel."
"I don't belong to anyone," Elian hissed, the silver glow in his eyes flashing.
Sheane smiled faintly. "We'll fix that."
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