The rain hit the spires of Obsidian Reach like glass shattering.
This place wasn't on any map. A floating fortress above the clouds, kept aloft by forbidden Arcana and forgotten science. Only those bound by blood or oath could find it. And tonight, the air was tense with ceremony.
Within its great hall—half cathedral, half battlefield—figures in red stood in silence.
Crimson hoods. Scars of initiation. Their insignia, a sickle cleaving a sun, was etched into flesh, not cloth.
At the center stood him.
Tall. Sharpened. Cloaked in a coat singed black at the hem.
His weapon: a jagged scythe etched with red runes, resting against his back like a promise.
His Arcana: Hellfire—a cursed evolution of flame, one that burned not just the body, but the soul.
His name?
Vael Aerwyn.
Kael's older brother.
Thought dead.
"Report," he said coldly.
A crimson-robed scout knelt. "Kaas has been captured by Vendetta. Base Omega has begun targeting our shadow cells. The Breeding Grounds were destroyed."
Vael didn't flinch. "Good."
The scout hesitated. "Good… sir?"
"They've proven themselves capable," Vael said. "It means they're worth killing."
He stepped toward a blackened pyre where a sword melted in a crucible of living fire. "My brother is alive," he continued, his voice sharp, yet distant. "I felt it when Cruel Sun touched the ether. He's still trying to redeem what he destroyed."
A pause.
"But redemption is for the weak."
From the shadows, a second figure emerged—a woman draped in white bandages, her face concealed, her voice like fractured glass. Mire, wielder of the Rot Arcana.
"He still thinks he's the victim," she hissed.
"No," Vael replied. "He still thinks he's a hero."
He looked out over the balcony of Obsidian Reach, where crimson banners swayed in the wind.
"We'll remind him who lit the first match."
Elsewhere, inside a ritual chamber
Three other leaders sat around a circular table made of bone and steel. Each wore a different mask: the Sunless Crow, the Gilded Spine, and the Veiled Ember. Together with Vael, they formed the Inner Flame—the ruling heads of Crimson Sickle.
"Our time approaches," said the Sunless Crow. "The world thinks we're extremists. Fanatics. But we are prophets. We burned the rot, and they called it murder."
"The World Government breeds monsters in labs," muttered the Gilded Spine. "They play god while pretending to be human."
"Let Vendetta keep pruning branches," said the Veiled Ember, voice like a funeral hymn. "We'll cut down the tree."
Vael stepped forward, slamming the base of his scythe on the floor. The flames in the chamber roared.
"Summon all cells. Whisper into rebel ears. Stir the Pantheon. Feed Ragnarok's fury."
His gaze burned.
"The Crimson Sickle rises."