The night began not with a whisper, but with a breath of collective awe.
Across Aetherion, the sky ignited. The Aurora Ribbon unfurled like a banner of liquid emerald, violet, and gold, moving with a slow, hypnotic grace. It was as if the stars themselves had decided to dance upon a stage of infinite darkness.
People stopped. Arguments ceased. Wars paused. Lovers held each other close, parents lifted their children, and for a fleeting moment, the world was united in silence.
In Evercrest, the mood was light. Zero and Sōma stood outside Café LeBlanc, looking up. Sōma was digging a spoon into a small glass jar containing a glowing dessert, Aurora Purin.
"It really does look like the pudding," Sōma mumbled around a mouthful of custard.
Beside him, Officer Monet, dressed in her Watcher uniform, leaned her head onto his shoulder. She sighed contentedly, watching the lights ripple.
"You're at work, you know," Sōma teased, nudging her slightly. "Fraternizing with a civilian."
"Shut up, Red," Monet murmured, closing her eyes for a second to feel the warmth of his jacket.
"Officer," a voice called out.
Erwin and Sergeant Wolfe approached their usual spot. Erwin looked sharp in his coat, his eyes reflecting the green light above.
"Owner," Erwin nodded to Zero.
"Officer," Zero replied with a knowing smile, raising his own cup of cocoa. "Quiet night?"
"Ideally," Wolfe grunted, though even the grumpy sergeant looked softened by the view.
…
Far in the Talbott Duchy.
Sebas Tian, in his guise as Iroh, sat on a wooden stump outside his stall. He sipped a cup of ginseng tea, the steam rising to join the lights above. Around him, the wilderness was alive. Tame beasts—wolves, ligers, tiger lilies, and great owls—sat in the clearing, their heads thrown back, howling and calling to the sky.
"A great bookmark to the new beginning," Iroh mused, his voice blending with the chorus of beasts.
His gaze drifted from the beautiful sky toward the North—toward the Bannon Territory. His eyes narrowed slightly, the genial old man vanishing for a split second to reveal the Guardian.
"Soon," he muttered.
Unbeknownst to the revelers, a calamity had been born in the blood-soaked snow between Bannon and the Theocracy. A hunger that was just learning to walk.
…
In the Royal Capital.
Legolas stood on the balcony of a grand banquet hall, surrounded by the glitterati of the Kingdom. High-ranking ministers and nobles laughed and clinked glasses, bathed in the celestial glow.
Ysolt Delacroix stood beside him. She looked up at the sky, then turned to look at Legolas. The Elf's eyes were wide, and the Aurora reflected perfectly in his pupils, creating a kaleidoscope of impossible colors within the iris.
Inspiration struck her like a lightning bolt.
"Hold there, Legolas," she commanded, grabbing his arm. "Don't move. I need to capture that design in your eyes."
Legolas chuckled, swirling his wine. "My eyes? You act as if you've never seen an Elf look at the sky before."
"Not like this," Ysolt whispered, her mind already sketching patterns. "It's... geometric. Prismatic."
"Better hurry, Ysolt," Legolas smiled, glancing at the clock tower. "The runway is about to begin. We have a show to steal."
…
While the world enjoyed the spectacle, one man raced against it.
Theron Varrus, the Hierophant of the Argent Theocracy, was riding North.
He was heading toward The Great Stillness, a sacred, frozen wasteland where the connection to the Silent Light was strongest. The Call of the First Anchorite had reached him—a revered hermit summons that could not be ignored, no matter the hour.
His white warhorse charged through the thick, shoulder-deep snow as if it were running on pavement. A shimmering, holy barrier projected from the horse's chest, acting as a plow that blasted the snowbanks aside in explosions of white powder.
"By the grace of the Silent," Theron muttered through gritted teeth, his face pale with exertion. "Please let me arrive before the night is over."
He snapped the reins.
"HYAH!"
The horse accelerated, a streak of white fury cutting through the frozen dark, racing toward a destiny that would shake the foundations of his faith.
…
Several hours later, the night was in full bloom, but not everyone was lost in its beauty.
On the roof of Café LeBlanc that overlooked the festivities, Gellert Grindelwald stood alone. His hands were clasped behind his back, his mismatched eyes scanning the horizon.
He felt... off.
The city below was a riot of joy. The Aurora Ribbon painted the snow in shifting hues of emerald and violet. But beneath the laughter and the music, Gellert felt a vibration. A dissonance. It wasn't the Silent Night—that pressure had lifted. This was something deeper, like a termite gnawing at the foundation of a house.
Step. Step.
A shadow detached itself from the stairwell.
"Not coming down?"
Gellert didn't turn. "The air is clearer up here."
Erwin Smith walked up to the edge, holding two steaming paper cups and a small bag of roasted chestnuts. "You're changing careers to a server now?" Gellert asked dryly, glancing back.
Erwin extended a cup. "Take it, or I'll pour it on your head. It's hazelnut coffee."
Gellert took the cup, the warmth seeping into his cold fingers. "Thanks."
They stood in silence for a moment, sipping the coffee as the wind whipped their coats.
"You don't seem happy," Erwin observed, popping a chestnut into his mouth.
"I have a gnawing feeling under my skin," Gellert admitted, rubbing his chest absently. "I don't know what it is. It's not a premonition, exactly. It's... an absence. A void that just opened up somewhere."
Erwin looked down at his own hand. "I know. I feel it too. It's as if the Lucian Kings are trying to warn me about something. The Sword of the Wise is heavy in my mind tonight. But I can't hear them clearly. Just... static."
They both looked up at the sky. The ribbons of light were breathtaking, a distraction so perfect it felt suspicious.
"The night is too beautiful to not enjoy," Gellert murmured, though his eyes remained cold and alert. "Let us hope it stays that way."
…
In the Royal Grand Garden.
The runway show had been a triumph. The elite of the Kingdom were still buzzing about the shimmering, color-shifting suits that seemed to capture the very essence of the Aurora.
At the post-show banquet, held in the sprawling Royal Gardens under the open sky, Legolas found himself surrounded.
"Monsieur Legolas," a rotund Baron purred, clutching a glass of champagne. "This Armani of yours... surely you can offer a discount for a bulk order? My sons would look dashing in your charcoal line."
"Of course," Legolas smiled, his voice smooth as silk. "For a bulk order of ten or more, I can offer a generous 2% reduction."
"Two percent?!" the Baron sputtered. "But the cost of materials—"
"Is astronomical," Legolas cut in gently. "Phase-Silk is not cheap, my Lord. And quality... quality has no discount."
Inside his mind, Legolas sneered. 'These rich foxes. They have all the money in the world and still try to haggle like they're at a fish market.'
Thankfully, Ysolt Delacroix was there. Her prestige was a shield. When she vouched for the "unparalleled craftsmanship" and the "magical integrity" of the suits, the nobles stopped haggling and started signing pre-order scrolls.
As the last Baron waddled away, Legolas let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He was about to sigh and drop his shoulders when a hand gripped his elbow.
"Keep your image," Ysolt whispered fiercely, smiling radiantly at a passing Duchess. "Just because the people you just talked to have turned their backs doesn't mean the others aren't watching. You are the Muse. You are untouchable."
Legolas straightened his spine instantly. He scanned the room. She was right. Dozens of eyes—predatory, judging, curious—were darting toward him. He was fresh meat in the shark tank.
"Hahahaha," Ysolt laughed loudly at nothing, squeezing his arm. "You're so funny, my muse."
"It's tiring, huh?" Legolas murmured through his frozen smile.
"Be yourself," Ysolt advised, releasing him but staying close. "You're graceful enough in your daily life. Just... amplify it."
Tooot-tooot-tooooot!
A fanfare of crystal trumpets cut through the chatter. The garden went silent instantly. Every head turned toward the raised dais at the far end of the lawn.
"His Royal Majesty," the herald announced, "King Antoine Averidane!" {A/N: Change from Theron to Antoine.}
A man walked onto the podium. He was not old, but the weight of the crown seemed to age him. He had sharp features, grey-streaked hair, and eyes that looked weary even when he smiled. He wore a simple, elegant tunic of royal blue, eschewing the heavy ceremonial armor for this night of peace.
Legolas watched him closely. This was the man who ruled the realm they intended to infiltrate.
"My people," King Antoine began, his voice amplified by magic. "Tonight, we look up..."
…
The Luminous Eyes, the imposing headquarters of the Inquisition, stood like a fortress of black stone within the Hallowed See. It was a place where light was not a comfort, but a weapon of interrogation and judgment.
Grand Inquisitor Malachi swept through the corridors, his black and silver robes whispering against the floor. Plates of polished armor were bolted to his shoulders and chest, gleaming in the torchlight. His gaunt, skeletal stature cast a long shadow that seemed to swallow the light around him.
He arrived at a heavy iron door guarded by two silent sentinels. They bowed as he passed into the Chamber of Greys.
It was a vast, circular room filled with thousands upon thousands of wax candles. They floated in tiered rows, filling the air with the smell of burning tallow and ozone. These were not ordinary flames; each candle was soul-bound to a specific Inquisitor—a "Grey." As long as the flame burned, the soldier lived.
Malachi towered over the hunched, elderly Candle Keeper who shuffled forward to meet him.
"You called me here," Malachi stated, his voice dry as parchment.
The Keeper bowed low, his hands trembling. "Grand Inquisitor. We... we have a disturbance. Several rows have been extinguished. All at once."
"Take me to them."
The Keeper led him deep into the spiral of lights, stopping at a section near the outer rim—signifying a low-ranking platoon stationed near the border. A cluster of twenty candles stood cold and dark, the wicks still smoking slightly.
Malachi frowned, rubbing his sharp chin. "A low platoon of the border... I don't remember any of them."
He picked up the ledger beneath the dead candles. It was an enchanted tracker, recording the last known location and orders of the unit. He scanned the text.
Mission: Purification / Cleanup.
Location: Oakhaven Village, Bannon Border.
Malachi's frown deepened into a scowl. "Oakhaven?" He searched his memory, a steel trap of logistics and orders. "I did not authorize a cleanup mission for a border village. I didn't even know these men were active in that sector."
He looked at the extinguished wicks. To kill twenty Inquisitors instantly... That was a slaughter.
"Something is wrong," Malachi muttered. He snatched the files of the forgotten Inquisitors.
He turned and swept out of the room, his mind already calculating the necessary force to respond.
…
The next day, the wind howled across the frozen wilderness far from the capital.
Malachi walked alone up a snow-covered path leading to a small, dilapidated cabin. Despite its rough appearance, the air around it hummed with such intense Holy Energy that it made the Grand Inquisitor's skin prickle. It was a containment field, keeping something dangerous inside—or perhaps, keeping the world safe from what lived there.
He knocked on the rough wood door. Thud. Thud.
Silence stretched for several seconds. Then, the door creaked open.
A man stood in the frame. He was unshaven, his eyes dark and hollow, yet burning with a terrifying intensity. He wore no armor, only a simple tunic that exposed the myriad of scars crisscrossing his arms and neck.
Silas Ducas, The Unbroken.
"Malachi," Silas said, his voice rough from disuse. "What brings you here?"
"Silas," Malachi replied, unphased by the Paladin's aura. "I have a mission for you."
Silas started to close the door. "I don't answer to you."
"Nor do you answer to the Grand Paladin," Malachi interjected quickly, putting a steel-gauntleted hand against the door.
Silas paused, the door hovering inches from the latch.
"I have already spoken to the Lord Commander," Malachi continued, his voice urgent. "The Capital is in total unease. The Hierophant has suddenly departed for the Great Stillness without explanation. I cannot mobilize my own Special Unit; they are tied up with the cathedral defense."
Silas sneered, a look of pure apathy. "Not interested. Go find someone who prays for glory."
"It is a deadly mission," Malachi said softly.
The door stopped moving. Silas looked at him, his interest piqued for the first time.
Malachi pressed his advantage. "Twenty Inquisitors died in a 'cleaning' mission yesterday. They were not the highest rank of Greys, I admit. But... their candles went out simultaneously. In a single second."
He looked Silas in the eye. "No normal beast, no bandit raid, not even a standard mage could kill twenty anointed soldiers of the Light in the blink of an eye. Whatever is out there... it is a calamity."
Silas was silent. He looked at his scarred hands, then back at the Grand Inquisitor. A glint of dark hope sparked in his eyes.
"Solo mission?" Silas asked.
"No," Malachi shook his head. "Your unit will come. The Hollows. We need to be sure."
Silas stared at the snow, weighing the odds. A threat that could wipe out a platoon in a second? That sounded promising. That sounded like... an end.
"Fine," Silas whispered. He kicked the door open fully. "I'll kill it. Or it will kill me. Either way, I win."
…
The border of the holy barrier was a stark line in the snow—on one side, the pristine, unnatural calm of the Hallowed See; on the other, the untamed wilderness of the North.
A platoon of heavy armored paladins gathered in the shadow of the barrier wall. They were the Hollow, the specialized unit under Silas Ducas's command. Their armor was not the shining silver of the regular Inquisitors but a dull, matte grey that seemed to absorb the light. Their eyes were sunken, dark circles etched into pale faces, the mark of men who had seen too much and felt too little.
A young man, barely out of the blessed hall, rushed toward the formation, his armor clanking loudly.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry for being late, seniors!" the newbie gasped, bowing low.
The Hollowed seniors looked at him with empty eyes.
"Don't worry about it," one said, his voice flat.
Another senior pointed a gauntleted finger at the newbie's warhorse. "What's that?"
Strapped to the back of the newbie's mount was a large, meticulously packed stack of horse feed, dried rations, and sleeping rolls.
"Supplies, sir," the newbie reported proudly. "For the campaign."
The senior paladin didn't smile. He reached out, grabbed the straps of the supplies, and cut them with a single stroke of his dagger. The heavy bags fell into the snow with a thud.
He kicked the pile toward a passing group of commoners who were watching the soldiers with fearful awe. "Take it," he barked.
"Sir?" the newbie stammered.
"The only one who needs food is your horse," the senior said, mounting his own beast. "We don't eat on a hunt."
"But... I haven't achieved the Sustenance Blessing yet, sir," the newbie whispered, terrified. "I still need to eat."
Another senior, a woman with a scar running through her lip, smirked. It wasn't a kind expression. "Don't worry, kid. You will. Hunger is just another thing you leave behind."
Then, the ground trembled.
From the rear of the formation, a massive warhorse emerged. It was clad in full plate armor enchanted with blinding white and blue runes, radiating a holy pressure that made the air hum. But the rider atop this magnificent beast wore no armor at all.
Silas Ducas sat in the saddle wearing a simple, threadbare tunic. His arms were bare to the freezing wind, exposing the tapestry of scars that marked his flesh. He carried no shield, no helmet. Only a heavy greatsword strapped to his back.
He simply rode past them, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the smoke of Oakhaven still lingered.
Without a word, he crossed the barrier line.
The rest of the Hollow followed suit instantly, moving with a silent, eerie synchronization.
The newbie sat on his horse, confused. "Wait... no speech? No prayer? No 'For the Glory of the Light'?"
"Kid," the senior beside him muttered as he rode past. "We aren't here for glory. We're here because we can't die anywhere else. Move."
The newbie swallowed hard, kicked his horse into a trot, and followed the unit into the silent, frozen waste, leaving the safety of the barrier behind. It was just a regular day for the Hollow.
**A/N**
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**A/N**