The royal garden smelled of ash and violets.
It was said that nothing ever truly died in Yurelda, but the truth was that even beauty had a half-life here. The petals drooped under unnatural light, fed by soil imported from the north and watered with alchemical mixtures meant to simulate the seasons. The air was still, and the flowers bloomed obedient.
King Cedric sat beneath the stone archway, golden wings folded neatly behind him like twin blades of living flame. Not mere ornamentation, but the flesh-born mark of his lineage — broad, veined, and radiant, shimmering with an otherworldly sheen. Each wing curved with predatory grace, the gold tinged faintly with iridescent green near the joints. His hands rested on a cane he didn't need — a symbol more than a support. The veins of green-gold running through its shaft pulsed faintly, as if it breathed with him. His eyes, once the envy of the royal court, were a luminous gold — pure and unchallenged. The kind of eyes people bowed to without question.
Across from him, his daughter stand among the flowers.
Lady Elyria stood among the violet trees, fingers brushing the brittle petals. Her silver hair shimmered in the dome's artificial sunlight. The silence between them was not hostile, but carefully measured — the sort that only royalty and enemies practiced well.
"You're distracted," He said.
"I'm thinking."
He watched her for a moment. "About what happened to in the Royal Library?"
"No."
Cedric tilted his head. "Then about what?"
She didn't turn. "A boy."
A pause. Not long. But long enough for the entire garden to feel it shift.
"A boy?" Cedric asked.
Elyria nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on one of the Flowers. "He had dark hair… and a worn cloak. He moved like someone used to silence."
She hesitated. "But his eyes…"
Cedric tilted his head slightly. "What about them?"
"One of them was black," she said softly. "But the other… it was green."
Even Cedric's fingers paused. His grip on the cane stiffened, and his eyes trembled with something unknown.
Elyria turned to him at last, her voice calmer, almost distant. "It unsettled me. I didn't know eyes like his were possible. And the way he looked at me..."
Cedric's voice dropped. "Where did you see him?"
Elyria answered without pause. "He was in the Lower Crescent. Near the old warehouse."
Cedric stood up.
The wings unfurled behind him — slow, deliberate — casting a sweeping shadow across the roses. The air grew still.
He looked toward the glass dome above, where sunlight touched the spires of Yurelda like drawn blades.
"Don't concern yourself with this boy any longer."
A beat of silence.
Elyria's breath caught; her shoulders stiffened. She was confused by his remark, but didn't dare question it — though the spark of curiosity had already begun to grow. "…Yes, Father."
She bowed slightly, and when she rose, her face was still. Perfectly composed. Royal.
When she left the garden, Cedric waited. Waited until the last petal stopped trembling in her wake.
Then he tapped the base of his cane twice.
A thin shimmer passed through the garden. From behind the farthest tree, a cloaked figure emerged.
Cedric did not look at him.
"There's a face," he said quietly.
The figure tilted its head.
Cedric's voice hardened. "He was seen near the old warehouse in the Lower Crescent. One eye noble, one eye enslaved — if anyone truly sees him, the system cracks. I want him gone."
The figure bowed once.
Then vanished.
For a heartbeat, Cedric stood frozen, his cane rigid beneath his hand, his gaze trembling with raw disbelief. The garden was silent and the weight of his order was still hanging in the air.
And far below, where rainwater still clung to cracked stone, the Crescent always smelled worse after a storm.
Water pooled in uneven cobblestones, soaking trash and ash into one gray, sloshing soup. Flies gathered where people couldn't afford shoes. Steam curled from food carts and sewage vents alike, making it impossible to tell hunger from sickness.
Kazuo didn't mind.
This was the part of Yurelda where no one looked too long at your face — or your eyes.
Rei walked beside him, chewing on a grilled onion skewer with the smug look of someone who'd paid with charm instead of coin.
"You're unusually quiet," Rei said, mouth full. "Girl problems?"
Kazuo didn't answer. The crowd was loud and tense. But something underneath had shifted. Like the city was watching itself more closely than usual.
The feeling of being watched.
They turned down a side lane near the dye market, where colorful fabrics hung like drying tongues between rusted balconies. That's when it happened.
A boy no older than ten came barreling out of a fruit stall, clutching something wrapped in cloth. Behind him, a burly vendor shouted and gave chase.
"Thief!" the man roared. "Little rat took it!"
A vendor yanked down his stall curtain. A woman tugged her child away. The Crescent had learned not to look.
The boy ran straight toward Kazuo.
Their eyes met for a half-second. Not in fear — in apology.
Kazuo shifted.
Too late.
A second man lunged from the crowd. He wasn't dressed like a local. His cloak was uniform-cut, too clean for this part of town. His movement was trained.
The boy slammed into Kazuo's side as the attacker drew a blade.
Rei swore and ducked back — then immediately flanked Kazuo's side, hand on his dagger. "You've got two seconds to pick the wrong fight, buddy."
Kazuo reacted instantly. The sword at his side snapped free in one smooth motion. Metal clanged as he parried the blow and twisted, letting the attacker's weight drive past him. Sparks scattered across the cobblestones.
The boy vanished into the crowd.
The attacker recovered with practiced ease, blade still in hand — its edge shimmered faintly, catching the lamplight like polished glass.
Kazuo's eyes narrowed.
Then he saw it — etched into the hilt.
A sword piercing a silver crescent.
His breath caught.
That was the royal seal.
The man raised his sword.
Kazuo didn't wait.
He called to the element he knew best.