The air inside the Imperial Palace of Cinder tasted of ozone and iron. Beyond the heavy obsidian walls, the rhythmic boom of a one-man siege echoed through the corridors. Valerus was here. He was a force of nature, carving a path of carnage through the heart of the capital. In the time it had taken for the outer world to tilt on its axis, Valerus had systematically dismantled a thousand elite soldiers, leaving the castle buzzing with the groans of the dying and the frantic footsteps of the overwhelmed.
In the high silence of the throne room, Emperor Arthur and Empress Lysandra stood like statues of glass, their gazes fixed on the grand entrance.
"I'm so going to enjoy this," Lysandra murmured, a predatory smile tugging at her lips. Her eyes danced with the anticipation of finally breaking the man who dared to challenge their sun.
"Me too," Arthur replied, his voice a low, hungry growl. "I wish he'd just arrive already. The suspense is becoming tedious."
The silence was shattered not by Valerus, but by the frantic beating of wings. A lone black bird, sleek and ominous, spiraled into the room. It flew through the very same window where Caius, the Puppet Master, had plunged to his death—a jagged hole in the sky that felt like a permanent scar.
Lysandra's smile faltered. Her eyes widened. "The emergency report channel?" She extended her arm, allowing the creature to land. "Why is it coming directly here?"
Arthur stepped forward, his brow furrowing. "Valerus has the Vanguard pinned down. The couriers are either dead or terrified. Seeing no one to receive the message, the bird sought the highest authority. Well," he gestured impatiently, "let's hear what the grave has to say."
A voice erupted from the bird—a male voice, high-pitched and vibrating with raw, unadulterated terror.
"Terrible news! Terrible news! Cadence has fallen! The people of the Chronohelix have seized the gates! Lord Tim is dead! Cadence belongs to the rebels!"
The air in the room seemed to vanish. A choking silence fell as the Emperor and his Queen stared at the bird. Before they could speak, three more black shapes cut through the gray sky, flapping through the window in a funeral procession.
"Three more?" Arthur bellowed, the veins in his neck bulging. "What madness is this?!"
The birds began to speak in a discordant, overlapping choir of doom.
"Reporting from Whisper!" the first shrieked. "Whisper has fallen! The Chronohelix Empire has seized control. Lady Zo has been taken down!"
"Reporting from Nexus!" the second cried, its voice laced with desperation. "Nexus has fallen! The hub is lost! Lord Neved is dead!"
Arthur's face contorted, a mixture of disbelief and growing shock twisting his features. "The Chronohelix Empire? What is this?! They aren't on any map! They don't exist!"
The fourth bird didn't wait for his permission. "Reporting from Blight! The people of Blight have betrayed the crown! They have allied themselves with the Chronohelix!"
"How could they?!" Lysandra shrieked, her composure shattering into a boiling rage. "Those starving rats dare to turn?"
Two more birds swept into the room, their shadows dancing over the throne.
"More?! Give me a break!" Arthur roared, his voice cracking the silence of the hall. "What is happening to my world?!"
"Reporting from Wane! Wane has fallen! Lord Rex is dead! The twilight province belongs to the Chronohelix!"
"Reporting from Flux! Following the death of Lord Xevez, the people of Chronohelix have seized the Elemental Heart!"
The relentless reports hit Arthur like physical blows. Six provinces. Six pillars of his reign, gone in a heartbeat. "Six?!" he screamed, his fist colliding with the stone wall with a sickening thud. "How can six provinces fall at once? DAMN IT ALL!"
North-east of Cinder lay Rune, a province that hummed with a different kind of danger. The land was a living circuit board, etched with ancient, glowing inscriptions that pulsed like a heartbeat. Here, the ambient magic was so thick it felt like breathing static. In Rune, a simple spark could ignite a wildfire; a soft breeze could sharpen into a localized hurricane. For a stranger, the land was a trap—it pushed too much energy into their veins, threatening to turn their own Hera into a bomb that would consume them from the inside out.
Through this volatile landscape walked Tuesday.
One of the seventeen spies, Tuesday moved with a quiet, feline grace, his eyes scanning the runic streets. He came upon a grim scene: a group of Chronohelixians and Vylonian refugees huddled together, held hostage by a line of Aethelgardian soldiers. They had been caught attempting to seize a strategic node, and now they were being watched like cattle before the slaughter.
"Hello, young'un," a smooth, cultured voice rang out.
Tuesday stopped. Standing before him was Vexis, the Tetrarch of Rune.
"Good day," Tuesday replied, his voice calm as he offered a polite, shallow bow.
In the time it took for Tuesday to straighten his back, the space in front of him was empty. Vexis had vanished. Before Tuesday's senses could even register the shift, he felt a cold, tender touch settle around his shoulders—a gesture of mock intimacy that sent a shiver of lightning down his spine.
"Get your hands off me!" Tuesday snapped.
He blurred backward, putting a safe distance between himself and the Tetrarch. His heart hammered against his ribs. What was that? He mused, his eyes narrowing. Warping? No… it's the land.
"I presume you're their ally," Vexis's voice rang out from a completely different angle. Tuesday spun, but the Tetrarch was already standing near the hostages, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his blade.
"So what if I am?" Tuesday asked, his fingers beginning to twitch with blue static.
"Then prepare yourself," Vexis said, drawing his sword with a slow, metallic hiss. He licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with the predatory hunger of a man who owned the very ground they stood on. "Because I'm going to kill you."
While the fire raged in the northeast, a different kind of nightmare held the province of Harrow in its grip. Once the proud "Bread Basket" of the Empire, the lifeblood of Aethelgard had rotted into a biological horror show. The fields that once swayed with golden wheat were now a warped wasteland of mutated growth.
Magically animated weeds acted as sentient snares, dragging the unwary into the dark soil, while mutated insect swarms moved with a collective, hungry intelligence. It was a place where the environment itself was trying to digest you. Those wealthy enough to flee had long since relocated to safer provinces; those left behind lived as prisoners in their own homes, locking their doors against the humming of the swarms, only venturing out when the desperation of hunger outweighed the fear of being eaten.
Deep within a forest of twisted, weeping trees, Elara moved like a shadow. One of the seventeen spies, she was a master of the hunt, but even she was unprepared for the scene that broke through the brush: a gargantuan, chitinous bug was bearing down on a terrified little boy.
Without a word, Elara drew an arrow, the string of her bow singing as she released. The projectile whistled through the thick, stagnant air, piercing the insect's head with lethal precision. The creature collapsed, lifeless, into the muck.
Elara knelt beside the trembling child, rubbing his head with a gentle, sisterly warmth. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice a soft contrast to the harsh surroundings.
"Yes… thank you, miss," the boy whispered, but his eyes suddenly darted past her, wide with a new, deeper terror. He scrambled to his feet and fled into the trees.
The sound of slow, rhythmic, and stylish clapping cut through the silence. Elara spun, her heart hammering against her ribs. Standing there, draped in the luxury of the Empire, was a young lady who bore a striking, haunting resemblance to herself.
"Elaine?" Elara's voice broke. She stared at the Tetrarch of Harrow, her eyes filling with hot, disbelieving tears.
"What a surprise," Elaine said, her smile not reaching her cold eyes. "Who would have thought that the scaredy little Elara would grow to be a brave warrior, strong enough to take on a mission as a spy?"
"Follow me," Elaine urged, turning on her heel without waiting for an answer. Numb and trembling, Elara followed her sister deeper into the heart of the cursed province.
Back in Rune, the air was a haze of orange heat, but the atmosphere was freezing for Tuesday. He stood before Vexis, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.
Vexis began to walk toward him, the tip of his blade sliding across the runic pavement with a soul-grating screech. "Now, let's begin. How should I kill you? I wonder…"
Tuesday kept his gaze locked on the Tetrarch's eyes, watching the steady, confident approach. He was so focused on the man in front of him that he didn't see the air glitch to his side. A sudden, searing pain exploded in his flank. Tuesday gasped, looking down to see Vexis's blade buried in his side. He hadn't even seen the man move.
Reflexively, Tuesday unleashed a roaring wave of orange and red fire—a desperate inferno intended to incinerate his attacker. But Vexis was already gone. The Tetrarch vanished into the ether, dodging the flames with ease, only to materialize directly in Tuesday's face.
Vexis slammed a palm into Tuesday's forehead, the force sending the Prince flying backward. Tuesday crashed through stone boulders and ancient runic buildings, his body skipping across the ground like a stone.
"Hahahahaha!" Vexis laughed, the sound echoing off the burning walls. "You guys are fools for challenging the Aethelgard Empire. You have death wishes, I suppose."
Tuesday struggled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged, bloody gasps. He clutched his side, trying to stem the flow of blood.
"We are just trying to take back what is ours," Tuesday wheezed.
"What is yours?" Vexis mocked, tilting his head. "What did we ever take from the Chronohelix? Wealth? Family? Home? What?"
Tuesday looked up, his eyes burning brighter than the flames surrounding them. "Everything."
"Everything?"
"Yes," Tuesday growled. "And we simply came to get it all back."
"Then why don't you take it by force?" Vexis vanished again.
Tuesday's head whipped around, his voice a desperate bellow: "Where would he attack from next?!"
"From where you least expect," Vexis's voice rang out from the very air. He materialized in front of Tuesday, his leg already extended. The kick connected squarely with Tuesday's jaw, sending him hurtling through yet another row of buildings.
The captured Chronohelixians watched in horror. "This is a terrible matchup for Prince Tuesday," one whispered, his voice trembling. "Vexis outclasses him in speed. That alone is a death sentence."
"Yeah," another nodded. "Vexis can dodge anything Tuesday throws, even if he's caught off guard. But Tuesday? He can't react in time to someone who travels at 0.00 seconds. Even if he knows the attack is coming, it's impossible to stop."
In the silent forests of Harrow, the reunion was quickly turning to ash.
"I can't believe you were still alive," Elara murmured, her hand touching her forehead as if to wake herself from a dream.
"Yeah, I guess you're frustrated to find out I survived, aren't you?" Elaine said, her tone sharp and accusatory.
Elara scoffed. "How could you say that?"
"It's the truth. You abandoned me," Elaine hissed, turning to face her sister. "You left your only sister alone with those wicked vermin, the Vylonians. And now you've teamed up with them to take me down."
"I didn't know you were in Aethelgard! I didn't even know you were alive!" Elara cried.
Her plea was interrupted by a chorus of screams. "Help! Elara! Help!"
Elara looked up to see a clearing where massive, predatory plants were coiling around a group of Chronohelixian scouts, their thorny vines beginning to squeeze the life out of them.
"Guys!" Elara shouted. She reached for her bow, pulling an arrow to her ear. "Don't worry, I will save you!"
But as she released, Elaine moved. She didn't use a weapon; she released a burst of emerald energy from her own body. Thick, magically reinforced vines erupted from Elaine's skin, snatching Elara's arrows out of the air just inches from their targets.
Elara stood stunned, her bow dropping slightly. "Elaine? Why?"
"Perhaps you thought this was a happy reunion," Elaine said, her voice dropping to a cold, heartless whisper. "I'm sorry, but you're wrong. Did you honestly think we could just go back? We are enemies now, Elara."
The battle in Rune had become a grim display of absolute dominance. Every time Tuesday moved, he was met with the void; every time he struck, he hit only the mocking laughter of the air. Vexis moved through the province like a ghost in a machine, his warping turning the battlefield into a one-sided slaughter.
Tuesday forced himself back to his feet, his breath rattling in his chest as he stared down the Tetrarch.
"Looks like you're finally ready to die," Vexis said, his voice dripping with bored arrogance.
"Sorry, Mr. Tetrarch," Tuesday wheezed, wiping a streak of blood from his lip. "But how, where, and if I die… is something I decide for myself."
With a roar of effort, Tuesday unleashed a desperate barrage of orange flames. They surged forward like a tidal wave, but as they had a dozen times before, they met nothing but empty space. Vexis vanished before the heat could even singe his cloak.
Anticipating the counter-attack, Tuesday immediately wreathed himself in a swirling cyclone of fire, creating a scorched "No Man's Land" around his body.
"Interesting," Vexis's voice echoed, seemingly coming from the very sky. "Surrounding yourself in flames is a solid defensive strategy. Most would be kept at bay." Everyone—captives and soldiers alike—frantically scanned the ruins for the source of the voice, but Vexis was nowhere and everywhere. "However," the voice hissed, now inches from Tuesday's ear, "it won't work against me."
Tuesday's eyes widened. Vexis materialized directly in the heart of the inferno, the heat seemingly sliding off him. "I told you. I attack from where you least expect."
A heavy boot connected with Tuesday's jaw. The impact was so violent it snuffed out the surrounding flames instantly, sending Tuesday tumbling through the dirt.
Slowly, Vexis drew a small vial of shimmering purple liquid and poured it down the length of his blade. "It's time to end this, wouldn't you agree, my friend?"
"Poison?" a citizen of Rune gasped, their face paling. "Whenever Lord Vexis brings out that toxin, it means the hunt is over."
Tuesday stared at the poisoned steel, a cold weight settling in his gut. He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the screams of Rune faded. His mind drifted back to a memory he had tried to bury—the day he had truly learned the meaning of fear.
I haven't faced anyone this tough since I made Sunday angry, he thought. What was it again? Oh yes… he caught me and his fiancée in my room. I was naïve enough to think I could hold my own because we both wielded fire. I was wrong. The scar on my side is the only thing I have to show for that fight. I vowed never to cross Sunday again. Now, I'm facing a monster just as relentless. A fight where I might actually die.
Tuesday's eyes snapped open. The fear was still there, but beneath it, something else had ignited.
"Ready to die now?" Vexis asked, crouching low. "Alright, here I come!"
Vexis vanished. But this time, Tuesday didn't look for him. He didn't move. He didn't even breathe.
Suddenly, the world turned cold. The vibrant orange of the fires died, replaced instantly by a sea of Black Flames that erupted from the very runes of the province. They didn't just burn; they seemed to eat the light.
"AAAAAHHH!"
Vexis's scream tore through the darkness. He reappeared, stumbling and writhing in agony as the black fire clung to his skin. "What is this? Black flames? How?!"
"Overdrive: Black Infernous Castle," Tuesday's voice boomed, echoing with a strange, dual resonance. "Overdrive is the second stage of Hera. The true evolution of Flame Hera is the Black Flame. And this… this is my power."
"You… you didn't even move!" Vexis shrieked, clutching his head.
"Are you sure? I control these flames with my mind, Vexis. The magical structure of Rune didn't just amplify my power; it became my weapon. Right now, even the clouds above us are burning black."
"There's… there's nowhere to warp!" Vexis panicked, flickering in and out of existence, but every time he reappeared, he landed in a fresh bed of black embers. "Everywhere I go… it's all fire!"
"Rune is under my control now," Tuesday said, walking calmly through the dark inferno. "I decide who burns. Right now, the people of this province feel nothing but a cool breeze. But you? You feel the pain of a thousand suns, even though your flesh hasn't turned to ash yet. That is the depth of my control. I'll give you one last chance. Surrender. It's over."
"Never!" Vexis bellowed, his pride fracturing. "I am the fastest man alive! I am Vexis Mexxezz! I will never yield!"
Tuesday let out a long, weary sigh of disgust. "Suit yourself."
At those words, the mercy was retracted. The black flames, previously just a phantom pain, became physical. Vexis screamed one final, soul-piercing wail as he was incinerated where he stood. Within seconds, the scream faded into a hollow whistle of wind.
When the silence returned, the black flames receded, vanishing back into the runes. Vexis lay on the scorched earth, a blackened, unrecognizable husk.
"Lord Vexis!" the people of Rune cried out, rushing toward the remains. They froze as Tuesday approached, snapping back in terror.
Tuesday didn't look at them. He stood over the corpse of the Tetrarch, his expression grim. "Those who refuse to accept the light of coexistence," he murmured, "will be swept away before the dawn comes."
With a flick of his wrist, Tuesday released the shackles of the Chronohelixians. As they rose to take control of the province, the "Black Infernous Castle" stood silent—a monument to a Prince who had finally stepped out of his brother's shadow.
In the province of Harrow, the air was no longer just heavy with the scent of rot; it was thick with a tension so sharp it felt like a blade against the throat.
"What do you mean 'enemies'?" Elara's voice was small, trembling with a refusal to accept the reality standing before her.
"Exactly what it sounds like. I'm sure you're smart enough to get the point," Elaine replied coldly. She turned her back on her sister, her regal posture a wall of ice.
"No! I will not fight you, Elaine! I won't!" Elara's voice rose, desperate and cracking. "You are not my enemy! You're my sister!"
Elaine snapped. She spun around to face Elara, the mask of the cold Tetrarch shattering to reveal eyes brimming with hot, jagged tears. "Then why did you abandon me?!" she shrieked, her voice echoing through the twisted trees. "You have no idea what I've been through! You have no idea what they did to me!"
The pain in Elaine's voice was an ancient, festering wound. To understand the depth of that resentment—the poison that had turned a sister into a stranger—one had to look back twenty years. To a time when the Thorenzians were not masters of provinces, but shackled slaves in the Vylonia Empire.
In a period where happiness was nothing more than a word whispered in the dark, two eight-year-old girls ran through the dusty, oppressive streets of Vylonia. They moved with the lighthearted grace of children who didn't yet understand the weight of the iron around their ankles. They were heading toward the Thorenzian slave camp, laughing as they reached the entrance of their modest home.
Their mother stood at the door, her face weary but beautiful. The girls collided with her in a messy, joyful embrace.
"Mother, we played Warp-Tag today!" Elaine chirped, her voice high and sweet.
"Because of Elaine, the Warper caught me first!" Elara pouted, crossing her arms. "I told her to go hide somewhere else, but she wouldn't listen!"
"That's a lie! Elara is lying!" Elaine countered with a cheeky grin. "I found that hiding spot first!"
"No, I found that spot first!" Elara stuck her tongue out, crossing her arms defiantly
Their mother let out a soft, melodic laugh. She knelt down to their level, the heavy iron chains around her wrists ringing with a rhythmic, metallic clatter with every movement she made. She took their small hands in hers.
"Girls," she whispered, her eyes searching theirs. "Do you remember the Golden Promise?"
"Yes, Mother," the girls chorused, their bickering forgotten. "No matter what happens, no matter where we find ourselves, we will never forget that we are sisters. And we will be together forever."
"Good girls," their mother said, her voice thick with emotion. "Always remember that. Don't allow anything—or anyone—to come between you two."
"Your mother is right."
A deep, warm voice pierced the air. Their father stepped into the light, his own chains singing a dirge of servitude as he moved to join them.
"Father!" The girls left their mother to tackle him, burying their faces in his rough tunic while their mother looked on with a bittersweet smile.
"Did you have fun with your friends?" he asked, lifting them up.
"Yes, Father!" they shouted together.
The moment of peace was shattered by the splintering of wood. A squad of ten armed Vylonian soldiers stormed into the house, their armor gleaming with an unkind light.
"What is the meaning of this?" their father challenged, shielding his family behind his back.
"Your presence is required," the lead soldier barked. "You and your wife. Now."
"By whose order?"
"By Absalom himself."
The mother's breath hitched. "The Emperor…"
Without another word, the soldiers lunged forward. They grabbed the parents, dragging them forcefully toward the door. The sound of chains dragging across the stone floor was deafening.
"Mother! Father!" Elaine screamed, her tiny hands reaching out for a connection that was being ripped away.
"Elaine! Elara! Stay strong! We will be back!" their mother cried out, her voice fading as they were hauled toward the palace.
The house fell silent, save for the sound of Elara's sobbing. She collapsed to the floor, wailing for the parents she feared she would never see again.
"Elara, shut up! Stop crying!" Elaine ordered. Her voice was shaking, but her small face was set in a mask of terrifying resolve.
But Elara couldn't stop. The fear was too big for her small body. She cried even harder.
Elaine stood up, dusting off her ragged dress. "I'm going," she said firmly.
Elara looked up, her eyes red and puffy. "Where are you going, Elaine?"
"I'm going after Father and Mother. Are you coming or not?"
"Yes," Elara nodded quickly, wiping her nose.
"In that case, stop crying," Elaine commanded, her tone uncharacteristically harsh.
Elara's lip quivered, and a fresh wave of tears began to fall. Elaine's patience snapped. She stepped close, her eyes boring into her sister's. "If you keep crying, I will leave you behind! I mean it, Elara!"
The threat hit home. Instantly, Elara choked back her sobs, her face suddenly still, innocent, and heartbreakingly cute in its attempt to be brave.
"Good," Elaine said, taking Elara's hand and squeezing it tight. "Now, let's go."
Hand in hand, the two eight-year-old shadows slipped out after their parents.
The moon hung low and pale over the streets of Vylonia, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to chase the sisters as they ran. The night was late, but the city was far from asleep. Ahead, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed off the stone walls. Groups of people were streaming toward the central square, their faces masks of panicked curiosity.
Elaine reached out and caught the sleeve of a passing man. "Why is everyone running?" she demanded, her small voice sharp with a premonition of dread.
"An execution," the man gasped, barely slowing down. "Some of our people are about to be put to death."
Elaine's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Who? Is it a man and a woman? Are our father and mother among them?"
"I don't know the details," the man replied hurriedly. "I only heard that a group was arrested at noon. I can't say if they're the ones. If you want to know, come and see for yourselves!" He pulled away and disappeared into the crowd.
Execution. The word felt like ice in Elaine's veins. She and Elara had spent the entire afternoon at the palace gates, begging, crying, and pleading for a single glimpse of their parents, but the soldiers had shoved them away with the butt of their spears.
"Come on, Elara!" Elaine hissed, grabbing her sister's hand and breaking into a sprint.
They reached the execution site to find a massive wall of adults. Being only eight years old, they were drowned in a sea of backs and cloaks. Knowing they would see nothing from the rear, Elaine put her shoulder down and pulled Elara through the crowd, weaving between legs until they burst out onto the very front line.
There, bathed in the flickering orange light of torches, twenty people stood tied to tall wooden poles. Their hands were bound, and their heads were shrouded in heavy black cloths.
"I really hope Mother and Father aren't there," Elara whispered, her voice trembling.
Elaine forced a reassuring smile, though her own stomach was turning. She reached over and patted Elara's head with a steady hand. "Don't worry. They aren't there. They'll be back, just like they promised. You'll see."
"Yes," Elara breathed, clinging to the lie like a lifeline.
A sudden, oppressive silence fell over the square. A young Emperor Absalom stepped onto the platform. Even then, his presence commanded a terrifying respect, though the Thorenzians watching from the shadows stared at him with a hatred so cold it could have frozen the air.
"These twenty criminals," Absalom began, his voice smooth and heartless, "have been perceived as threats to the stability of the Vylonian Empire. To ensure a future where they do not become a problem for our beloved nation, they shall be silenced tonight. Soldiers—positions!"
A line of gunmen stepped forward, their rifles snapping into place.
"Fire!"
A thunderous barrage of gunfire shattered the stillness of the night. It was a merciless, rhythmic drumming of lead. Each of the twenty figures on the poles jerked violently as they were riddled with bullets.
The sound broke Elara. She let out a sharp, piercing wail. Panic-stricken, Elaine lunged for her sister, clamping her small hand over Elara's mouth to stifle the noise.
"Who is that?" a soldier barked, his head whipping toward the front of the crowd.
The gunfire ceased, leaving a ringing silence behind. All eyes—including the Emperor's—fell upon the two small girls huddled together.
"I saw them at noon," one soldier noted, stepping forward. "They were the ones at the palace."
Absalom didn't hesitate. His gaze was as cold as a serpent's. "Seize them!"
The soldiers surged forward. The Thorenzians in the crowd, moved by a sudden, desperate protective instinct, surged inward to shield the girls, creating a wall of bodies. But Elaine wasn't looking at the soldiers. Her eyes were locked on the poles.
The wind or the force of the bullets had loosened the masks of the dead. One by one, they were falling.
Elaine retreated slowly, dragging a sobbing Elara with her, but her gaze never wavered. Only two masks remained. Then, simultaneously, they slipped.
The world seemed to stop spinning. The faces revealed beneath the cloth were the only faces Elaine had ever truly loved. Her mother. Her father. They were gone, their eyes vacant.
Elaine stopped running. Her heart didn't just break; it died.
"Elaine! Keep running!" a Thorenzian man screamed at the top of his lungs, grabbing her shoulder to shake her back to reality.
Absalom's voice rang out again, more ruthless than before. "Shoot anyone who stands in your way! Kill them all!"
The rifles barked again. The Thorenzians who had stood as shields began to fall. Elaine couldn't tell Elara to stop crying anymore; she felt the hot, stinging tracks of her own tears carving paths through the soot on her cheeks.
"Run, Elara!" Elaine shoved her sister toward a dark alleyway. "Keep running! Don't stop! Don't you dare look back!"
Elara obeyed. She ran with a desperate, blind speed, her eyes squeezed shut against the horror, her small legs pumping until the sounds of the massacre faded into the distance. After what felt like hours, Elara finally stopped, gasping for air in the silence of a far-off district.
"Elaine?" she called out, turning around.
The street was empty. Elara ran back, calling her sister's name until her throat was raw, asking anyone she met if they had seen a girl with her face. But no one knew. No one had seen her. By dawn, the rumor had solidified: Elaine had died in the crossfire.
For twenty years, Elara mourned. She carried the weight of her parents' execution and her sister's "death" like a shroud, never knowing that the sister she thought she abandoned was alive.
Now, twenty years later, in the heart of a province named Harrow, the spy looked into the eyes of the Tetrarch. The girls who played Warp-Tag were gone, replaced by two women standing on the ruins of their past.