A large white bird, falcon-like in shape, soared through the sky, its massive wings slicing the wind with effortless grace.
Clouds parted before its path, sometimes scattering like timid spectators, other times clustering around it like a veil, shielding its form from the world below.
The falcon wasn't enormous, but it moved with a predator's elegance, each wing stretching a full meter in length.
Ahead of it, a man hurtled through the air, propelled by shockwave bursts of speed. His face was a mask of grim determination, arms folded tightly as he cut through the sky's defiant winds.
The sun blazed overhead, relentless in its assault, yet the man remained untouched by its fury. Not that it would have mattered—this season's heat was forgiving, but even if it weren't, he was a Paragon. Such things were beneath his concern.
Eleven hours had passed since their departure from the trade city of Lithia. Eleven hours of racing through the biting wind at breakneck speed. The journey had been smooth—not because the skies were safe, but because the Paragon carried a far heavier burden.
And because he wasn't alone.
The graceful falcon matched his urgency, and together, they wove through the dangers of the open sky. Monsters came in all forms—titanic beasts, swarms that drowned their prey in numbers, relentless hunters—yet evasion was easy when speed and instinct aligned so perfectly.
The way the bird kept pace, seamless in its movements, made Paragon Raizel suspect that Bairan himself was an Evanscent.
Occasionally, winged horrors would rise to block their path or give chase. But the falcon needed no assistance.
Bairan would surge upward, talons flashing like daggers, and tear into the creatures with ruthless precision. His eyes gleamed, cold and unfeeling, as flesh parted beneath his grasp—a predator in its purest form.
As they neared Fhugal, Paragon Raizel's worry thickened, etching itself deeper into the grim lines of his face. He surged forward, a blur of motion, his body tearing through the sky with such speed that only a streak of light remained visible—a comet trailed by a flowing cold storm.
Then, the towering walls of Fhugal rose in the distance.
For the first time since their flight began, Burning Storm's expression shifted. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened. Whatever shadows had clung to him before now deepened, his face a portrait of foreboding.
From above, Fhugal was beautiful—a sprawl of orange-tiled roofs, aged but unbroken, indifferent to the city's hidden fangs. Time had carved its legacy into the streets, an old charm turned symbol of rebellion.
It was the first. The first city to wrench itself free from monarchy's grip, setting a precedent others would follow. Or, more accurately, the first the government had "liberated"—not out of idealism, but strategy. A calculated move to stretch their influence, to plant their flag in a world still ruled by kings and queens.
This city bore their emblem. It was their stronghold, their beating heart.
Yet now, the air hung wrong. The pulse of the place felt off. Something was amiss.
The streets lay silent, draped in an invisible darkness that clung like a shroud. Burning Storm had spent decades of his life here—even in his later years as a hermit, he knew the pulse of this city.
By this hour, the streets should have been alive. People bustling, voices weaving through the air, the hum of a city that thrived on its freedom. Fhugal was different—more vibrant than most. Here, laughter spilled freely. Couples strolled along the arched bridges, leaning over the rails to watch the lake's shimmer. Children darted through the parks, their parents lounging under the sun's warmth.
This was a place without chains. No rigid hierarchy, no suffocating class divides. Oh, status existed—but it didn't strangle the spirit of the people.
Yet what stretched beneath Burning Storm now was a ghost.
A hollow shell.
He sensed life—faint, trembling—behind locked doors, behind shuttered windows. Fear coiled in the air like smoke.
Paragon Raizel slowed, then landed without a sound, his descent as soft as a whisper.
Behind him, the falcon dissolved in a ripple of white light. Feathers melted into fabric, wings into flowing sleeves, until a white-haired man stood in its place—his garb strange, elegant, as if woven from different eras and dispensation of time.
The Paragon stood before the steps leading to the government officials' mini-estate. The silence was thick, suffocating—but he knew. The reason he had flown from Lithia was here.
With a single push, the wrought-iron gates groaned open, their protest echoing through the empty courtyard.
His eyes hardened as the estate's interior unfolded before him.
Rows of soldiers in black uniforms stood rigid, flanking both sides of the path like statues carved from shadow. A welcome party? Raizel knew better. His old friend had always been theatrical.
"Looks like this Dante person prepared quite the welcome for you."
Bairan's voice was a quiet blade as they strode forward, unflinching, between the silent ranks.
Raizel didn't so much as glance at them. His steps were measured, deliberate.
"He's childish. Won't admit it, but he's never gotten over me."
"Inspiring…" Bairan mused.
"To keep that attitude even now. My master could learn from your composure."
A beat of silence. Raizel's gaze flickered.
"How did you even meet Ral? How did he become your master?"
The question was low, almost reluctant.
"I can't make sense of it."
Bairan whispered dryly.
"Surely now isn't the time for stories… Unless you're too level-headed."
Raizel's jaw tightened.
"Or maybe I'm clinging to it. Right now, I'm burning inside. A distraction wouldn't hurt."
Bairan halted. The Paragon followed suit.
Before them stood a lone figure, hands wrapped around a thick rod—one end bulbous and brutal, clearly designed to pound flesh into pulp.
The man's military cap cast his face in shadow, but strands of ashen hair escaped its grip, swaying lazily in the faint breeze. His expression was carved stone—until the corners of his mouth twisted into a smirk.
With deliberate slowness, he freed one hand from the weapon and stepped forward. The bat's heavy end thumped against the ground in a grating, offbeat rhythm.
Burning Storm barely registered the noise. His focus remained razor-edged.
The soldier stopped three meters away. Then—slowly—lifted his chin.
Slitted, horizontal eyes locked onto the Paragon.
"Lieutenant Dante... said..."
He paused, deliberately.
"No... moving... forward."