Dawn broke softly over the district, casting Mhaerun's stone-spelled rooftops in hues of bluish pearl and smoky gray. The mist clung to the cobbled ground like a lover's embrace—cool, persistent, ancient.
In the courtyard behind Relin's home, young warriors gathered. Fox-embroidered half masks covered the upper halves of their faces, and silken garb dyed in autumn hues gave their movements the illusion of flickering leaves in the morning mist. This was not merely training. It was legacy.
Two stepped forward. One bore a crimson sash, the other indigo. The crimson disciple radiated 85 awakened veins; the indigo held 77. Both, however, exuded a bestial pressure that shook the very foundation of the courtyard. They stood at Level 1—Celestial Spark—but their beast-vein bloodlines elevated their menace.
They bowed, hands to chest, and then the spar began.
The courtyard's air shifted.
The flickering mist swirled up with each movement, wrapping their feet, trailing behind swift steps. A low snarl echoed—not from their mouths, but from their veins. Each motion drew smoky trails—ghostly flares of fox-like apparitions.
Claws of wind slashed the air. One disciple vanished and reappeared behind the other in a whirl of mist. The attacker missed; a paw-print shimmered behind him. Too late—he was struck from behind by a flicker that coalesced into a spinning sweep.
Around them, other disciples—half-masked and painted in individualized hues—stood in silent reverence, observing with their hands behind their backs, shifting only when the mist curled unnaturally. Their masks—painted foxes of every color and emotion—seemed to leer, grin, cry.
From his seat on a quiet ledge, Nocth watched intently. His eyes, sharper than before, narrowed.
Mist rolls in slightly, even indoors. The opponent misses an attack, only to be struck from behind. The illusion vanishes after a flicker—only a paw-like mark remains.
In his mind, an obscure memory fluttered awake. A passage from a threadbare text long forgotten:
"Among the Nine, the Eight rest still and wild, bearing the breath of beasts once spoken of in the Epoch of Warring Skies. Only Khaedris, the House of Flickering Foxes, ever preserved them."
Nocth said nothing. But the image of Anni's mask, and Relin's quiet strength, burned deeper into his thoughts.
---
Elsewhere in Mhaerun's noble district, veiled behind shimmering barriers, a mansion divided into three was astir.
The eastern quadrant held warrior disciples—those of noble blood trained from birth. The southern housed the ancient elders—crumbling yet powerful, whispering remnants of ages past. And the central—the most fortified—belonged to the lord of the Mhaerun house: Enma.
Inside that central domain, silver mirrors adorned the walls, and obsidian floor tiles caught reflections like captured starlight. Chains clinked against the ground as Velisar Mhaerun knelt—bruised, collared, humiliated.
Standing over him in flowing silver robes was Seion, Lord Enma's youngest brother, his silver-black hair cascading in flawless waves. His voice thundered:
"You miserable scum! You're the shame that curdled in your mother's womb. You've desecrated our name, and for what? A brat?"
Velisar remained silent, the collar around his neck pressing tighter with each breath.
To the side, an elderly woman with waxen skin and eyes that did not blink stood expressionless. Her name was Lady Khari. Next to her, shaking despite his strength, was Elder Morthos. His eyes flickered with terror.
Lord Enma entered.
He was tall, robed in silver layered with red accents of power. His voice, quiet but steely, silenced the chamber.
"Enough, Seion. You've shamed us more than this boy. Your petty ambitions led to an incident that turned our family name into a punchline."
Seion's mouth opened to protest, but Enma raised a single hand. "Be silent. I had plans for the boy Nocth. Surveillance. Observation. Instructions passed down from... them."
He didn't say the name. Didn't reveal the sender. But a shadow crossed his face.
Now, those plans had changed.
"He is no longer a curiosity. He is a stain. He will be made into an example."
From the adjoining hall, seven figures strode forward.
Two women—eyes like honeyed madness, lashes long, their lips curved in half-mocking smiles. Five men—muscles taut, postures regal, faces carved with noble arrogance.
They bowed in reverence.
Each was clad in silvery armor glinting with faint stars—Grade 8 Astral Arms, bearing the signature crests of the Mhaerun House. Elite. Powerful. Feared.
Enma looked at them with pride.
"You are the future. You will bring back his head—or bow in disgrace."
They rose and left, eyes aflame with purpose.
Velisar, forgotten, clenched his fists, following them through the dim-lit corridor. His thoughts twisted with dread.
(Was that masked man… was he using me? Did he plan this collapse? Did he make me the knife… then let me bleed?)
He looked up, at a painted glass above the corridor.
It showed a fox—smiling.
Velisar shivered.
Outside, the dawn finally cleared. But in Mhaerun, shadows were only beginning to move.