On the first day of the month of March, heavy rain poured on the mighty and proud capital of the Republic of Fele. But the downpour did not stop the festive celebrations of the rich, as this day marked the 10-year anniversary of the peace treaty between the Republic and its eastern neighbor, the Kingdom of Thornhart. The grand banquet hall, illuminated by golden chandeliers, buzzed with the mingling of dignitaries, nobles, and military officers from both nations. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside.
Off in the corner of the hall, a middle-aged man with a large belly lounged in an elegant chair, his firm black military suit embroidered with gold straining against his bulk. A deep scar ran across his left cheek, a mark of his past as a warrior. High Senator Marcus Varlo, one of the most powerful men in the Republic, bellowed with laughter as he entertained two elegantly dressed ladies with stories of his youth on the battlefield.
Then, a deep voice called out from behind him.
"Ah, High Senator Marcus! It's been far too long since we last met!"
Marcus turned, his jovial expression shifting into one of mild surprise. Standing before him was Duke Albrecht von Thornhart, the head of the Thornhart delegation. Unlike most of his countrymen, the duke was clean-shaven, his silver-streaked hair slicked back, and his military uniform decorated with medals immaculate. His piercing blue eyes held a glint of amusement, but there was something unreadable behind them.
Marcus grinned, setting his glass down. "Duke Albrecht! I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."
The duke chuckled. "Avoid you? Never. I simply wished to give you time to enjoy the company of beautiful women before dragging you into another long-winded political discussion."
The women giggled, and Marcus smirked. "You know me too well, old friend."
A servant approached, offering the duke a fresh glass of wine. Albrecht took it with a nod of appreciation, swirling the dark liquid before speaking again.
"You must be pleased with tonight's celebration. Ten years of peace, a prosperous economy, and a strong military. The Republic is thriving under your leadership."
Marcus leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "I won't deny it. Though peace was hard-won, it has served us well." He paused, tilting his head.
"And what of Thornhart? Your kingdom has prospered too, has it not?"
Albrecht raised his glass in a mock toast. "Indeed. But as you know, peace is a delicate thing. It only takes one misstep, one act of betrayal, to send everything crumbling."
Marcus furrowed his brows. "That's an ominous way to speak on such an occasion, Duke."
Albrecht smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Just the rambling of an old man, Senator. After all, we both know nothing lasts forever."
The weight of Albrecht's words lingered in the air, but High Senator Marcus Varlo had little patience for ominous musings tonight.
He had indulged himself far beyond his limits. The wine had flowed freely, his belly full, his mind dulled by the hours of extravagant feasting and revelry. The night had stretched on with extravagant displays of wealth fireworks, performers, and endless toasts. By the time his aides finally escorted him out of the banquet hall, he was barely able to walk on his own, his black military coat stained with spilled wine rather than blood.
The cold night air bit at his skin as he stumbled into a private carriage, his head lolling against the cushioned interior as the vehicle rumbled through the rain-soaked streets. Outside the window, the capital of Fele was still alive with celebration. Gears turned, steam hissed from pipes along the cobbled roads, and towering factories loomed in the distance, their smokestacks silhouetted against the night sky. Electric lamps buzzed faintly, flickering between stretches of gas-lit streets. Mechanical carriages hissed and whirred as they transported nobles and officials to their lodgings, while the lower districts bustled with life, even at this hour.
Marcus blinked blearily as they crossed one of the great iron bridges spanning the Canal of Progress, where steam-powered boats drifted below, their engines churning the dark waters. Even in his drunken haze, he felt a deep sense of pride this was the heart of the Republic, the peak of human innovation, untouched by the superstitions of Lior or the crude traditions of Thornhart. This was civilization at its finest.
By the time they arrived at his luxurious estate in the heart of the capital, the effects of alcohol were beginning to sour in his stomach. His aides helped him to his feet, guiding him into his grandiose lodgings. The warmth of the fireplace did little to settle his nausea. Grumbling, he waved his attendants away and collapsed into his velvet chair, loosening his collar.
A wave of unease washed over him.
The room was quiet, too quiet.
Then the lights flickered.
His breath hitched. The faint hum of the electric bulbs vanished as the room was swallowed by darkness.
Instincts sharpened by years of war roared to life. Marcus shot up, reaching for his Weaving. He pulled at the energy within, weaving his Essence to conjure a bolt of lightning but nothing came. His body trembled as realization set in. His Weaving was fading.
Poison.
His mind reeled, memories snapping into place. Albrecht's words "Peace is a delicate thing. It only takes one misstep, one act of betrayal, to send everything crumbling."
His pulse thundered in his ears. He staggered, forcing himself to move, to fight but it was too late.
From the shadows, a short sword pierced his chest, straight into his heart.
Marcus gasped, the pain spreading like fire through his veins. His vision blurred as he fell to his knees, blood spilling from his lips. His gaze flickered upward, locking onto his assailant.
A child.
Dressed in all white, their clothing pristine despite the carnage. Their face was eerily expressionless, their black eyes void of emotion.
A final breath left Marcus Varlo's lips as darkness consumed him. And in his final moments, he understood—this was no ordinary assassin.
This was a message.
And war was coming.