The heavy oak door of the Dunlyre Tavern closed with a soft thud, leaving Henry alone in the suddenly quiet corner booth. The boisterous energy of the tavern seemed distant, muffled by the weight of Jacobs's parting words and the heavy parchment bearing Chief Ragley's seal that now lay upon the table before him. Dismissed. Transferred. It wasn't a punishment, Jacobs had insisted, but an opportunity. An advancement facilitated by the very Captain who was now setting him, and Sophia, upon diverging paths.
He stared into the dregs of his wine, the deep red liquid catching the flickering lamplight. Jacobs's logic had been sound, unassailable even. Rank 3 was a significant achievement, yes, but it remained firmly within the realm attainable through sheer grit, battlefield experience, and a measure of innate aptitude. Rank 4, as Jacobs himself now embodied, demanded more. But Rank 5? Rank 6? The legendary demigod strata of Rank 7? Those lofty peaks, Jacobs had reminded him, were guarded by gates far more formidable than mere martial prowess could breach.
Potential was the key, certainly, the spark of innate talent favored by capricious destiny. But potential alone was insufficient. It required nurturing, resources on a scale only the largest institutions - the Military High Command, the Noble Houses, the Church - could provide. Access to arcane knowledge, consecrated artifacts, vast sums for rare ritual components, guidance through the perilous Ascension Rites themselves… rites whose success rates plummeted with each ascending Rank, becoming near-mythical for the demigod tier. Destiny might choose the seeds, Henry mused grimly, but only the vast resources and political will of a nation could provide the soil and sunlight needed for them to reach their full, terrifying height.
Sophia possessed that potential; the Archbishop saw it, Jacobs recognized it. The Church was her natural crucible. And him? The Bureau of Investigation… Ragley clearly saw something in him - perception, perhaps the same unsettling anomaly the Archbishop had noted. A position within the Bureau offered access, authority, a different kind of power measured in secrets and influence. It was a path suited, perhaps unnervingly so, to someone already adept at guarding secrets of his own.
He sighed, swirling the wine. This careful management of potential, this strategic allocation of talent… it spoke volumes about the precarious state of the nation itself. Zephyros. His homeland. He remembered the histories studied in the Cathedral library, the tales recounted by old veterans in garrison halls. A nation that had once touched the sun, now seemingly struggling beneath gathering clouds.
His mind drifted back through the annals of the Seventh Epoch. Zephyros hadn't always been a superpower tentatively holding its borders. There had been a Golden Age, less than a century past, when Aerion's population swelled to thirty million souls, drawn by the promise of unparalleled power and prosperity. A time when Zephyros boasted not three, but five Rank 7 demigods - an unprecedented concentration of power that dwarfed its rivals, Klariz and Loren, who held only three apiece. Five divine pillars, including the legendary Four Divine Monarchs whose simultaneous ascension between the years 919 and 924 had catapulted the nation to global dominance.
In those heady days, Zephyros's armies had swept across the continent, doubling the nation's territory in a mere five years. Neighboring powers, once arrogant, had sued for peace, sending humble emissaries bearing treaties. Zephyros had stood astride the world.
But the peak, as the histories often warned, was but the precipice before the fall. The decline had been swift, brutal. In 925, a year after the final Monarch's ascension, Larsus - the "Sword of Zephyros," youngest and perhaps most beloved of the Monarchs - fell tragically in the blighted deadlands of Iskadra. A national day of mourning had gripped Aerion, the first crack in the gleaming façade of invincibility. Just three years later, another Divine Monarch, the enigmatic strategist Mathew, vanished without a trace during a vital reconnaissance mission deep within the treacherous Sarazak Desert. Even the Grand Marshal Karatyr, mentor to the Monarchs and a demigod himself, had led a massive expedition, scouring the endless sands for years, only to return empty-handed, his failure etching new lines of grief onto the nation's collective face.
Two pillars lost in less than a decade. Zephyros, though still possessing three formidable demigods, found its strategic advantage blunted, its momentum broken. The vast territories conquered during the expansion proved difficult to consolidate, the influx of resources too overwhelming to effectively absorb and translate into lasting infrastructure and unified national strength. Time, which Zephyros desperately needed to solidify its gains, was a luxury its wary rivals were unwilling to grant.
From conqueror, Zephyros slowly became the coveted prize. Border skirmishes reignited. Internal factions, long suppressed by the nation's overwhelming might, began to stir. And into this fertile ground of instability, darker seeds took root. Heretical sects, preaching doctrines of resentment and forbidden power, began to emerge from the shadows, whispering discontent in the outer districts, challenging the established faith of the Radiant Angels. Disparate groups, some driven by genuine grievance, others by pure malice or ambition, sprang up like poisonous fungi after a storm, sowing chaos, exploiting the uncertainty.
The nation felt… frayed. Stretched thin. Squads like Unit 18 were increasingly tasked not just with standard patrols, but with scouting remote disturbances, investigating unsettling rumors, quelling minor uprisings - tasks that hinted at a deeper, systemic instability. The Royal Guard bolstered city defenses, the Bureau investigated threats from within, the Church fought a war for souls against encroaching heresies… Zephyros, Henry thought grimly, felt less like a mighty empire and more like a colossal pot simmering over a flame, its contents threatening to boil over into chaos. And figures like Jacobs, Ragley, Ralph… they were desperately trying to manage the heat, to reinforce the vessel before it cracked entirely.
A light touch, soft hands suddenly covering his eyes from behind, jolted him from his somber reflections. A sweet, musical voice, achingly familiar, whispered playfully in his ear:
"Guess who?"
A genuine smile broke through Henry's pensive mood. He reached up, easily capturing the small hands covering his eyes. "Hmm," he pretended to ponder, recognizing her scent, the unique feel of her touch. "Could it be… a ridiculously captivating young woman? Possessed of startling intellect, a countenance as fair as any painted angel, and a form which, I must confess, causes a certain… elevation in my blood pressure upon mere observation?"
Sophia giggled, pulling her hands away to gently swat his arm as she slid into the chair beside him. "Elevation in blood pressure? Honestly, Henry, since your promotion, your silver tongue seems to have gained a Rank as well."
He grinned, refusing to release her hand, instead raising her knuckles to his lips for a light kiss. "A consequence of proximity to profound beauty, no doubt."
"Flatterer," she retorted, though her cheeks flushed becomingly, and she made no move to pull her hand away. "What were you thinking about so intently? You didn't even hear me approach."
"Our future," he replied simply, truthfully.
Her flush deepened slightly, her gaze dropping for a moment. He remembered her earlier conversation with the Archbishop, the talk of officiating weddings. "Oh?" she asked softly, a hint of hesitant curiosity in her voice. "What… what sort of future were you envisioning?"
Seeing her reaction, Henry couldn't resist teasing her further. "Well, naturally, I was contemplating logistics. With my imminent transfer to the Bureau and your likely focus shifting towards the Church, coordinating our schedules for shared accommodations might prove complex…"
"Shared accommodations?" Sophia interrupted, feigning indignation, though her eyes sparkled. "Who agreed to such arrangements? I haven't recall accepting any proposal, marital or otherwise!"
"A mere formality," Henry countered breezily. "Besides, cohabitation seems a practical solution, wouldn't you agree?"
"And what happens if you grow tired of me later and simply… leave?" she challenged, tilting her chin slightly.
"A risk inherent even in marriage, is it not? Vows can be broken, contracts dissolved."
"Not ours!" Sophia declared firmly, leaning closer. "If we were wed and you entertained any… improper notions… I would immediately report your transgressions to Archbishop Ralph. Then, my dear Henry, you would truly understand the meaning of paternal wrath."
Henry laughed aloud. "Ah, resorting to threats involving powerful father-figures already? Are you attempting to ensure my good behavior through ecclesiastical intimidation?"
"Only if you stray," she replied primly, though a smile played on her lips. "So long as you remain… appropriately devoted… it shall be unnecessary. Unless…" her expression turned questioning, "you are planning to stray?"
"How could I possibly dare?" he asked, his voice softening, his gaze holding hers.
"Well…" she conceded, her expression relaxing into a soft smile. "You are perceptive. You guessed correctly, I did speak with the Archbishop earlier today."
"You rather gave yourself away," Henry chuckled. "Threatening me with Father Ralph sounds precisely like a daughter confiding her romantic tribulations - or intentions - to her doting parent."
Sophia giggled again, a musical sound that warmed him. "You are becoming increasingly vexing, Henry Strike."
"It is not that my guesswork is particularly astute," he murmured, letting his gaze travel deliberately over her face, her shoulders, the neckline of her simple dress, lingering perhaps a fraction too long, "it is simply that when the speaker is you, Sophia… I find I understand your meaning quite clearly."
She instinctively drew her hand back, her face flushing a deeper crimson. "Knowing someone's meaning is sufficient! Who granted you permission to regard me in such a… thorough fashion?"
He merely smiled. "Useless to conceal it now. The image is… quite firmly stored in my memory. Sufficiently detailed that I can readily conjure dozens of Sophias, garbed in all manner of alluring attire, surrounding me at will. Or perhaps…"
"Or perhaps what?" she demanded, though her voice held more curiosity than anger now.
"Or perhaps," he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "garbed in nothing at all."
"Henry!" Sophia gasped, her face completely scarlet now as she began lightly slapping his arm again. "Shameless! Utterly shameless! You know full well I become flustered, yet you persist in teasing me! You clearly desire some form of punishment!"
"An intriguing proposition," Henry grinned, easily catching both her flailing hands, pulling her gently closer across the small table. He leaned towards her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "It is just past seven now. You mentioned 'punishment,' did you not? Shall we adjourn and commence with said punishment… immediately?"
Sophia was rendered momentarily speechless, caught between embarrassment and amusement. Even knowing his playful intent, she could never quite win these verbal spars. She turned her head away, hiding her burning face, muttering under her breath, "This infuriating man…"
Later, the church bells chimed the ninth hour, their resonant tones drifting over the now quieter city streets. Henry and Sophia strolled leisurely along the cobblestone path bordering the river that wound through this district of East Aerion, heading slowly back towards the garrison. Her hand remained firmly clasped in his, a comfortable, grounding presence. The earlier intensity of his reflections on Zephyros's fate, the weight of their impending separation from the squad, seemed to recede slightly under the peaceful mantle of the cool night air.
"It's only nine," Henry murmured, his voice soft as the breeze rustling the leaves of the riverside trees. "Let's not return just yet. Stay with me a while longer."
Sophia smiled, a faint flush still visible on her cheeks under the pale blue glow emanating from the knee-high luminous stone pillars lining the riverbank. The light reflected in shimmering patterns on the gently flowing water. "Mmm," she hummed contentedly, leaning against him slightly as they walked. "But perhaps we could find somewhere to sit and rest? My feet protest further ambulation at present…"
They found a secluded patch of soft grass beneath a weeping willow near the water's edge, settling down side-by-side, listening to the gentle lapping of the river and the chirping symphony of unseen night insects. Sophia leaned her head against Henry's shoulder, looping her arms through his, holding him close, inhaling the clean scent of river water, damp earth, and his familiar worn leather. The atmosphere felt strangely peaceful, isolated from the city's faint hum, a pocket of tranquility.
Henry tilted his head, resting his cheek briefly against her soft hair. "So," he began, his voice laced with gentle teasing, "with my impending salary increase from the Bureau, I suppose the burden of supporting your rather prodigious appetite will fall upon me henceforth? Your Church stipend likely won't suffice for your weekly ration requirements, will it?"
She nestled closer, tilting her head back slightly to look up at him, her voice soft and deliberately coquettish. "Then you shall simply have to accept the responsibility, won't you? And no complaining about the cost later, agreed?"
He chuckled, pulling her closer. "Agreed." Then, his expression shifted, the playful glint fading, replaced by a more serious consideration. "Sophia… regarding what Jacobs proposed. Our transfer. Me to the Bureau, you focusing on the Church…"
She stilled slightly against him, then nodded slowly. "He told you, then. Yes… I spoke with him briefly after you left the tavern." She sighed. "It makes logical sense, Henry. For both of us. He… he is thinking like an elder brother, as you said. Wanting the best opportunities for us, even if it means breaking apart the family."
"It feels strange, though," Henry admitted, voicing the thought that had lingered beneath the surface all evening. "Leaving the unit. Leaving Jacobs."
"I know," she whispered, her voice tinged with melancholy. "But it is the right path. You know my heart lies with the Cathedral as much as it lies…" she hesitated, "…elsewhere. And you… the Investigation Division… your skills are suited for it, Henry. Perhaps there, you can find answers… about the things we face. About the darkness."
"Perhaps," he conceded. "Regardless, it marks a new chapter. Which demands," he added, his tone lightening slightly, "a proper celebration. And the fulfillment of a previously postponed promise."
Her eyes brightened. "The trip? You still wish to go?"
"Absolutely," he confirmed. "Our accumulated leave should suffice. Three days, somewhere far from Aerion's walls and worries. I told you I know a place… a small village, nestled in the northern foothills. Quiet. Peaceful. Special."
"Agreed!" Sophia exclaimed, her earlier melancholy replaced by radiant anticipation. "Three days. Just us. And absolutely no canceling this time!"
As they prepared to finally stand and make their way back to the garrison, Sophia reached into the small pouch at her belt, withdrawing one of the silver Light Emblems Archbishop Ralph had entrusted to her earlier. The angelic wings seemed to pulse faintly in the blue light reflecting off the river.
"Here," she said softly, carefully pinning the emblem to the front of Henry's tunic. "For the mission ahead. Ralph blessed these himself. They suppress dark creatures and guard against necromantic energies. Keep it safe." She started to produce the other artifacts - the second emblem, the rings, the chain.
"This one is sufficient, Sophia," Henry gently stopped her hand. "You keep the rest. Your magic aligns more closely with their properties. Besides," he added, "I have asked Jacobs to procure some additional… countermeasures… for myself as well."
She nodded, carefully securing the remaining artifacts back in her pouch. As she did so, Henry's eyes regained their mischievous glint. "Ah, by the way," he said casually, "where did you place the second Emblem?"
"Here…" Sophia produced it again, confused by his question. Henry immediately took it from her grasp.
"Allow me," he said smoothly, stepping closer. "Let me ensure it is pinned securely, and straight, upon your person." Without waiting for her reply, he moved to pin the emblem to the left side of her dress, near her heart. His fingers, however, seemed unusually clumsy in the dim light. He fumbled with the clasp, adjusted the angle, frowned as if it were crooked. "Hmm, not quite right…" he murmured, his knuckles 'accidentally' brushing against the soft curve beneath the emblem.
Sophia gasped, her face instantly flushing crimson as she realized his intent. She swung her hand, swatting at his arm. "Henry! That hand! It is misbehaving again! Desist immediately!"
"Ouch!" he feigned injury, snatching his hand back, though his grin was wide. "My apologies! Merely trying to ensure proper alignment!"
Her indignant protests quickly dissolved into laughter, the sound echoing softly over the quiet river, blending with the gentle lapping of water against the bank. A moment of shared levity, of comfortable intimacy, under the vast, indifferent scatter of stars. A fragile peace, snatched from the encroaching shadows, before the final preparations for the mission began.
Miles away, within the imposing, heavily guarded walls of Aerion's central military command complex, Chief Investigator Ragley stood before the vast, polished desk of General Zalogr. The air in the General's private study was still, heavy with the scent of old leather, expensive pipe tobacco, and unspoken power. Zalogr's sharp, hawk-like eyes, cold and assessing, regarded Ragley from beneath heavily furrowed brows.
"You summoned me, General?" Ragley inquired, his tone outwardly respectful but carrying an undercurrent of professional confidence that bordered on defiance. He knew the likely reason for this late-night summons.
Zalogr steepled his powerful fingers, his gaze unwavering. "Indeed, Chief Investigator. Reports have reached my desk regarding your… recruitment activities." He cut straight to the point, dispensing with pleasantries. "Specifically, your decision to induct one Soldier Henry Strike into the Bureau of Investigation following his recent promotion. The same soldier flagged for anomalous aether signatures and rapid recovery?"
Ragley allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smile to touch his lips. "I confess, I remain somewhat surprised that the status of a single, newly promoted Rank 3 soldier warrants the personal attention of the esteemed General Zalogr, Commander of Zephyros's Southern Forces and Hero of the Republic." The sarcasm was subtle, but present.
Zalogr's eyes narrowed dangerously. "There are matters pertaining to that soldier, Ragley, of which you are likely unaware, and concerning which ignorance would be… advisable."
Ragley shrugged, his expression unfazed by the veiled threat. "Perhaps. Yet, my Bureau's preliminary surveillance of the subject, initiated following the Archbishop's report, rather inconveniently uncovered evidence of prior, ongoing surveillance originating from… other quarters. Quarters perhaps linked more closely to High Command? I am certain," Ragley added blandly, "the General is already appraised of this overlap."
Zalogr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Military Intelligence maintains its own protocols for personnel of interest. Independent of Bureau activities. Now," his voice became cold, demanding, "I require your full assessment regarding the examination of Soldier Strike's memories conducted at the Cathedral. What were the definitive findings?"
Ragley met the General's stare directly. "The findings, General, were… inconclusive." He chose his words carefully. "Specialist Brena confirms his statements regarding the Loknezt incident and the subsequent 'hallucination' were emotionally congruent with truth. However, the memory examination revealed significant fragmentation, particularly surrounding the event itself and the period immediately following. Consistent with trauma, perhaps. Or," Ragley paused, "consistent with external mnemonic alteration."
"Alteration?" Zalogr leaned forward, his interest sharp. "Explain."
"Brena detected no residual traces typically associated with standard sealing or manipulation techniques up to Rank 6 proficiency. Which leaves two possibilities: severe trauma-induced amnesia, or," Ragley stated calmly, "intervention by a practitioner of demigod-level power."
Zalogr remained silent, digesting this.
"Employing an individual with such… ambiguities… seems imprudent, Chief Investigator," Zalogr finally stated, his tone laced with suspicion. "Especially placing him within the sensitive confines of the Bureau."
Ragley straightened slightly, a glint of determination entering his eyes. "General, the Bureau is currently stretched thin investigating the surge in anomalies across the nation. Soldier Strike possesses valuable skills - keen perception, proven loyalty vouched for by the Archbishop himself. He meets the criteria I have established for new field agents." He held Zalogr's gaze. "Furthermore," Ragley's voice became firm, authoritative, "what better place for an individual exhibiting anomalous traits than within the very Division tasked with investigating and containing such phenomena? If this soldier proves to be a benign anomaly, his talents will be a valuable asset to Zephyros. If," Ragley concluded coolly, "he proves to be dangerous… then placing him within the Bureau ensures he is already precisely where we can most effectively monitor, control, and if necessary… neutralize him. Consider it proactive containment, General. Responsibility for him now falls squarely under my authority."
Zalogr stared intently at Ragley for a long, charged moment, displeasure radiating from him like a physical force. "You possess a great deal of confidence in your Division's capabilities, Chief Investigator. And in your own judgment."
Ragley stood unflinching, his expression serious, resolute. "I understand my responsibilities clearly, General Zalogr. The Investigation Division exists to protect Zephyros from all threats, both external and internal. We will not falter in that duty."
The unspoken challenge hung in the air between them. Finally, Zalogr gave a curt, dismissive wave. "Very well, Ragley. Proceed. But be warned: should your judgment regarding this soldier prove flawed… the consequences will be severe. You are dismissed."
Ragley offered a crisp, formal bow and exited the study, leaving General Zalogr alone in the oppressive silence, staring sightlessly at the intricate patterns on his polished desk, his mind wrestling with decade-old suspicions and the unsettling emergence of new, powerful unknowns.