Uriel Aventus, Dawn-Lord of Dawnhaven, did not run.

  Running was a sign of anxiety or fear, and in a figure as prominent as his, it would only serve to engineer panic within those who witnessed it. Instead, he strode with purpose; golden armor reflecting the beginnings of late afternoon as he made his way toward the Arena of Dawnhaven. With him marched two Lances of the Dawnguard, arrayed in formation blocks on each of his flanks and two steps behind.

  At this time of the day, the streets were still filled with people, and it was that very sea of life that meant he needed to maintain his outer decorum. Uriel’s presence alone was a boon to frayed nerves and a warning against descent into chaos. His approach elicited wide eyes, murmurs of awe or relief, and, occasionally, whispers of worry.

  All manner of transmigrated peoples stepped aside hastily as he drew closer, and even the native Terrans were swift to step aside upon seeing his purposeful march. The two Lances of Dawnguard, he surmised, drove the message home even more poignantly—though he had no illusion that the effect would be the same without him there. Unlike many of his station, Uriel Aventus did not lavish in his power, but neither did he use false humility to denigrate its impact.

  He was one of the two pillars of Dawnhaven, precisely as the King and Heroine-Queen had desired and intended.

  “{My lord,}” said the Lance-Masters to his left flank in a tone that showed a mix of fear and worry, “{what of the Dusk-Lord? If this event is because of her Squire, we—}”

  “{Duchess Latherian will not be a problem, Tallinya. Whether by force of power or force of verve, she will see reason. For all her faults of impulse and derision of tradition, my contemporary knows her duty. Never forget the Order she hails from.}”

  “{With greatest respect, your grace,}” Tallinya continued with what Uriel recognized as cautious respect, “{Archons are not known for retreating from their stance—especially not this Archon.}”

  Uriel did not reply immediately, but only let his golden eyes search the bruise of storm clouds maliciously blistering over the Arena in the distance. While Tallinya’s assertions were not inaccurate, they also lacked the nuanced knowledge Uriel himself possessed of the tempestuous Duchess. Ceruviel Latherian had been his friend since they were trainees in the Royal Academy of Eldormer. She was haughty, arrogant, self-righteous, and often prone to bouts of moody reticence as much tied to impulse as to external impetus.

  Yet, more than any of those things, she was his friend—more than that, she was his comrade. They had fought together, bled together, and faced death back-to-back on more than one occasion. Her appointment to the Colony plan had not only been immediately agreed upon by Uriel; he had been the one to request she be released from the Heroine-Queen’s retinue to undertake the task. Of course, that plan had already been the end goal, but he hadn’t known that.

  No, he knew that Ceruviel was stubborn, and reviled traditional demands—but so too was she loyal, not to something so ephemeral as a single Monarch, but to the very ideals upon which Eldormer, and now Dawnhaven, were founded.

  “{I will convince her, Tallinya. If it comes to a confrontation, which I cannot truthfully rule out, then such is as the Divines weave. Ceruviel Latherian is a Haelfar of singular will and purpose, but she is also a devoted guardian. Worry only about ensuring the safety of the citizens. I will deal with the Dusk-Lord.}”

  “{Yes, my lord,}” Tallinya replied simply, and fell silent.

  It was good for his subordinates to express concerns, Uriel believed, but so too was it imperative that he make it known what his thoughts were. Would Ceruviel fight him? That he could not directly answer. He’d known the potential for it from the moment he’d chosen their present course of action, but he would not provoke it. Ceruviel would see reason. He believed that.

  The alternative did not bear consideration.

  Ahead of them, the Arena drew closer, and with it the sight he had been looking for: a full Dagger of the Royal Guard, armed and attired for combat with—blessedly—red accoutrements to mark their subtle allegiance. The row between Aylar and Braedon was reaching critical mass, but in that moment, he was glad for the clarity. Trusting the Princess-Royal’s safety to Blues was unconscionable at this juncture, as disturbing as the idea of any of the Royal Guard harming an Eldormer was.

  Trust was one thing, but certainty was far better in every instance.

  The fact that his own force consisted of many, many blues remained a point of concern for him still.

  As Uriel and his Lances closed, eyes turned to watch: peoples of all races and pedigrees shuffled aside in wonder, awe, concern, and even—in some rare cases—with looks of overt suspicion as he marched forth with his contingent. That was probably to be expected, in truth, given the rumors he’d heard about the rapid-spreading veneration of Ceruviel’s squire amongst the Terrans and Adventurers’ Guild.

  By all reports, the boy had won hearts and minds by force of existence.

  It was an anomaly he intended to investigate, though, given that he was an Archon Squire, Uriel already had inklings as to the cause.

  Ambition can be a powerful force, he mused while looking idly over the watching populace as he passed them by. If he is already accruing this much of a passive following without effort, I can only imagine what he might do if he applied himself.

  The fact that such eventualities were precisely within the scope of Ceruviel’s plans to ensure Aylar’s ascension did not escape him. A lesser mind may have read it as a threat of betrayal, but Uriel was not so debased. He and Ceruviel shared equal affection for the Princess-Royal, like a favored niece. He knew she loved Aylar, as he did, partially as an extension of the Heroine-Queen, but mainly for her own merits.

  No, Ceruviel was plotting something for Aylar’s advantage. The question was whether she still retained control over that plot or had miscalculated.

  That, among other things, he would have to discern.

  Moments later, as Uriel arrived at the Arena, the Royal Guard turned and offered their respect, saluting fist-to-breastplate in recognition of his authority. While the Guard ostensibly solely served the Heirs, the truth was more nuanced, given that Uriel and Ceruviel were both the de facto rulers of Dawnhaven and—in the majority cases—the leaders of the two branches the Royal Guard had first trained within.

  “{Tychar,}” he greeted the burly lead guardsman steadily. “{Did you prepare what I required?}”

  “{We did, Dawn-Lord,}” the guardsman responded dutifully. “{Suppression arrays, prepared for deployment but kept inert. Do you really believe they will be—}”

  The Haelfar’s words were cut short by an explosion of thundering sound, and Uriel’s gaze snapped up to the arena, while his eyes narrowed and his [Hyperion Core] flared in response to the lightning that had preceded the sound.

  “{We have no more time,}” he said sharply, while marching toward the Dawnguard at the entrance. Both of them looked at him like he was the dawn personified after a blackened night, and bowed deeply in both gratitude and loyalty.

  “{You have done well here. Ensure nobody else enters without my express permission, and lock down the Arena. Should an evacuation occur, you will be seconded to Lance-Master Tallynia to help shepherd the people to safety.}”

  “{Yes, Dawn-Lord!}” the pair said with conviction, and drew themselves to attention.

  “{Tychar, with me,}” Uriel said as he strode forward and led his bolstered contingent into the Arena’s cavernous civilian entrance. As he marched, he continued to give orders, his mind already working on the problem. “{Severus, take your Lance and secure the hallways of the Arena. Requisition the City Guard posted here to aid you on my authority. Once the inner halls are confirmed clear of people, post your Daggers to ensure they remain such.}”

  Severus, his other Lance-Master, saluted and began calling orders to his Dagger-Masters, fracturing his Lance rapidly as they in turn began leading their people away through each of the branching corridors that Uriel passed, golden armor gleaming as they worked to fulfill his orders. He could not change the staunch traditionalism within the Dawnguard, the same traditionalism he clung to as well. Yet he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, they were loyal to the future Dawnhaven represented.

  “{Tallynia,}” he called as they marched upward, toward the entrance to the stands. “{Your Lance will secure the safety and obedience of the crowd—avoid force, but restrain anyone who attempts genuine resistance. People will be afraid. Do not act rashly. Leave one Dagger with me.}”

  “{By your will, Dawn-Lord,}” Tallynia said dutifully, her concerns now seemingly secondary to the commands he had given.

  When the group of them emerged into the storm-lit interior of the Arena, it was a bowl of restrained panic and calamitous thunder. The force of the empathic wave of fear and awe blended was so strong that Uriel’s spiritual senses, heightened by five tiers of Tempering, registered it clearly. As much because of the screams, and the transfixed attention on the central figure, they were overlooked immediately—right up until Tallynia’s Lance began fracturing, and the Dawnguard marched with purpose to start taking up position all across the viewing stands.

  By the reckoning of any mortal consideration, they were outnumbered 100 to 1. The System, however, made those odds entirely irrelevant. His Dawnguard could suppress one hundred times their number of civilians with only moderate issue, and besides, he was present.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “{Dagger-Master Yasli, Guard-Captain Tychar, I will only state this once: do not do anything rash. If you act out of turn, I have a strong suspicion the Dusk-Lord would crush your skulls like rotted fruit.}”

  Both males glanced at him at that, glanced instinctively at one another, and then clapped fists to breastplates in acceptance.

  Good. That will stop me from having to protect them if they were to provoke Ceruviel, not that my powers are the best match for her own in that theater. She would put them to sleep with a twitch of her mind.

  Uriel took a single moment to let the thought flutter in amusement through his mind, shielded and locked down precisely how Ceruviel herself had taught him, and then finally took in the icon of destabilization that had afflicted his new homeland: the pillar of light, spearing its way skyward in crackling ripples of scarlet lightning, crimson luminosity, and slivers of white radiance.

  It pierced the mana shield above, cutting a neat hole in it skyward.

  And within, near its apex, hung the source of it all: Leonidas Achilles.

  The Terran youth—an adult by their standards, he remembered—was rigid and unmoving, his subtly cracked black armor a stark contrast against the haloing radiance. His eyes were open, unblinking and unseeing, and his posture contained the wrongness of a statue; too still, too frozen, not even visibly breathing.

  Uriel’s gaze locked onto him fully, and a cold clarity settled into place.

  One, the Squire was alive.

  Two, the Squire was helpless.

  Three, the Squire was the lightning rod for the System’s rage. It was a Tribulation in truth, yet he had not even reached his First Temper.

  An anomaly, the Dawn-Lord observed with objective calculation, is dangerous. Very dangerous. Ceruviel may have truly overreached in her ambitions this time.

  Uriel snapped his gaze away from the youth after a moment’s more consideration and then turned, marching toward the stairs leading to the Royal Box with a new infusion of certainty. His contemporary, his counterpart, his comrade had unleashed something that may have truly been beyond her control—in turn, it meant she would be thrice as dragon-headed about admitting to the failing.

  His hopes that their conversation would not devolve into a confrontation diminished as he acknowledged that fact.

  Leonidas Achilles was dangerous. He needed to be judged by an unbiased source. If Ceruviel refused to understand that, it presented an issue, because Uriel knew his duty: Dawnhaven came first, no matter the cost. His eyes rose, and he glanced once more at the suspended Terran.

  Even if the cost is the dream of a reborn Order of Archons.

  As Uriel resumed his march, his presence was noted at last; his aura sweeping out in a controlled wave with a quick surge of his [Hyperion Core]. The empathic abilities he possessed were magnified, and the effect was immediate. The echoing wave of panic faltered, dimmed, and reshaped itself. Even terrified nobles, Haelfenn of ancient lineages, rendered unto terrified civilians of various capabilities, remembered how to breathe when the Dawn-Lord approached, his presence preceding him.

  He ascended further.

  Halfway up the stairs, the air thickened, and Uriel felt the subtle pressure that always heralded Ceruviel’s domineering presence. It wasn’t hostility, at least, not to his keener senses. To lesser souls, weaker Cultivators, it would feel that way. In truth, it was the nature of power held in abeyance, as a blade sheathed, but never forgotten, and ever at the ready to be drawn.

  His eyes shifted, and he finally saw her from his new vantage.

  Upon the Royal Box’s balcony, Ceruviel Latherian stood with her right hand raised toward the mana shield covering the arena. Violet lightning danced between her fingers in quiet, predatory patterns of effervescent energy, and the barrier above the arena bore her signature: a second skin of psionic reinforcement faintly outlined in purple.

  Beside her stood Aylar Eldormer, her right hand gripping Ceruviel’s left. Uriel was quietly pleased to see that the Princess-Royal’s posture was straight. Her face was pale with concern, but her jaw was tight with determination, and her eyes were fixed on the pillar of light as if she were attempting to command its suspended Terran with force of will alone. She looked so much like her mother that it coerced a subtle smile, gone by the time he finished his ascent.

  Within the box, all present turned to him, and he noted more than one ennobled Haelfenn or Terran of status turn to him with surprise, followed quickly by naked relief and loss of tension. They were all afforded a simple nod, but none of them were his intended targets. The Daggers of Royal Guard and Dawnguard alike filed in behind him, spreading throughout the room, and he turned as they did.

  Uriel stepped out onto the balcony.

  Ceruviel’s head turned when he did.

  Their eyes met—gold sunrise and violet dusk—and something old and familiar passed between them in the space of that connection, unspoken and understood, as so often had been the case in the centuries they had stood together. They had been friends long before these titles, long before Dawnhaven, long before Terra’s madness forced them into stewardship and oversight of a Colony beset by daily threats.

  “{Uriel,}” Ceruviel said, her voice cool and—if not unwelcoming—guarded.

  “{Ceruviel,}” he replied in a neutral tone, suppressing his camaraderie.

  An echo of tense uncertainty rippled from the crowd behind and was ignored.

  Aylar turned a half-second after Ceruviel spoke, seemingly having been engrossed in her monitoring of the Terran, and her face lit up in a radiant and relieved smile. “{Dawn-Lord. Thank the Divines.}”

  Uriel gave his charge a glance that softened his severity without diminishing it, by design, and inclined his head. “{Princess,}” he acknowledged with some permittance of warmth. “{Retreat behind the ward-line. Despite the Dusk-Lord’s aegis, you are too at risk with this exposure.}”

  Aylar’s jaw tightened in another identical expression of her mother’s, but she knew better than to refuse him—or Ceruviel—when given an unambiguous direction. “{Yes, my lord.}”

  Uriel’s gaze returned to the pillar when Aylar retreated, and he stepped up beside Ceruviel while clasping his plate-armored hands at his spine. “{Is the boy conscious?}”

  Ceruviel’s attention remained split between Leonidas and the barrier, but she answered him without showing her concern overtly. As guarded and barred as a fortress, the Dusk-Lord was, when she wished to be.

  {He was,}” she answered with a hint of concern only he’d be able to pick up, visible in the faint pinch of her brows. “{He has been forced into the next phase, now. He is lost to the world until the reforging is complete.}”

  Uriel watched the lightning lash down again, as if to cement her point.

  Leonidas’ body was illuminated in System-forged power as it struck him.

  Ceruviel’s fingers flexed a moment later when another bolt followed the first, this time striking against the Archon’s barrier. Violet threads coalesced to fix the instantaneous fracture that had appeared and mended it almost immediately. To anyone without sight for power, she merely looked faintly luminous as she worked.

  Uriel Aventus, however, was not just anyone.

  “{You’re carrying the dome alone,}” he observed, keeping his voice low enough that only Ceruviel could hear. “{You know that’s unwise.}”

  Ceruviel’s lips twitched in mirthless acknowledgement. “{And yet,}” she replied dryly, “{here we are.}”

  Uriel’s gaze drifted back to Aylar at Ceruviel’s acknowledgement, and he watched as the Princess-Royal’s eyes flicked between them. He could see the child in her fighting to understand two titans—by her reckoning—speaking like irritated comrades. He felt a brief, complicated tenderness motivate him to reassure her, and buried it under a wall of focus.

  Aylar was meant for the Throne. She would need tenderness far less than steel.

  Instead, he returned his attention to his impulsive compatriot.

  “{What happened?}” he asked Ceruviel directly, and bluntly, as she preferred.

  The Duchess’s gaze had refixed itself on the pillar and the Terran borne within it, but she answered without hesitation or obfuscation. “{He earned his Oath,}” she revealed, choosing her words with care. “{The System demanded he codify it. The reforging began after.}”

  Uriel’s eyes narrowed at that. “{An Oath shouldn’t make the heavens scream.}”

  Ceruviel’s jaw tightened in response, possessively. “{He is unique.}”

  She didn’t elaborate, and Uriel didn’t press in front of potential witnesses. That was an understanding between them, one as old as their friendship: never speak the full depth of a hidden detail when others were listening.

  The dome shuddered again, without lightning this time.

  Uriel’s eyes narrowed sharply as something pricked his enhanced senses.

  That wasn’t weather.

  That wasn’t the storm’s rage.

  That was interest.

  Ceruviel’s violet lightning sharpened into a more aggressive coil, and he knew that she felt it, too. “{There you are,}” she said quietly, with restrained fury.

  The Dawn-Lord felt Aylar’s fear when she, too, sensed it—not with true perception like theirs, but with instinct. The nobles and warriors were not far behind, and the higher-tiered Cultivators amongst them reacted with a wave of renewed fear that crashed upon him like a rogue wave against an unyielding mountain.

  Uriel’s hand lifted in response, palm open toward the dome.

  His [Hyperion Core] surged with inner brilliance with him, and dawnlight gathered. It was neither flashy nor dramatic, but instead as dense as gold poured into a mold. He wasn’t an Archon—he didn’t wear that title or those System parameters—but he had power enough to turn night into dawn when he desired to.

  “{Uriel—}” Ceruviel began, her voice cautionary.

  “{I know,}” he murmured in simple reassurance.

  Then, with a silent roar within his Core, he pushed.

  Gold light lanced upward from his palm in a beam of solar radiance, reinforcing the dome from beneath like a pillar of sunrise hammered into the barrier’s underside. Ceruviel’s psionic power met it without hesitation, violet lightning threading with golden fire—not blending, but locking together like interwoven steel links.

  The pressure outside the dome recoiled from the resonance of their powers.

  For an instant, the presence hesitated, as if stunned that its prey had teeth.

  The crowd noise dipped, holding its breath while a wave of pure awe washed across Uriel’s awareness—and then panic surged once more as scarlet lightning struck, impacting with malevolent force. People screamed. People prayed. People stared upward at the pillar of light as if it were the world’s axis.

  The barrier held.

  “{How many has he taken?}” he asked Ceruviel while his mana roared through his channels.

  “{Six,}” she answered without hesitation. “{That leaves—}”

  “{Four,}” Uriel finished in agreement. “{For him to summon this as a First Temper…}”

  “{He is unique,}” she repeated stubbornly. He knew that stubbornness.

  “{You know how this must end,}” he said to her with blade-sharp calm.

  “{Uriel…}” she muttered warningly.

  “{You know my duty, Ceruviel. For all the love I hold for you, nothing comes before our oaths. I will not strike him down while he is Tempering, nor will I permit these interlopers to do so in my stead—but once this is done, I will have my moment with him.}”

  “{To what end?}” Ceruviel asked, her voice balanced on a knife’s edge.

  “{That depends on him,}” Uriel answered honestly, “{as it always would.}”

  To that, Ceruviel said nothing, but that, too, was an answer.

  Survive, child. Uriel willed. That I may judge your worthiness for myself.

  Please comment on what you liked or with theories you have!