A golden dawn spilled across the high-arched windows of the Hall of Accord, where the most powerful leaders of Edenia gathered beneath a ceiling painted with ancient battles and celestial peace. Golden banners of each province hung from stone pillars, fluttering softly as the kingdom held its breath.
At the head of the obsidian roundtable, King Ivan III stood, his voice calm but resolute. "We are not here to debate the existence of the mutant threat. We are here to ensure Edenia survives what comes next."
Around the table, fifteen seats were filled—dukes and governors, each bearing the weight of their lands. The air was thick with tension, a quiet storm on the verge of thunder.
Grand Duke Thelric of Argos, a seasoned warlord turned diplomat, leaned forward. "Argos supports the relocation, Your Majesty. But we demand a clear structure of governance. If mutants are to form their own state, who rules them? Will they have weapons? Will they trade?"
Grand Duchess Cassandra of Argones, dressed in elegant silver robes, added with a soft but firm voice "Our ports are already strained by refugee flows from Havenford. The people are scared. If the transition isn't smooth, Argones may see riots."
Governor Elric Maran of Edenia Prime, stern and clean-cut, spoke next. "The capital cannot become a battlefield of ideology. We've already detained over a hundred unregistered mutants trying to flee here overnight. We need a federal emergency force in the inner districts—immediately."
Governor Thorne Drell of Velhendor, whose lands bordered mutant-heavy settlements, slammed his fist softly against the table. "Velhendor's farmlands were scorched by a Level Four pyrokinetic just last week. We've lost control of three border towns. I fully support relocation—but I want reparations for the damages."
Governor Merin Dae of Ostervale sighed, brushing gray hair from her temple. "Half my city's healers are mutants. If we lose them overnight, my hospitals will collapse. We need exceptions—provisional licenses for essential mutants who agree to wear full-time dampeners."
Governor Aevan Lior of Elysian Vale, young and idealistic, objected. "We're building fear into law. We should be working toward integration, not separation. This will only deepen the divide and invite rebellion."
Several murmured in agreement, but most leaned into hard realism. Governor Halbrecht of Silvershield Keep, always terse and militaristic, said coldly. "Your compassion will get people killed, Lior. Havenford wasn't an accident. It was a warning. Separate the threat before it spreads."
Governor Nasha Yurei of West Coast Province nodded. "My cities are on edge. Trade ports are closing early. Civilian patrol groups are forming. If we don't act decisively, local militias will."
Governor Vance Alder of East Coast Province added. "We will uphold the king's decree. But we demand weekly oversight reports on mutant activity on Varkath Isle. If it becomes another Havenford, we pull support."
Governor Faen Rell of Kaelor's Reach Province, deep-voiced and pragmatic, folded his arms. "Our mountains have long sheltered mutant communes. If we don't offer relocation as a lawful path, they'll disappear into the wild and become insurgents."
Governor Sivard Jorn of Skallagrim Province, known for his strict governance, said flatly. "Skallagrim is already constructing relocation camps for interim transfers. But we need ironclad legal authority. No more loopholes."
Governor Tara Venu of Sundagara Province, the southern spice capital, said with worry. "The economy relies on mutant labor—telekinetics in shipping, weather-manipulators for crops. If we force everyone out at once, Sundagara bleeds."
Governor Rehan Mahr of Tanuwa Province agreed. "Let Varkath become the mutant state, yes. But allow those who comply to apply for dual residence. Not all of them are enemies, Your Majesty."
Finally, all eyes turned to the one voice that had remained silent. Governor Ilyas Rhane of Heca Province. The youngest at the table, but sharp-eyed, dressed in coastal robes bearing the silver sigil of Heca. He rose slowly. "Varkath Isle is ours. It lies fifty miles off our eastern shore, fed by our trade, protected by our navy. You want to turn it into a containment zone? Then Heca demands three things."
The room stiffened. "First—jurisdiction must be shared. Heca law must extend to all non-mutant operations there. Second—we demand additional funding for maritime patrols and containment infrastructure."
He stepped closer to the table. "Third—no mutant may leave Varkath without both federal and provincial authorization. We will not let Edenia's mistakes wash up on our shores."
A silence settled. Then, King Ivan stood. "All points recorded. Varkath Isle shall become a federal mutant territory under supervision of the CPG, with Heca Province granted joint jurisdiction over non-mutant governance. Funding and enforcement powers shall be provided."
The ink on the Royal Decree had barely dried when the crystal channels lit up across Edenia. From the bustling markets of Edenia Prime to the shadowed alleyways of Skallagrim, from the floating lanterns of Elysian Vale to the wind-scoured peaks of Kaelor's Reach, every citizen watched the future change in real time.
Screens flickered in taverns and temples alike. Soldiers stood at attention in garrisons. Families huddled around shimmering projections, faces pale in the ghostlight of the King's final words
In Argos, a group of mutant miners—many with geokinetic abilities—bowed their heads in grim silence. Their foreman, a Level Three known only as Dren, murmured, "We survive. Like we always have."
Then he raised his wrist as a drone fastened a glowing Sentinel Core bracelet onto him. No protest. No words.
In Ostervale, a hospital erupted into confusion. Healer Ceyla, known to mend shattered bones with mere gestures, was weeping. "You mean I save lives, but now I'm a threat?"
Her colleagues tried to comfort her—but the bracelets came anyway. Drones buzzed, eyes scanning. None could refuse.
In Sundagara, riots nearly broke out. Young mutants threw stones at the drone posts, only to be instantly stunned by auto-turrets.
"We are not Malak!" one teen screamed before being dragged away. The crowd dispersed. Fear won over fury.
In Elysian Vale, small protests gathered in the courtyards—silent, candlelit. A banner hung from a bridge: "Not all flames burn to destroy."
But no place felt it sharper than Heca. The eastern ports of Varkath Isle—still dotted with fishing villages—were transformed overnight. CPG vessels patrolled the skies and sea. Concrete compounds rose where beaches had once lain undisturbed. Temporary housing units glimmered beneath metallic watchtowers.
Mutants arrived by the dozens. Then by the hundreds. Some stared blankly, beaten by years of rejection. Others cried silently. Some were angry—but no longer stupid enough to fight. Because Malak had burned Havenford. And now every mutant bore his shadow.
Back in Edenia Prime, murmurs echoed across cafés and council halls.
"It's too fast."
"What choice did we have?"
"Malak gave them the excuse they needed."
Some humans approved. Some mutants tried to believe this was for their safety. But most? Most simply accepted the truth they had always known: Choice was never theirs to begin with. And when CPG gunships flew overhead, no one dared raise their voice.
Meanwhile, the light of dawn poured through the stained crystal domes of the Hall of M. At the heart of the chamber, where marble met mana and wisdom met wariness, two of the most respected minds in Edenia stood face to face—divided by more than philosophy.
Professor M, founder of the Hall of M and a staunch defender of mutant autonomy, stood rigid in his silver-lined suit, arms folded. His voice was calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm within. "Relocation is not a solution, Veymar. It's containment under the guise of peace. These youths—these people—need purpose, not prison. Let the Hall Of M train them, guide them. Give them something to believe in before fear takes everything from them."
Across from him, cloaked in red robes adorned with intricate sigils of the arcane arts, Dr. Veymar Callistrade, Archmage of Arcaneum Academy, sighed deeply. His fingers tapped the obsidian staff at his side, each tap like a ticking clock against Professor M's ideals. "You simplify things, Professor. As always. You look at mutants and see potential. I look and see probability. You train for discipline—I measure catastrophe."
He stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly with stored arcane resonance. "Malak was born of a human and a succubus. A cambion—yes—but he was once justachild, too. Probably just as wide-eyed and hopeful as those you shelter. And yet he carved hellfire into the streets of Havenford."
Professor M's gaze sharpened. "And whose fault is that? His? Or a world that made him into a weapon before he could choose his own path?"
Veymar frowned, his voice a low rumble. "The world doesn't wait for idealism, old friend. It reacts to threats. And Malak isn't the last. There are others. Stronger. Angrier. Waiting. If you think a few sparring drills and philosophy lectures will hold back what's coming, then you're a fool in scholar's clothing."
Silence fell between them, thick as the arcane barriers warding the chamber. Outside, the sound of hovering transports hummed faintly—evidence of the new Edenia forming beyond the Hall's timeless walls.
Professor M finally spoke, quieter now, but no less certain. "Freedom is always a risk. But so is tyranny, dressed in regulation and fear."
Dr. Veymar turned away. "And sentiment is always the first casualty of war."
As the Archmage disappeared into shimmering light, Professor M remained, eyes narrowed toward the eastern horizon—toward Varkath Isle.
And, a soft shimmer rippled near the window—barely noticeable, like a heatwave in the air—until it solidified into the figure of a woman cloaked in muted violet, a press badge gleaming at her collar. "You really should work on your detection spells, Professor," she said with a sly smile, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Professor M turned toward her with a slow, knowing grin. "Ah… Liora Everen."
He gestured at the still-warm space where Archmage Veymar had stood. "I assume you heard everything."
She gave a small bow, boots making no sound as she stepped into the room. Her mutant ability of invisibility—what she cheekily called her "gift of vanishing curiosity"—made her one of Edenia's most elusive and dangerous journalists.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Liora replied, her tone more serious now. "This conversation—this—is the story behind the story. The Hall of M, the Archmage, the push to exile mutants... people need to know what's being decided in their name."
Professor M raised a brow. "And what will you do with it, Liora? What should you do, knowing what's coming?"
She met his gaze with unwavering resolve, voice steady and crisp. "Everything I need to."
Her fingers brushed the recorder hidden in her coat. "As a journalist. As a mutant. And as someone who still believes the truth is worth fighting for."
Professor M's smile returned—smaller, sadder, but proud. "Then I'll make sure the Hall's students don't interfere with your... 'vanishing curiosity' next time."
Liora gave a sly wink. "Wouldn't expect anything less, Professor."