The village square of Salem was packed. The two clans of the tribe—Tiras and Arioch—stood beneath the watchful eyes of their chiefs. The tension in the air was sharp, brittle.
Abinadab stood before them, trying to raise his voice above the crowd's murmuring.
"People of Salem," he called, "hear us today—not just for ourselves, but for our children, for the tribes, for Eden!"
The crowd quieted as Amariah stepped forward, the sun catching the iron chain wrapped tightly around her wrist. It glinted like a relic. All eyes turned to her.
Arioch, chief of his clan, narrowed his eyes. "You ask us to rise. But why? Why do you speak of rebellion against the very Founders who gave us our name and land? Are we not their children?"
Amariah's fingers curled around the chain. Her voice was quiet but heavy with grief.
"Do you not remember my father, Tiras? My brother Joab? The Guardian King who stood with us? They were sent with Rex to free our Forgotten Father in the dungeons of Bebel... but the Dark one met them there."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the clans.
"I saw it," Amariah said. "I was young, but I remember the fire, the screams. How the Dark one turned on them. My father fell first, then Joab, and even the Guardian King... dead and so many of our brothers and Sisters. Our Father, Rex, in his desperation, recreated the Guardian King. But then he passed a law—no more recreations. No more second chances for us."
Arioch's jaw tightened. "You speak of pain, but not all of us see betrayal. The Founders kept us safe."
"Safe?" she challenged, stepping forward. "Or subdued? They hide behind their power, using us to maintain their glory. We were born from them, yet live in their shadow. This is not balance—it is bondage."
A low murmur began to rise. Abinadab lifted his hand. "Let her speak. Let her remind us of what was lost."
Amariah raised her voice now, eyes burning. "We are the sons and daughters of the Guardian King! Our fathers bled for peace, but their sacrifice was buried. I will not let it be forgotten. I will not let their blood speak in vain."
The murmuring turned to shouting. Some in Arioch's clan began to argue. A few shouted, "She's right!" Others stood firm, frowning.
Abinadab stepped forward. "I was there when she mourned her father. I saw the injustice we swallowed. But now, now we rise! Tiras will not be silent!"
A great cheer burst forth from the Tiras clan. Slowly, many from Arioch's clan joined, though a few held back, conflicted.
Meanwhile…
Elsewhere, in the quiet shadows of the palace grounds, Mirey stood in the shadows of the moonlight, her thoughts darker than the night sky above her. Her true allegiance had always been hidden behind a mask of loyalty, but now, with each passing day, the plan was drawing closer to its final stage.
She had been assigned by Dorcas to follow Mariah, to gain her trust and remain by her side. But deep inside, Mirey knew she had a far more sinister purpose.
Tonight, a strange figure approached her as she walked near the western gates of the palace. A descendant, someone she had never seen before. His eyes were shadowed, and his voice low and cryptic.
"It is almost time," the stranger whispered. "You've done well, Mirey. But the next phase of the plan must begin. The Founder's children will fall. And with them, what you seek will be yours."
Mirey looked at the stranger, her face unreadable. "And what of Mariah?" she asked, her tone careful. "She must remain unharmed, for now. Is that part of the plan?"
The stranger smirked, but his eyes betrayed nothing. "Everything is according to plan. The Founders will be distracted by Amariah's rebellion. Mariah will be... dealt with soon enough. You have your role to play."
Mirey nodded, her heart racing. She had a duty, a purpose—one she could not escape. And soon, the game would reach its deadly conclusion.
Elsewhere…
In the darkened halls of a ruined temple beneath the cliffs, a black-robed figure traced symbols into the cracked floor with a blade of bone. A pool of crimson pulsed with strange power.
"Amariah's war will open the gate," the figure whispered. "And when it does, the Founders will fall. Their blood will awaken the lost lines... and power will belong to me."
The figure raised his hand as if sensing a ripple in fate. "Soon."
The Prison Field – Next Morning
The field was walled with high grey stones. Soldiers stood in silent ranks. In the center, Mark, a soldier of Spadnia, was bound to a pole. His face was bruised, his body limp.
Rex and the Guardian King stood side by side, the people gathered in silence.
A red-robed executor stood nearby, axe raised.
Mariah arrived with her maid, stepping through the gathered crowd. She said nothing at first, eyes locked on the condemned man.
The Guardian King lifted his hand.
"Let the sentence be carried out."
The executor raised his axe.
Mark looked up—bloodied, broken—and his eyes met Mariah's.
Something in her shifted.
"Stop!" Mariah's voice rang like thunder.
The axe froze midair. Gasps filled the field.
She stepped forward. "Please. Rex. Guardian King. Let him live. I'll take responsibility."
Rex frowned. The Guardian King tilted his head.
"Why do you plead for him?"
"Because something in him... isn't broken. Not yet."
After a long pause, Rex lowered his hand. "He is yours, then. But if he betrays us, I will personally kill him."
That Night
Mariah walked into the prison chambers. The guards, recognizing her, stepped aside. She unlocked Mark's cell herself.
"Come," she said.
He followed silently, too shocked to speak.
She brought him into the palace. There, he was bathed, fed, and dressed in soft robes.
Later, they sat at a long table with Rex, the Guardian King, and the Huntress.
The conversation at first was tense, but softened as Mariah led it. Mark remained quiet, humbled, watching them—these legends, speaking like family.
He could feel it—his old world was gone.
A new one had begun.