CHAPTER 11 â BIRTHRIGHT TO FREEDOM: PART III
Some paths, once taken, never let you return as the same person.
Day 231 of the Twelvefold Cycle
Era of Concordance, Year 812 | Early Flamerest (September) | NIGHT
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The battle at the Whining Moon raged on a storm of motion, flashes of movement, and raw, sharpened instinct. The ground still trembled beneath each strike exchanged between Juizio and Ruki. Onlookers pressed against the makeshift bleachers as mist veiled their view, but those with sense knew what was unfolding: The girl was still standing.
Still fighting. Still matching the beast of the Whining Moon in a trial of fury and will. And miles away, through narrow channels beneath Black Fangâs southern ward, Kaelira moved like a ghost through the stone. Her boots barely whispered against the slick ground, soaked in grime and runoff from the city above. Her cloak slung low, trailing mud and blood not hers. She carried weight tonight, a different kind of burden.
Over her shoulder, cradled with careful tension, hung the limp form of a Beastkin boy. His fur was matted with dried blood. His left arm was dislocated. His body is still fever-warm from trauma. He looked no older than nine. Omos. The only one who made it out alive. She adjusted his bandaged torso carefully, letting out a low breath. He stirred only slightly, a weak tremble, barely a whimper, then went still again. Kaeliraâs teeth clenched as she pressed forward. The sewer stone glistened beneath the torchlight sheâd left behind hours ago. The air was thick, damp with rot and the ghost-scent of ash. Her route was burned into memory, the same one she had used to infiltrate Black Fang during her earliest hunts. Now it served as her path out.
She had left Ruki behind in the protection of Selene and Juizio, whom she did not question. If there was anyone in Black Fang that could keep her safe, it was them. That was Kaeliraâs belief, no doubts, no second-guessing. Sheâd gone because of a time-sensitive tip on a Beastkin slave location: a Syndicate caravan rerouted through a dead orchard beyond the Black Fang walls.
But what she found wasnât a transport. It was a pit. They had already left, but what remained told the story. Charred wagons. Cracked cages. A route turned execution site. Theyâd burned the supplies, buried the elders, and left the children dead.The corpses of three adult beastfolk remained, barely recognizable beneath the soot. A slave camp rebellion gone wrong.
It had been a purge. And Kaelira had arrived too late.
Only Omos, a small Beastkin boy, breathed when she reached the site. He was stuffed beneath tar and bone, gagged by blood-soaked cloth. He hadnât cried. Not once. Not when she lifted him. Not when they ran.
But he had clung to her sleeve.That was enough.
Her hood hung low, frayed at the edges from ash and acid rain, but her silver hair still curled out beneath the folds, damp, tangled, and streaked with dirt. Her eyes, sharp as cracked glass, scanned the shadows without pause. They werenât the icy blue of high elves or the warm amber of beastkin. They were pale violet like candlelight flickering behind fog, the kind of eyes that had watched cities fall and still didnât blink.
Kaelira didnât walk like a noble. She moved like a blade in the wind: quick, efficient, and without waste. Her armor was stitched leather layered over chain mesh, darkened by soot and river stain. No crest. No house insignia. Only a faded embroidered sigil on her belt: a white vine coiled around a broken crown.
Her obsidian horns curved back like relics from a forgotten war, a remnant of the VelâSyneth bloodline, an exiled Elven house once touched by a god who fell into ruin. Whispers in old tongues called them the âTwilight-Bound,â cursed not by evil, but by the burden of divine betrayal. Kaeliraâs very existence was proof of a pact her people chose to forget. Remnants, she had told Ruki once. Thatâs all I carry now. The blood on her gloves wasnât hers. But the weight in her spine? That was ancient. Her hands were calloused, not like a warriorâs but a surgeonâs. Someone who no longer flinched at damage. Each time Omos stirred, she adjusted him gently, murmuring in Beastkin tongue, âEasy⦠just sleep⦠I have you.â
A sudden throb struck her chest, a pulse, faint and arcane.
Kaelira halted mid-step, her foot hovering over an old aqueduct groove. Her breath caught.
The spell she had placed on Ruki, embedded into the girlâs armor, flared with a jolt of violet. The rune etched into Kaeliraâs glove shimmered in answer.
âRuki is awake⦠and fighting. This canât be good.â She cursed under her breath, shifting the boyâs weight and grabbing a wall brace for balance.
The energy surging through the Trade Fang was unmistakable. Not a projection. Not a decoy. This was live combat magic. Something strong. And close. Her jaw tightened. âIs⦠everything okay?â Omos croaked, slowly trying to move his frail body. His voice was hoarse. Fragile.
Kaelira looked down, softening only for him. âYeah,â she said, voice raw.
Her thoughts circled, unspoken but heavy, reflecting on the long war she had fought with the Empire and the fall of Lurie.
She didnât stop moving. The sewer fork was ahead. But something in her gut had already shifted, a hollow pull in her sternum, the taste of iron behind her teeth. This wasnât just a skirmish. Someone had activated a Tier Five Spell. And with the state of Black Fang right now?
The entire city would feel it.
Kaelira broke into a full sprint, low and quiet, her shoulder tucked. She didnât care about the Syndicate patrols above or the mist curling downward from the district ceiling. She was running toward the danger. Last time, she arrived late and found nothing but corpses. This time, sheâd make it before the smoke cleared. This time, no one else dies.
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Syndicate Encampment, Bordering Black Fang Forest
Rain misted down in steady sheets, veiling the moonlight behind curtains of silver. The downpour was light but constant, the kind that soaked into your bones without ever turning violent. It clung to skin and chilled the joints. Everything smelled of wet bark, steel, and damp canvas.
Ethel stood still for a long moment outside the Syndicateâs command tent, letting the rain settle on his shoulders. The fabric of his cloak had gone heavy with it, water beading and dripping down his spine. Cold crept through the seams of his boots, and the tightness in his back hadnât left since sunset.
He told Selene to keep the girl quiet, keep the beast hidden, and let no one from the Syndicate cross the threshold. If Mira was summoning him now, it meant something slipped or someone talked. He flexed his fingers once, quietly, then stepped forward. The field camp around him was quiet, tucked between the moss-thick trees of the southern woods. Only a few lantern poles burned at this hour, casting thin cones of light through the fog. Insects buzzed near the flames. The two guards flanking the tent entrance didnât block him. Just a nod. Just enough formality to veil their unease. Ethelâs presence didnât require permission.
No one spoke. Inside, the tent felt warmer but not more welcoming. Smoke from the central fire basin coiled toward the ceiling flap, carrying a scent of oil and charred spice. Candlelight flickered against the black-threaded silk draped behind the map table. Lady Mira didnât stand. She sat at the head of the table, still in travel leathers, her long coat hung to dry behind her. Her posture was too relaxed. Hands folded. Eyes fixed on the tent flap as Ethel entered. âYouâre late,â she said, voice clipped and quiet.Ethel didnât slow. âIâm exactly where I meant to be.â Rain whispered above them, mixing with the soft crackle of fire. His boots thudded on the carpeted ground as he moved toward the basin, steam rising faintly where the hem of his cloak dripped near the coals. Miraâs gaze followed him. âYou used to respond faster when the Velvet Table summoned.â âI used to think the Velvet Table listened.â He responded back. His tone wasnât bitter, just weathered. Worn like the path beneath his feet. His eyes reflected firelight but held no spark. Just the weight of choices made too long ago. Mira tilted her head, studying him. âThat mouth of yours hasnât dulled,â she said with a smirk, one corner of her lips curling like sheâd baited the hook herself. Ethel didnât take it. He extended his hands toward the fire, knuckles cracked from long nights and wet steel. The warmth stung at first. He welcomed it.
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Mira leaned back slightly in her seat, but her fingers drummed once against the map table. âIâve heard rumors,â she said. âTraffic through the Trade Fang gates. Supply manifests rerouted. Beastkin entering through untracked channels. All traced back to the Whining Moon.â âThe tavern serves everyone,â Ethel said, voice firm, then slammed his palm flat against the table. âEveryone.â âNo,â Mira replied, her voice soft and pointed. âIt draws everyone. And you know damn well it didnât start that way.â She stood now, slowly like a viper deciding whether to strike. Her boots moved without sound across the rug, but the cut of her eyes was sharp enough to flay. She paced just once behind the table, trailing a single finger across the edge of the map as she passed.
Ethel closed his eyes for half a second. Selene built it with her hands. I kept it standing in silence. That was the deal. âYou used to be careful,â Mira said. âNow I hear youâre harboring resistance. Letting them gather under one roof.â
âWeâre not chaining them,â Ethel snapped. âAnd you think that absolves you?â she snapped back âIt doesnât matter what I think. They come because theyâre hunted.â His voice softened slightly, not from guilt, but from weariness. He ran a hand through damp strands of hair at his temple. Mira noticed and didnât interrupt. âTheyâre scared,â Ethel added. âOf collars. Of raids. Of being thrown back into wagons like meat. Theyâre not planning a war. Theyâre trying to live.â he said softly lowering his tone.
Miraâs brows lifted just barely. âAnd what would you call this gathering? A support group? A tavern mixer?â
He didnât answer. âIntent doesnât shield consequence,â she said coldly. âWe cannot afford another disruption. Not after what happened with the Colorbreak Companion.â Ethelâs face tightened. âThat wasâ âA failure,â Mira cut in. âYours. Mine. The Velvet Tableâs. We lost the beast. And with it, the Emperorâs faith.â Her breath came sharp through her nose. She reached for a flask from her belt but didnât drink; she just held it in one palm like a weight.
âYou forget where you stand. This isnât the Holy Empire. This is the Syndicate. We deal in balance. Structure. And right now? Your silence feels an awful lot like rebellion.â Ethel turned toward her fully now. The fire behind him painted his outline in gold, but there was nothing warm in his stance.
âI never lit a match,â he said. Miraâs eyes narrowed. âThen why do I smell smoke?â
Silence followed. Long and heavy. The kind that thickens before a verdict drops.
She stepped close now, just enough for the firelight to catch the rim of her lashes. Her perfume was faint beneath the scent of wet leather and rain-damp ink. âTell me,â she asked, nearly a whisper. âDo you plan to push another Beastkin into the Trials? Another Juizio?â
He didnât speak for several seconds. Not because he didnât have an answer but because saying it out loud felt like admitting what theyâd already allowed to happen. âNo,â Ethel said. âNot this time.â
âGood,â Mira replied. Her voice chilled. âBecause the next one doesnât get a crown. They get a collar.â
Their eyes locked in a flicker of old trust. Then it broke. Ethel turned, pulling his cloak tighter, and walked out into the rain. Mira didnât move.
She watched him disappear into the fog like a fading name in a ledger. Another loss⦠or the start of another uprising. She didnât know which would be worse.
The night bit colder as Ethel stepped into it. Rain dripped from his brow. He didnât bother raising the hood. The wind tugged at his cloak, and he pulled it tighter across his chest. He paused near the ditch line, waterlogged grass squishing beneath his boots. A sharp rustle broke the quiet. A shadow darted low and fast from the tree line wings slicing through rain. A messenger hawk. It dropped a scroll into his outstretched hand, bound in violet wax. He cracked the seal with his thumb.
> T5 Spell Signature Detected
>
> Location: Trade Fang, near Whining Moon.
>
> Two combatants. An unregistered girl engaged with Juizio.
>
> Mist radius expanding. Crestbound resonance confirmed.
Ethelâs jaw clenched. His fingers tightened on the parchment. âDamn it,â he breathed. Heâd told Selene to keep it quiet no flaring spells, flexing power, or blood spilling under their roof. They couldnât afford attention, not now, not with Mira breathing down their necks. And yet here they were⦠Tier Five magic, visible for half the district. Juizio mustâve struck first. He always did. That boy never met a shadow he didnât try to walk louder than.
But that girl, Ruki, was still standing. Still fighting. He just hoped Juizio didnât kill her. Or worse⦠that Mira hadnât already seen the sky turn violet.
He turned toward the treeline. Frogs croaked louder. A fox barked in the distance. Even the forest seemed unsettled.
There was no time left to hesitate.
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Vyrell, Bridge Over Trade Fang
The bridge still reeked of broken magic. Not divine. Not elegant. Just scorched, reckless power Tier Five, at least. Faint grooves carved into the cobblestones told the story: a body flung like carrion. Blackened scorch marks melted into the guardrail, warped steel where molten flame had kissed through. The mist hadnât thickened yet, but mana shockwaves still rippled through the air, crawling beneath armor, tickling skin with static unease. Not natural. Not holy. Rage-born magic.
Captain Vyrell knelt at the edge of it all. His gauntleted fingers traced a cracked fault line near the impact crater, the stone still warm beneath its soot. âThree-meter radiusâ¦â he muttered. âNo crest signature. This wasnât sanctioned. And it wasnât clean.â A chill wind stirred his cloak, carrying steam from the alley vents and a blend of scents: burnt oil, boiled broth, damp steel. But beneath it all: the subtle tang of wild ozone. The kind that stains battlefields. The kind that never washes out of prayer robes.
Behind him stood two Sanctum Spears, Elsen and Routh, silent, ceremonial guards of the Holy Empireâs elite. Their robes shimmered white with amethyst trim, bearing the twin feathered cross of the Seraphic Doctrine. Neither moved.
Elsenâs halberd stood planted, eyes calm. Routh twitched with every passing shadow, a fresh crusader, green and eager.
âCaptain,â Elsen said softly, his voice low to not draw city ears. âEyewitness accounts place a silver-haired Beastkin girl here. Same crest mark as before. Engaged in battle with a male combatant, fire magic confirmed. Some claim she vanished in a spell mist. Others say⦠she flew.â
Vyrell didnât look up. Instead, he stood with slow and deliberate steps, armor plates creaking under the strain of age and contempt. âShe doesnât fly,â he said. âShe shatters.â His eyes swept across Trade Fang. Lanterns flickered beyond the railing, dancing through the vapor that rose from soup carts, bathhouse chimneys, and merchant cookfires. The district breathed a thousand voices, some laughing, some shouting, all too free. Too loud. Too unchained.
He hated this city. Too many species. There were too many tongues that didnât belong to Seravell. Too many traders who didnât kneel before the Empireâs crown. Vyrell pulled a sealed scroll from beneath his cloak, wax cracked, parchment warped by the rain. The Popeâs insignia barely held.
He re-read the final lines: âThree are already held by our hands. The fourth eludes. And the fifth will rise sealed or awakened by flame. Do not return without it or the one who broke the chain. The world may yet burn without them tethered.â His grip tightened, crumpling the message between steel fingers. He remembered it the moment the Colorbreak Companion broke free. One blink, and the creature had vanished like fog from an unsealed reliquary. There are no chains or leashes. There is a raw mythic presence and a girl foolish enough to command it.âThe girl is interfering,â he whispered. âThe Companion is legacy.â Elsen remained still, though his gaze darkened. âIf sheâs bonded,â Elsen began. âThen we sever it,â Vyrell interrupted.
The wind shifted. The mist arrived. A thick blanket of white began to curl around alley corners, seeping low mana-bound, not natural. The kind that clung to flesh and silenced steps. âCaptainâ¦â Routh said with unease. âThis fog⦠Itâs not ambient. Itâs reactive.â Vyrell closed his eyes briefly, letting the static crawl across his face. He tasted the air. Ozone. Iron. Stormlight residue. âShe cast again,â he said flatly. âNo, sir,â Elsen corrected, voice sharpened. âItâs stronger. Not her resonance.â Vyrellâs brow twitched. He turned back toward the cracked stone, back to the site of the duel.
He could still see it: the boyâs flames. Her collapsing shield. The fury in their clash echoes through broken cobble. But now something else bled through a presence beyond either child. Crestbound magic⦠ambient, awakened, and possibly unshackled.
Not hers alone. Something else had answered her. ready to
He reached into his coat again. Pulled a second scroll, a bounty slip, soaked through and blood-stained. The ink had blurred, but the sketch remained:
A green-haired beastkin girl. Eyes wild. Crest-mark glowing. Vyrell held it to the mist and watched it curl and then blacken. The flames rose gently, embers dancing toward the clouds like fireflies in mourning. âSheâs noise,â he muttered, almost to himself. âBut noise becomes thunder⦠if left unchecked.â He didnât wait for the others.
He stepped off the bridge, boots splashing through city runoff as the fog swallowed his outline.
The hunt had begun.
END OF CHAPTER 11
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Chapter 12: Birthright of Freedom Part IV: âThe Demon of Duskhornâ
âHowâs it feel⦠the hunter becoming the hunted?â