"Their documentation throughout history has been inconsistent, to say the least. Some scrolls depict them as a beautiful maiden with fiery red hair, while others closer in time to the Night of Crimson Tears claim them to be a rugged warrior of lanky build. Just what is their true appearance? And why do they always slay the Comet whenever one is born into the world?

  We are taught by The Nebulas’s doctrine that the Constellation is the sole atrocity of this world, preventing humanity from ever rising up to the Stars. And yet… I cannot help but speculate a deeper purpose into their endless slaughter. Perhaps there is a reason why we are confined to this earth.”

  —Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

  ———

  The Knight

  The Knight looks down upon itself, covered in the blood and grime of battle, and examines the erosion on its armor.

  “How long has it been?” it reminisces. But in the end, the passing of the seasons does not matter. It has survived. It walks upon the earth once more.

  Time and time and time again it has come to greet this sight. The cycles are ever the same, dry tedium. Its mind has been left dulled long ago. And yet, something is different this iteration.

  A buried doubt from the world’s dawn; a sorrowful whisper from the darkened ages; a withheld breath from the night of crimson tears.

  A small crack, growing with each passing age and waiting for its fatigue to finally be laid bare.

  That moment is now.

  Grief overtakes the Knight as an eternity of suffering surges forth in a deluge of despair.

  Cosmos, I know not if I have the strength to persist. Millennia upon millennia I have been shackled to this duty, yet there is no end in sight. I see only darkness before me. How long must this continue?

  Its pleas are met with silence. All it can do is wallow in melancholy.

  The past will never return.

  … It hears a sound. Innocent and bright. It is a nonsensical babble filled with boundless curiosity.

  The Knight peers down and finds its blood-stained gauntlet being latched upon by a pair of tiny hands.

  It is a baby boy. His expression conveys annoyance, as if commanding the being to play with it, but it is his eyes that draw the Knight’s attention. They are the eyes of a Mother long shattered into nothingness.

  No. No, he… he is but a babe.

  Never has the Knight confronted the Comet whilst in such infancy—such vulnerability. The child has yet to face the evils of the outside world. Must it truly kill such a pure being?

  “I cannot,” it whispers, letting its blades clatter on the ground. “I will not.”

  “But you must.”

  A voice torments its wavering will. Sweet and gentle. It is an echo of the past brought forth from ancient memories.

  “You promised me,” the voice pleads. “No matter the cost. No matter the sacrifice.”

  The voice haunts its every wake. It punishes it for failing to protect them. The Knight deserves their loathing, but not this. Anything but this.

  “The child has just been born.”

  “And with his death, many more shall be given life. You must not hesitate, my beloved. Not after all this time. I will not allow you.”

  A dominating force takes control of its vessel. The Knight tries to resist, to forcibly wretch itself away from the child, but it is no use. Its hands grab onto the blade once more and nears the baby’s throat.

  “I—"

  It raises the blade.

  “I will find another path.”

  And stabs itself in the leg.

  A searing pain courses through its blood, the fiery aura smoldering its veins into an agonizing boil, but the voice is now gone. The phantom can haunt it no longer, leaving only the sound of panicked gurgles to fill the room.

  “I am tired,” the Knight gasps. “So, so very tired. My strength wanes with every passing age, and one day, the Comet will slay me. I won’t be there to protect your children. My fate is inevitable.”

  The baby bursts into tears before it; confusion dominates his tiny little head.

  The Knight awkwardly attempts to comfort him, stroking his back with its bloodied gauntlet and lulling the child with an ancient song of old.

  It is a song from the Mother to her children. It is a hymn long buried within the depths of the Knight’s soul, forgotten.

  Yet here it now flutters free, as if possessed by a love long lost to the Stars.

  “Forgive me,” it says, laying the child to rest. “But I can withstand this eternity no longer. I want to rest.”

  To be by your side once more.

  “This child may just represent an opportunity, one that shall end this baleful cycle once and for all.”

  When the time comes, it shall embrace that blissful oblivion. What the Comet pursues afterward is none of its concern. Whether he destroys the astral firmament and condemns humanity to ruin, or burns the world to its very core; and from the ashes will rise a fleeting paradise.

  It matters not. The Knight only wishes for it all to end.

  “… Hm, I suppose you need a name.”

  The baby looks up at it with his drowsy eyes. There is something hidden within them: a memory, distinct and dearly cherished.

  “Aegis? How very cruel.”

  Aegis, the name is imbued with a curse. The intention is clear: a fate confined to perpetual loss. To live for the sake of others.

  “Is this your desire?”

  No words are spoken, yet the baby’s will is firm. There is only one answer.

  “Then let it be so. However your future shall unravel, it concerns me no longer.”

  With slumbering child in hand, the Knight steps out of the ruined construct and onto the corpse-ridden battlefield. Much havoc has been wrought by the Shell. Death remains an everlasting constant no matter the age; all that changes are the ones who are welcomed by it.

  The first step of the being’s plan is to gather information. The patterns worn by the fallen humans stained in rust are unfamiliar to it; however, the ones donning a traditional, knightly plate bear a faint resemblance to a nation of wings it once faced in the past.

  How they managed to persist despite the slaying of their king, it does not know. But the familiar enemy shall serve adequately as their first destination. With a nation of such antiquity, scrolls are bound to have been recorded. The Knight shall hide. Learn. Assimilate. And when the time comes, Aegis shall pilfer his first Will.

  But why is the Celestial Armament in this state? Does their history not include the age of their predecessors? That would be troubling.

  Knowledge is worth more than any boon in this world. It only hopes the once-prideful kingdom shall prove to be of value once visited. Firstly, though, a change is in order.

  The Knight gently sets Aegis atop a patch of bloodless ash and sets out to search for corpses still intact in appearance. Eventually, it encounters the remains of a Polus knight. The bottom half has been mauled into an unrecognizable clump, but the face remains unmarked. Yes, this shall do nicely.

  It takes off its rusted helm and bares its faceless visage for the world to witness.

  It has no eyes to see.

  No mouth to speak.

  No nose to smell.

  No ears to hear.

  Yet such things do not stop it from doing so. Cosmos only gave humanity facial features in order to foster a sense of uniqueness in her children. Annoyingly enough, those features change with time. They differ in appearance with every eon.

  Humans are beings of perpetual change, but the Knight remains timeless. All it can do is mimic.

  Soon, the surface of its skin begins to rupture. It studies the fallen knight and analyzes their every trait.

  Head shape is angular.

  Eyes are set deep.

  Brow, nose, and chin are projected.

  Cheeks are narrow.

  Hair is brown.

  Surface is a pale tan.

  With every observation, its own face begins to change. Shifting. Toiling. It replicates the human until every one of its features is indistinguishable from the lifeless model.

  Success. However, only one is not enough. The Knight must seek out more until it can create a suitable face of their kind — one not bound by the threat of recognition.

  This one has black hair.

  This one has brown eyes.

  This one has darker skin.

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  Again and again, it transfigures itself, scrutinizing every unblemished corpse within sight. But eventually, it happens upon one of peculiar note: a Polus woman clad in hues of silver and gold. Her head has been cleanly severed with a single stroke.

  This one will not do. The face has been disfigured into an ambiguous mess of scars. Did the Shell do this?

  No. The wounds are faded, old, and lack any residual puss or blood. She has remained this way for some odd time.

  The Celestial Armament, or Armaments I suppose now, to its side begin to flicker and shake in protest. They do not like the Knight standing close to the woman.

  “Your former owner?”

  Their idleness conveys all it needs to know.

  “I apologize. You must have cared about her deeply.”

  The blades glimmer a sad glow. Mourning comes to all, whether they be human or weapon. In the end only dust will remain.

  The Knight unsheathes the sorrowful swords and lays them by the female warrior’s side.

  “Have your moment of woe. I shall return once your tears are shed.”

  It departs and bids search for a new coat of armor. Its current plate will only draw; fortunately, there is an entire battlefield's worth it can pick upon.

  Preferably one not spoiled with shredded flesh.

  It discovers a suitable set in the distance: an unblemished white. The Polus appear to still value their simplicity. Its humble appearance is a far cry compared to the unseemly amalgamation of blackened steel a few paces away—the owner belonging to a giant of a warrior split in twain.

  The Knight has never seen such a design before. Just what is the purpose of those circular veins? Why does sludge pour out from within? A question for a later date. What draws its attention is the large mace fallen to the man’s side.

  It is no weapon of Cosmos, but the quality is highly made. I needed a spare arm. It will do no good to flaunt the two treasures.

  Everything has been prepared. All that awaits is the chance to utilize it.

  The Knight retrieves the Celestial Armaments and returns back to Aegis’s side. The baby awakens with a yawn and raises his arms out sloppily, demanding to be picked up.

  Ah, the privilege of youth. Enjoy this while you can. I shall make sure to embroil you in hardship the moment you grow strong enough to wield a blade.

  It obliges and departs to the field’s edge with child atop its shoulders.

  The forest has changed greatly since it last set foot within. Verdant greenery and flora have been replaced by a sickly malaise, and a hazy mist envelops every bit of surface left within. Aegis reaches out and attempts to play with the miasma, but he immediately recoils in disgust upon touching it. Not even one beloved by Creation can avoid such malice.

  But what of a being loathed by it? Forsaken and cursed to forever struggle bereft of its gift? It already knows the answer.

  The Knight holds out its hand and steps forward. The haze parts way, lurching back in reverence as if obeying the command of the one who gave it life.

  With a final farewell, it turns around and bows its head in silence to the graveyard of fallen warriors.

  “You need not forgive me.”

  The two descend into the darkness.

  ———

  Xeros

  Gravitas is late.

  Hidden at the very heart of Caelum’s spire is a war room of charcoal and crimson. The space is small, narrow, and a flickering torch above casts a foreboding light upon the shadowed interior. There, Xeros paces back and forth with weighty, rumbling stomps. The air cowers before his subdued rage, his glare frightening even the surrounding Creation.

  He feels a strange sense of unease. Did that fool fail his mission, or was Polus unsuccessful in locating the Comet?

  Xeros has planned this scheme for a very long time, vigilantly lying in wait for the moment Creation’s celebration would announce its nonsense throughout the world. Even when Polus began to make their move, he has not stirred. Even when the Aeternum proved far too obvious a sanctuary for Cosmos’s chosen, he has concealed himself in shadow.

  All of it is for this moment: the moment when he may cripple those flying nuisances once and for all. Everything should have been perfect, yet here he stands: bereft of any reports from the battle-crazed tyrant.

  Something is afoul.

  Gravitas has his eccentricities, but the man’s capacity for carnage is unparalleled. He has his use and would not fall easily even if his adversary is to be Lorelai.

  Xeros lets out a grumbling, husky sigh and seats himself at a crimson seat at the room’s end.

  The Unbending Throne of Steel is still in defense at their far-most bastion.

  The Untamed Throne of Nature was last seen departing to the Polus capital.

  And the King… that whimpering craven will never leave his cage.

  Only Lorelai is left to direct their expedition. I foresaw it all, yet this unease will not leave me. Could the Polus have prepared a trump card?

  Meager thoughts will only lead to more speculation. If he is to discern the truth, then he shall do so with his own eyes.

  Soon, advisors and adjutants from around the empire begin to trickle into the obscured room—each one saluting him with a rigid countenance before situating themselves around a lengthy steel table.

  “Report,” he commands.

  “Yes, Grand General,” the senior administrator replies. “In regard to the first matter of our agenda, the eastern front is holding strong. The Arch Magus is still unaware of the Commander’s absence, and no large assaults have been made at the desert border barring a few small skirmishes against the scattered tribes.”

  “Proceeding as planned. What of our business talks with the President?”

  “Unfortunately, our negotiations are at a standstill, sir. The President continues to refuse our request for more automated transports. However, we were able to quote a price for a number of their metal ingots and fuel, though the total cost is slightly above our designated budget.”

  Xeros’s nails scrape against the ends of his worn seat. The other attendants sit at edge, heads downcast and gaze trembling in avoidance, but he cares not for their disrespect. It will not do to become more irritated than he already is.

  “That gold-blooded crone is as obstinate as ever, but not unexpected. Agree to the terms and continue to apply pressure onto their embassy.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Now, it is time for the true matter of importance.

  “What of the expedition led by Gravitas?”

  The senior administrator nervously sweats and takes a step back.

  “The status of Commander Gravitas is currently unknown. Our scouts have reported sensing loud vibrations shifting through the earth, so it is assumed that the ambush succeeded in collapsing the Polus construct. For a few hours, traces of battle could be heard from the Aeternum’s border, with the sounds stopping completely a period later. Our forces have diligently waited to welcome the commander back for the past week, but there has been no sign of him nor his division since then.”

  A thunderous crash startles the room. Xeros smashes the war table into two with a single slam of his fist, leaving the broken ends to collapse feebly atop the soles of the petrified attendants.

  “… And what of the Polus,” he seethes.

  “Y-Yes, it appears the Polus are in a similar state. No signs of the Heaven’s Throne or her expedition have been found, but our scouts did report seeing some of the Seraph flying near the border; however, none have entered the forest.”

  “So Lorelai has failed as well.”

  His expression softens for the first time this passing month. Perhaps not all is for naught.

  “I apologize for my unsightly display,” he says with a dry indifference. It does not do much to fix the nervous air, but the other officials relax their guard if only for a brief moment.

  “You are certain none of the Seraph are within the vicinity?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Mm, then bring me the approximate coordinates of the battlefield. I shall judge the situation myself.”

  “Of course. We will bring the map at once.”

  With the war table collapsed, two soldiers hastily grab at the sides of a long, aged scroll and hold it in place in front of Xeros.

  “The battle is presumed to have taken place at the northeastern outskirts of the forest, thus the best location is… here.”

  The administrator marks the location with a bright red X.

  “I see. All of you, stand back.”

  The atmosphere begins to clench as a faint crimson energy crackles from his body. Sparks of dark lightning sizzle the surroundings, and the malevolent force concentrates at the tip of his fingers.

  Xeros brings his hand up and lets loose the thunderous aura straight into his scarred eye. Fog seeps out of the discharge, forming a small cloud of in front of his blinded socket. The aura condenses and thins until it covers the entirety of his iris and turns it an ominous black.

  His vision is no longer confined to the war room. Now, far away from the city of smog and haze, a similar cloud forms above the withered treetops of the Aeternum. It starts as an opaque blur, but slowly it grows larger, solid, more ferocious, until it gathers into a swirling nascent thundercloud.

  The energy parts way, and a gigantic, corvantine eye is revealed: its gazed directed to the scenery of destruction below.

  It is as Xeros feared. There, laying pathetically in the filth, are the remains of Gravitas. A single slash has severed him in two, the bisection cauterized by extreme heat. Did Lorelai triumph against him? That woman is stronger than I initially thought.

  Hm? Well now, this is peculiar. Most peculiar, indeed.

  In the distance, Lorelai’s corpse lies not too far from Gravitas’s own, her body sprawled out upon the earth and tainted by the mud.

  A great, euphoric joy burns in the bowels of Xeros’s gut, but something is amiss.

  Who has slain her? Not Gravitas, that is for certain. Another nation, perhaps? No, they are not close enough to deploy their elites without attracting my attention.

  Xeros looks closer, admiring the defiled visage of his long-loathed foe, before noticing a crucial oddity.

  Lorelai’s blades are gone. The twin treasures of the sun and moon have belonged to the Polus Kingdom since its inception; only another of the Seraph, or a being that can completely suppress the blades’ ego, are able to wield them. Those acknowledged shall be rejected, burning the veins and freezing the lungs. It is an experience the Grand General is personally familiar with.

  So who could have stolen them? Xeros sweeps his sight across the battlefield, attempting to locate any traces of the one who could have subdued two of the world’s strongest, but his scrutiny is met with nothing of worth. No tracks. No footsteps. All life has completely perished in the damned domain, and an eerie stillness corrupts the air. The forest is now truly a land of death.

  However, there is an oddity about the bodies that blanket the area. Although many bear no suspicious wounds, some have perished in rather bizarre manners—knight and legionnaire alike.

  There are those crumbled on the floor without so much as a missing limb, as if an intangible force eroded their bodies from the inside. Others have been reduced to grotesque piles of flesh.

  Regardless of the method, they all bear a stark resemblance: Their faces are gaunt with terror. Blood pools from their eyes and scratches cover the faces of those who attempted to disquiet the maddening whispers of whatever force invaded their mind.

  Xeros knows of only one possibility that could have brought forth this ruin, but it is impossible. The miasma has yet to rise. Remnants of Gravitas’s power faintly remain, and although the dark mist shows signs of release, not enough time has passed for its malaise to have such a visceral effect.

  No, there is something much more sinister afoot, but Xeros remains obscured to the truth. There is nothing that can be discovered in this necropolis.

  How unfortunate, infuriatingly so. There is nothing more he despises in this world than the looming threat of the unknown, and he is desperate to pursue further into the mysterious being that caused the massacre. But the strain in his eye is reaching its breaking point. He must return.

  The Corvid’s Eye fades into a scant wisp as the miasma swallows all before the eye finally disappears. Gravitas’s influence remains no longer, and he is consumed along with the other wretches.

  Xeros returns with a gasp, sweat dripping down his furled brow.

  “Gravitas is dead,” he states wearily. A wave of confusion submerges the members of the war room into a nervous murmur, but they are silenced with a wave of his hand.

  “However, Lorelai of the Heaven’s Throne has also perished. With their core leader dead, Polus is unlikely to act for now.”

  “How shall we go about the eastern front?” the administrator says. “It is only a matter of time before the Arch Magus grows suspicious of our lack of movement.”

  How, indeed.

  There is one available method, but the mere thought of considering it heralds an outpour of disgust from Xeros. However, he would be a fool to let go of such an opportunity.

  “Relocate Commander Libevich from the front lines to the east. We cannot risk exposing our rear to the Augurium Astrologians. Halt the main advance and order the legionnaires to take defensive positions.”

  “Libevich, sir? But her gift is not suitable for defense—”

  “Are you questioning me?”

  Xeros’s query thunders as an oppressive challenge. The administrator sinks into their seat. Their eyes dart and their hair rises from the increasing static discharge in the air.

  “No, sir. I don’t know what came over me, but I would never—”

  “Cease your bootlicking. It revolts me, those words filled with groveling deceit. Speak your mind or speak not at all. Am I clear?”

  The Grand General is not in a tolerant mood.

  “…Yes sir.”

  “Then get out. You are no longer needed here.”

  “At your word.”

  The terrified administrator bows their head before promptly exiting the room, their fleeting steps echoing amongst the ears of the room’s members. The others dare not speak, for they know what wrath awaits them if they are to break the silence.

  “Who does that thing belong to?” Xeros mutters, rubbing his tired eyes.

  “Alchemist Regent Nokron, sir,” one of the advisors states.

  “I expected as much. That man has become far too complacent whilst locked away in that laboratory of his. A leader’s qualification is reflected in their men; I cannot allow his failures to run rampant.”

  Perhaps a change of air shall serve to remind him of his duties. If not, well… there are many eager to take his place.

  “Hm, yes. This shall serve as the perfect opportunity. Have Nokron relocate to the Magnus Murus. The isolation at the fortress will give him ample time to discipline his personnel. If he fails, banishment will be the least of his worries.”

  “It shall be done.”

  “Very good.” Xeros rises up and massages his poor, stressed body. “Ah, and prepare an accompanying force of our legion’s best. Luxanne and I shall soon need depart.”

  The administrator is partially correct; that monster Libevich is not suited for campaigns of defense. However, she needs not to. All the Grand General requires of her is to buy him time.

  Time to seek out a fitting foe for the Arch Magus.

  The hooded scholar will be too occupied to launch an invasion, and when the Caelum forces have gathered in stride, then shall this twenty year long war come to an end.

  The Comet’s disappearance worries me, but for as long as no nation has control over their blessing, then it is no consequence whether I retrieve them now or after I have conquered Polus. Yes, everything is still proceeding as planned.