To Your New Era

It was a vantage-point made for emperors, a vain attempt to make even the heavens jealous. The clearest glass he'd ever seen through crowned with its stained, hammered cousin. He'd often run his finger over its surface just to hear it squeak.

Years ago he'd held some naïve hope of stargazing from his quarters, watching the heavens writhe in jealousy as they turned from east to west. But the city had long since eradicated them, its own light and heat, by-products of burning life, overpowered all but the brightest stars.

It was fit for an emperor, but emperors weren't yet used to conquering stars; their dominion lay under their feet, so Provenance one night took their advice and cast his eyes down, and there were his constellations.

He found the figure of a horse rider where the stadium lights met the skyscraper behind it. Combine the many warehouses along the horizon into one picture, and he found the beginnings of a snake, mouth bulging with imaginary food. The neon signs hanging above city streets like crows were nauseating, but from on high, looked like a river ducking in and out from behind buildings, following the flow of footsteps.

A silent city. It's screeching cries of festering activity, individual cells clawing against each other as its stomach bloated. None of that reached his quarters, where a pin drop, a spider scurrying across its web, a footstep carrying ill-intent was enough to wake him at night.

This was a place of emperors, and it made him ill the longer he stayed.

The only respite from his prison-like predicament was a black telephone standing proudly atop a marble column. With its ring would come news of the outside world, that the letters he wrote and the pieces he dragged across his metaphorical chessboard were exerting their influence beyond the stained-glass window.

"Hello?"

"Provenance?"

He glanced at a small gauge above the number dial, its indicator pointing towards 'Aether Line'. Between that and the tinny voice box, only one Spirit came to mind.

"Yes, my friend. How are you?"

"It seems like we've been wire tapped"

Ever the one to get down to business. He could count the instances of small-talk between them on one hand. Eagerness was valuable, but exercises in trust and rapport equally so. He bit his lip, forced into accepting their transactional relationship simply by his friend's inherent value.

"Wire tapped? Aren't you using Aether lines?"

"It's harder, but not impossible. Do we change plans?"

"That depends. How much do they know?"

"Nothing yet. The code still holds."

When he was so close to the finish line, an adversary knowing of a threat was one step behind knowing what that threat was, and one step before Provenance considered turning tail. He was prude by nature, with a network that wasn't worth burning for a single victory, but in such cases doubling down was worth the risk.

"Then we cross the finish-line before they realise a race has started. Speed up your timelines; make sure nothing traces back to you."

The latter was a simple reminder. The cover-up was of his accomplice's making.

"That we can do. I'll brief the director."

"Godspeed. Before you go, friend."

"Is this about your mystery Witch?"

"…I'm afraid it is."

Antea paused for a moment, as though he were sincerely sorry for the disappointment Provenance could feel coming.

"It seems like Special Operations is just as tight-lipped no matter how far up the chain you are. I'm sorry, Provenance, but I've got nothing new for you."

"I understand. Thank you, Antea."

"I don't know who that is."

The line crackled and faded, leaving him once again with his solitude. He placed the receiver down—the walls swallowing even the phone's cheerful chime—and glanced at a palm-sized calendar under its stubby legs.

September. Only a few days left to spend with a stable Geverde. Provenance wasn't for burning his networks for a victory, but 'victory' wasn't an apt term for what he intended to do.

He took little pleasure in it, but if another war were to start, then his overlord's bidding he would have to obey. Speak of the devil.

A knock on the door. If not the wrap of heavy gauntlets, asking for an identity was pointless.

"Enter."

The dull brass hinges, aged at his behest, squeaked open. The servants insisted on grease, but Provenance forbade it, convinced the room's silence would work in an intruder's favour one day. Although admittedly, it was an exercise in paranoia.

"Am I interrupting?" the Empress asked, seeing his hand still resting on the phone.

"No," he said. "The opposite, in fact. You have great timing."

Relief fluttered across her face, and she took his greeting as an invitation to venture further into his chambers. No mysticism to her summons, no refreshments laid out on gold-plated platters, no procedure that Provenance, although unfamiliar with royalty, was sure existed. As though she were just a neighbour inviting herself over for dinner, the formality in her dress, her hair, her makeup had waxed and waned over the years in a downward trend.

She was growing comfortable, and Provenance had to bear it while the cold bite of an executioner's axe teetered above his neck.

"What brings you here tonight?"

"My husband wants the latest, as per usual. I did not leave it this late of my volition, if that's what you're wondering. My schedule was already end-to-end as it were, and I'm quite beyond dining with shallow company. Nary a moment to see my son."

Any sign of postpartum had evaporated with the snap of her fingers, leaving only a small child behind that Provenance only knew by name: Arna.

"I only hope I can make your visit worthwhile," he said, a phrase he must have reconfigured a thousand times over. Rightly, the Empress nary batted an eye, instead taking a seat by the window overlooking the city. She tapped her fingers against the armrest, and a glass bearing her choice of poison grew from the leather; a feature tragically barred from him. One sip seemed to undo the cork on her fatigue, and she melted into the chair, all while maintaining her posture.

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"You always do, my friend."

The words rolled off her tongue; her tell that his report couldn't be further from her mind, but the bite of that executioner's axe stung. If she wouldn't herself, he'd justify her visit for her.

"It was a call from my contact in Geverde. That...ambitious plan, as you put so kindly, is in its final stages."

"Final stages?"

"Yes. Somebody has picked up some unwanted breadcrumbs, but provided we move quickly, it shouldn't be a problem."

The Empress waved her hand, beckoning him forward with puppet strings attached to each finger. He obliged, rounding the back of her armchair and taking a timid seat beside her.

He dared a glance at her, at the stray strands of hair falling over her nape. Night robes, tailored and adorned with gold as they were, left less to the imagination.

"What is it?"

Her eyes arrested him, shining through the fatigue.

"No, nothing," he said, pulling his gaze back towards the city.

"You said somebody is following your trail."

"Apparently, yes. My colleague often keeps things brief, but this time I believe it's because he truly doesn't know who has him."

Sirens. In a surreal moment, the otherwise silent city was lit ablaze with wailing, piercing sound. Street lights dimmed first, then skyscrapers and mid-rises, snuffing out constellation after constellation.

"Was there a drill tonight?

"No. It must be the real thing. What a thrill."

Moonlight was weak. Whatever stretched beyond the city's sickly haze was invisible. Searchlights illuminated conical swathes of the sky, searching for something.

"And you aren't concerned about this development?"

"My colleague's cover or the Spirit attack?"

Empress Fanreth's eyes examined him, as though his question was in black ink across his face.

She chuckled, and it soon turned into childlike laughter.

Her delicate fingers circled the rim of her glass as she caught her breath. Provenance tried, but his manners failed him as he noticed a hint of exasperation let slip.

"I'm sorry," she said, still smiling. "I'm sorry, I assumed you were used to these things by now."

"You would think so, Empress."

What shimmering patterns the city had lost, the sky made up for, relishing its sudden opportunity with a spattering of new stars.

Provenance watched them, tracing their positions, hoping to find where in the tapestry they belonged. Instead, he noticed movement.

"I don't have reason to be overly concerned at the moment, no," Provenance began, restarting the conversation despite the apocalypse outside. "I don't underestimate Geverdian intelligence, but considering our timeline, I can't see them getting in our way."

"That doesn't mean they'll find out in due time. What then?"

The stars grew, their tails lengthening across the murky black, shifting from side to side until—

Boom. He felt it through his chair before he heard it, whatever it was, impact with the city dome.

Green fire exploded above the city, racing across the invisible outline of the largest magical pattern in history. Horizon to horizon, written so simply but at a scale and strength Geverde could not dream of.

Another boom, and his quarters rocked softly with the impact.

"Is this all still of no concern to you, Empress?"

Fanreth shrugged her shoulders, a mischievous smile hinting at a challenge. Provenance took it, although made his displeasure known through his expression in return.

"If they find out who's responsible," Provenance began, "then that will only create more problems for them. I never intended for my assets to get away with it. Once the damage is done, there is no turning back, prosecution or not."

The circling floodlights converged at a single point in the sky. A shimmering bead, too distant to discern anything else, caught the floodlights and shimmered, spelling out its own death warrant.

"It isn't like you. Sacrificing pawns for—"

"They aren't pawns...Your Highness."

If only for a second, if only by a hair, Fanreth's perfect posture broke, and retreated from him. He pursed his lips, regretting his mistake but more so fearing her reaction. A monarch shouldn't shrink before a commoner.

"Forgive me," he muttered, "but you can't know me in three years."

Fanreth didn't answer.

Thunder cracked. He wasn't yet used to the frequent raids, but Fanreth was right; some things he had grown used to, or at least familiar with. The room shook again, swaying violently under his feet.

He looked to the window again as the glass in his room settled, in time to watch the shimmering bead shatter. Another crack of thunder and a red flash from some other cardinal direction. The bead caught fire and began falling.

Now resembling a comet plummeting from heaven, the Spirit tumbled towards the city, either by chance or in a last-ditch attempt.

The dome caught it first, and the immovable object conquered. Flaming shards danced across its surface, red fire mingling with green.

Whatever tragic motive, whatever painful story, a fake aurora was all it amounted to. Impressive for a Spirit of that calibre, yet in the Emperor's city, any calibre below a human's wingspan was obsolete.

Calm returned. Sirens slept. Lights reawakened. The city returned to normal before his eyes. Simply absorbing its absurdity spent his energy. If war was surreal, Vesmos was fiction come to life.

With no show left to distract him, Provenance turned to face the music, but Fanreth refused him the same courtesy.

"That is all I have to report, Your Highness."

Still, she didn't move. Her lips pursed, her grip on her glass tightened, and finally, she turned to face him.

"Sometimes you make me wonder if my husband and I trapped a good man in a prison."

Guilt swam somewhere in her eyes, jewels scuffed by budding disillusionment yet far from broken, only teetering at the cusp of a downward spiral. Provenance missed the Empress that had greeted him years ago; he couldn't help but feel fondness for this one.

"Good man," he muttered, playing with the phrase as though it were a coin between his fingers. "Your husband is a great man."

She nodded. "A great man, yes…but not a good one."

Ambitious, naïve, idealistic. He was used to those words, but good. Good was too simple. Too one-sided.

"It's too constraining, the word good. It gets in the way of what I want to do. Seven wars deep and…I don't think it fits your definition, either."

Fingers fidgeting, tense shoulders, her habit of biting her bottom lip. To him, her concern was benign, but he realised too late that philosophical musings wouldn't make an anxious woman feel any better. But he couldn't lie either.

"Do you want to be good, Empress?"

That word which meant something different to everyone. Infinite possibly for miscommunication, infinite potential to be the proxy that builds bridges.

"Only if there's a place for my son in your utopia."

A request with no good faith answer. She knew as much, and he knew it was a desperate reach. Levity. Not his strong suit, but the situation called for it.

"There won't be room for any of us if I never find who I'm looking for," he said, too much disappointing truth in the quip for it to brighten his mood. Fanreth watched him, sceptical, but perhaps it was his break of character that roused her from bad spirits.

"How is your search going?" she asked. "Is there anything more we can do to help you?"

"Nothing that isn't downright heavy-handed," he admitted. "And I don't want to risk our current endeavour for my own selfish gain."

"Come now. You're using our wallet; you would do it in a heartbeat."

"I can't say I haven't considered it," he said, daring a smile. "But I don't like the idea of arguing with accountants.

"Me neither," she said. "Although I don't have to."

There it was—a little spark.

Hovering aircraft, coffin-like cockpits tucked behind broad, angular faces of bolted steel, swarmed around the Spirits' remains. Their Aether engines fluctuated in micro-adjustments as they nudged the broken pieces down the side of the dome.

"Witches in Excala mostly work through Special Operations. They've built a reputation from their inception of being the Queen's right hand. You'd imagine where the problems arise when you're trying to implant somebody into their ranks."

"And nobody inside is willing to lend you an ear?"

"Perhaps, but when they're holed up in a steel cave, it's hard to reach them. I thought for a moment I had gotten somewhere, but my dear Antea is having their own troubles."

Fanreth dug her head into the cushion of her chair. Her eyes fluttered, and her chest heaved.

"It sounds like a game of patience," she muttered, already halfway asleep.

"It is, but the rain is coming soon."

Fanreth had nothing left to say, nor the energy to admit it. Her chest rose and fell; soft breath passed through her slightly parted lips. Once he saw her fingers occasionally twitch, he knew there was no rousing her. He watched her instead—a predator showing its stomach—and discovered new constellations in her.

Slowly, he lifted himself from his chair and crossed the room, careful to keep the doorhandle's action silent. Two knights in black capes stood vigil in the dark hallway, what little moonlight found them mingling with the wisps of Aether spilling from the seams.

"She's asleep," he muttered.

"Yes sir. Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight."