Medina Madrigal was dreaming.

She heard music, but the music had no melody. She felt a beat, but couldn't understand its tempo. The rhythm pulsated around her, only for her to realize it was a chaotic thumping—waves of discordance washing over her consciousness. But there was someone there. There was someone present. Someone with awareness and free will, but they could not act for they lacked the power to do anything meaningful.

Yet she knew she was dreaming. Or hoped she was, lest reality mirror the terrifying descriptions of Riven’s beach she had read about: an existence devoid of logic, where logic itself was being torn apart, where a compressed spring, upon release, simply uncoiled into dead rope. Incomprehensible and horrific. But there was someone present. A witness to it all.

Then came the bells—obnoxiously loud, chiming an off-key alarm. Medina panicked initially, jumping out of bed, but forced her breathing to slow. Whatever was happening, her father would handle it. He always did. Clinging to that comfort, she drifted back toward sleep.

When Medina opened her eyes again, she stared up at the familiar painted ceiling of her bedchamber—the one place she had missed above all else during her time with the Sixth Tier. Being a political pawn hadn’t been terrible; the women of the Sixth had welcomed her, surrounding her with a gruff, honest warmth. But nothing compared to home. As the distressing fragments of the dream receded, she swung her legs over the frame and slipped her feet into the remarkably soft slippers her grandmother had woven for her.

The hallway outside was unnaturally quiet. No sound of Mira turning down the linens, no clatter of soldiers training in the courtyard below. Just silence. She was home, yet entirely alone.

Padding down the long, expensively decorated corridor, Medina paused at Madark’s open doorway.

He wasn’t home, of course, and his bedroom was just as he had left it—a complete mess. Her younger brother was currently serving his stint as a ward—or hostage, as the First Tier nobility preferred to call it—to preserve the fragile peace between the First and Sixth Tiers, just as she had done the year prior.

Stepping inside, she picked up his practice sword—a beat-up length of timber that looked more like firewood than a weapon. Future Commander of the First Tier, she thought with a soft scoff. Poor Madark. He was far too busy throwing rocks, fishing, and brawling with commoners to care about the crushing legacy awaiting him.

She wondered what he was up to right now. No doubt those harlots Vessa or Tillina were vying for his attention, though Madark hadn’t shown real interest in girls yet. None she was aware of, anyway. She did miss Tommlin, though. He was a little plump and a year younger than her, but decent company when he wasn’t trying to show off his strength. Mostly, she missed the chaos Madark brought home—his friends competing to see who could hurl stones farthest onto the Second Tier rooftops.

She could still hear her father’s voice booming through the gardens: “Do you want to start a diplomatic debacle? The First Tier throwing boulders at our rivals?” he would scream, red-faced. “Do you want to see how vicious those Second Tier druids actually get?”

Setting the wooden sword back on its rack, Medina stepped into the hall. The air felt heavy, carrying a faint, acrid tang she couldn't quite place.

Where was everyone?

Usually, Mira would have brushed her hair by now, or her mother would be badgering her to sit by the reflection pools to sketch Lady Saj’a—the monolithic statue dominating the plaza between the Temporal Tower and the First Tier compound. Medina poured herself a glass of cold tea and sat by the window, gazing at the multi-story structure of living lignin carved into the image of Saj’a Raise. She wondered what it had been like to live during Saj'a's era, when the Eighth Tier was at the height of its power, conquering new worlds for the glory of Shrine.

Finishing her tea, Medina returned to her room, brushed her dark hair into a neat ponytail, and changed into something conservative to avoid the flattering glares of the younger First Tier guards. The older veterans knew better and looked away whenever she passed.

As she passed a window facing outward, she finally spotted signs of life. Movement near the garrison. A contingent of roughly fifty soldiers was assembling under the command of Captain Orin Yera.

Then came a distant whistle. It was an unusual, high-pitched sound—at first she mistook it for a bird, but looking out, she saw streaks of brilliant blue and purple light trailing across the sky. A second later, a massive shockwave detonated, popping the roof off the Third Tier Perch and sending stone tumbling down onto the Fourth Tier below. The rattle of the glass beneath her hands vibrated through her chest.

Medina stood wide-eyed, her pale reflection looking absurd against the backdrop of destruction, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away as debris rained down. An accident? How is this possible? Then she remembered the bells and the eerie silence suffocating the First Tier.

She stood frozen for a long moment until she caught sight of a tiny black dot hovering high above the Well in the center of the city.

Then came the heavy, metallic thunder of boots.

The entire First Tier garrison was assembling in the courtyard below. Hundreds of soldiers sprinted into formation, armor clanking in the morning light. At the center of the chaotic sea of steel stood Captain Yera and his top advisors, barking orders over the deafening din of the alarm bells.

The peaceful solitude of her morning shattered. Medina turned and bolted down the stairwell, her hem catching on the steps as she shouted at the top of her lungs for her mother.

She threw open the main doors just as a star seemed to explode near the center of the city—a flash brighter than anything she had ever seen. Medina saw her mother standing there, on the lignin overlook that could take in the full picture of the city.

“Mom? What was that?”

“I think wizards of the Seventh–” She tried to find the words. “I don’t know.”

Medina moved closer and hugged Alariel. Alariel ran her fingers through Medina’s hair and tucked several strands behind her ears. They stood for a long while. Their expressions eventually turned to that of sorrow and sadness as the dust over the Third Tier had finally settled and the plume the attack had created drifted off across the eastern plains of the city.

—

The entourage was small, but notable. Her uncle, Aris Ascarian, the Prime Mystarch, and her father, Miron Madrigal, Commander of the First Tier, emerged from the alignment. Medina hadn’t the faintest clue how the telemancers of the Temporal Tower manipulated the weave and its chaotic magnetic energies, but this alignment bridge looked frayed, strained, and dangerously unstable.

“That was only a little terrifying,” Miron said to Lady Kazarian as he stepped onto the solid lignin of the First Tier. His tone was sarcastic and dry.

Kara and Aris stood together, scrutinizing the portal as it slowly collapsed into a shower of insubstantial, crackling wisps of static energy then turned to each other with sad expressions. Aris nodded to his sister.

“Alariel, I–” He hesitated. “We will speak soon, I must be away to the tower to see if I can do anything to stabilize this.” Aris gestured broadly and Medina noticed the discoloration of his sleeves. Lady Kazarian turned to Alariel and embraced her quickly, whispering something into her ear that was swallowed by the wind and the clamor of shouting soldiers. She then pulled Medina into the hug. Medina caught the rich, intoxicating oils emanating from the woman, but the gesture felt unsettlingly intimate—almost as if Lady Kazarian were trying to press Medina’s head firmly into her chest. Medina instinctively resisted at first, but yielded to the embrace.

Aris then began the process of creating an alignment to the front door of the Temporal Tower, but the pathway formed poorly and Aris let out an audible grunt.

“Allow me to help, Arcanarch,” Lady Kazarian offered, stepping forward to assist. Medina and her mother stared at each other upon hearing the title. Working together, the two channeled the energy until the bridge opened—distorted, yet significantly more stable over the shorter distance. Aris gave a brief nod and stepped through, vanishing toward the Tower.

Then came the heavy footfalls of Captain Orin Yera as he halted before the group, breathing heavily.

“We need to stop this. I need to stop this. I need to–” Miron was turning to leave, but Alariel hugged and kissed him, and Medina came in for one more embrace.

Then Miron turned to face the stern and determined Captain.

“We received your messages, Sir. They were delayed and distorted, but we are prepared. There is something wrong with Primary 0. The Warlock isn’t functioning properly.”

“Aye. None of them are right now. The Seventh Tier is trying to restore them.”

The two men moved away from Medina and Alariel, but Medina, releasing her mother’s hand, followed. She had to embrace whatever was going on. She had to understand what may be her responsibility one day.

Miron stopped to look at his daughter. He hesitated for a long moment, then nodded for her to follow behind.

"What in the Abyss is happening, Commander?”

"The Battlemaster and Arcanarch went out early this morning. They lost. Both are dead," Miron replied grimly. "Whoever is attacking us is using Colossi to launch some kind of siege bolts using Warlocks to guide the trajectories mid-flight."

"A Warlock? Guiding siege artillery? How in the hells is that even possible?"

"It appears we are about to find out," Miron said, his jaw tightening. "And it gets worse. The Second Tier Commander is dead as well."

Orin blinked in disbelief. "Commander Wulfgin? How did that happen?"

"How many hands are ready to move?" Miron asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

"If we left now? One boarding gang and half a war-band," Orin answered promptly. "Give us an hour, and I can have a full boarding gang and a complete war-band mustered on the lower square."

"Not enough," Miron said flatly. "But we go to battle often with what we have and not what we wish to have. We will prepare the full Tier. Captain Delcors and Lady Alariel will guard the Tier." Miron glanced north towards the forests and mountains beyond the city. Medina knew what he too was thinking.

Captain Orin grimaced. Mobilizing the full Tier meant putting nearly fifteen thousand soldiers into motion—a logistical nightmare of armorers, supply wagons, and alignment corridors that had not been done in twenty years and drills that were often rescheduled or cancelled entirely.

“That’s going to be damned nightmare, Commander.”

“Certainly will be, but that’s why we are leaving all the hardwork to the girls and we can go do the easy stuff, isn’t that right, Medina?”

Medina scowled at her father. She had only tertiary knowledge of what was involved in that. “You never showed me any of that. What am I supposed to even do?”

Miron stopped. The dry humor vanished from his face, replaced by a hollow weariness Medina had never seen in him. For a moment, his broad shoulders sagged—not like a Tier Commander, but like a man crushed by the weight of his duty and failings. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly before resting heavily on her shoulder. Touching Medina seeming to give him some balance.

"No, love," he murmured, his voice cracking against the distant clatter of marching boots. "I’m not upset. Not at you. Never at you. This is my fault. All of it."

“No, dad, this isn’t. How could this possibly be your fault?”

Miron smiled and then he stared down at his calloused knuckles, seeing clearly for the first time how much time he had wasted playing politician while peace blinded them to the very real threats in the stars. He had become lazy and apathetic.

"The city grew soft," he whispered. "I let us grow soft. I should have been a leader. I should have built bridges between the Tiers. I should have helped make Shrine a better city. I should have supported those who deserved it, those who requested it. But–well, you know, in times of luxury, in times of peace, it’s easy to ignore the minor problems and placate the intolerable. But eventually–eventually that tide of neglect washes ashore and drags out to sea all we hold dear." Miron cleared his throat and looked at his soldiers assembling.

“If I were talking to your brother I would say–”
“Stop throwing rocks?”

Miron squeezed her shoulder and chewed on his lip.

“Probably that, aye. But I would say be a better man than me. But to you, I beg, be the person Shrine needs and most definitely that person you become will be better than me.”

Miron pulled his daughter in close and hugged her. He closed his eyes, took a long, shuddering breath, then pushed his daughter to arm’s length. “Face that tide.”

Miron forced his posture straight again. The cracks in his composure sealed over as he hardened back into a man of iron. When his eyes opened, the father was gone, replaced once more by the Commander.

“Captain!”

“Aye Commander!”

"We take two Warlocks with the vanguard," Miron ordered, keeping his pace brisk. "Leave two behind with the garrison, and keep our last one in reserve at the Tower as a fail-safe."

"Sir..." Orin hesitated, lowering his voice. "Can we even trust them right now? If Warlocks are guiding enemy artillery and being corrupted somehow?"

"We have no choice," Miron cut in sharply. "Without them, we march completely blind and deaf. We will not be able to communicate with the other Tiers, let alone coordinate our own lines. But it is a fair point. Ensure our spears have accurate aim if the Warlocks begin acting... unusual."

Miron paused, his gaze drifting to where Medina to stand beside Alariel. She was wide-eyed and deathly pale, looking less like a commander’s daughter and more like a girl frozen in time, caught between the sudden terror of war and the heavy burden of her bloodline, never having seen her father be so emotionally vulnerable in her presence.

"Speaking of trust," Miron said, dropping his voice to a low rasp, "I want a full audit from the Silent Ledger."

Orin’s head snapped around, his eyes flicking toward Medina, who had clearly caught the ominous title.

"The Ledger?" Orin whispered grimly. "Would you like them to... handle it with their usual finality, sir?"

"No," Miron replied firmly. "I do not want that yet, Captain. Keep the touch light, but ensure their eyes are everywhere. Scour our ranks for traitors and any suspect be held until I return."

"Understood, Commander." Orin saluted crisply, but before turning completely on his heel, he turned back to face Commander Madrigal. “I have faith, Commander. He’s tough.”

Commander Madrigal nodded, knowing the remark was about his son whose whereabouts were still unknown, and watched Orin sprint down the courtyard to relay orders to his lieutenants.

"What? What does that mean, Father? What is the—" Medina took a hesitant step forward, her voice trembling. “About the Ledger?” She clarified.

Commander Miron raised a single, stern finger to his lips, cutting off her question before it could echo off the stone walls.

"It means, Medina," he murmured softly, leaning in close, "there may be co-conspirators walking among us."

Miron bent down and kissed his daughter on her forehead. "Always be brave and never lose faith in yourself. And remember–We leave our all upon the shores and then we face the tide. But we always face the tide."

He turned and strode out into the chaotic courtyard, disappearing into the sea of marching steel toward the Fulcrum.

Medina stood frozen for a beat, watching her father vanish into the dust and din of mobilization. Driven by a desperate need for answers, she rushed past the guards and hurried toward the outer terrace—a lignin overlook perched high above the cascading tiers of the city, with a sweeping view of the Well in the distance.

Together, mother and daughter watched as the last vanguard elements began entering the alignment corridors below. Several older, much more experienced Aetherachs channeled the bridge. But the march was painfully slow. The Weave—the magnetic network of energy that guided the opening of the alignment pathways—was in total disarray. Word had filtered up from Aris Ascarian that the disruption was intentionally engineered by the enemy. Because the pathways could not be safely focused, the First Tier forces were to be marched a greater distance than initially anticipated, a significant distance further south than where the enemy had halted their advance and secured a hold. A distance that allowed for a stable enough alignment point, meaning there would be no immediate confrontation with the enemy force—only an agonizingly delayed response as the threat of a new volley loomed.

The mountain wind whipped wild at Alariel's dark hair—the same long, midnight-black locks that both Medina and Madark had inherited. Alariel stood motionless, her posture rigid as she stared down at the rising plumes of black smoke choking the lower levels. Her roots ran deep in the Second Tier; she still had distant relatives among the druids, having spent part of her youth raised there as a pseudo-ward for the First Tier—the very arrangement that had eventually brought her and Miron together. Now, her mother's face was etched with a quiet, terrifying agony. She was terrified for her husband marching into the chaos, and equally terrified for Madark who was somewhere deep in the Sixth Tier.

Medina closed the distance and wrapped her arms around her mother's waist. Alariel pulled her close, burying a hand in Medina's hair as they both stared out over the crumbling city.

"Mother... look," Medina breathed, pointing toward the horizon.

Alariel squinted through the haze, her eyes clouded with worry, unable to focus on the distant silhouette. But Medina’s younger eyes narrowed, locking onto the shape. It was another Warlock—another construct—suspended unnaturally in the air.

The creature hovered motionless for a terrifying beat, then slowly extended a slender, dark arm. It wasn't pointing toward Miron's departing vanguard. It was pointing straight down into the lower levels of the city—directly toward the fortified perimeter of the Sixth Tier.

Where Madark was.

Before Medina could voice the horror clutching at her throat, the air shrieked.

A fresh volley of high-velocity siege projectiles arced across the sky, leaving five distinct, blinding trails of blue and purple light in their wake before slamming with tremendous force upon the Sixth Tier. The impact rippled through the lignin foundation of the city, sending a concussive shockwave up the cliff face that rattled Medina's teeth and shattered the windowpanes of the First Tier compound. Thick, grey smoke and pulverized stone billowed from the lower district, completely obscuring their view of the devastation.

Alariel uttered a strangled gasp and collapsed to her knees, her legs giving out as the terrible certainty of disaster crushed her.

"Mom" Medina dropped down, wrapping her arms tightly around Alariel's trembling chest, pulling her close in a desperate effort to comfort her.

Then came a second barrage, landing with brutal precision, shattering what remained of the lower structures and sending massive shock-rings of dust expanding across the city.

"Madark!" Alariel screamed, her voice tearing raw against the wind, dissolving into frantic, ragged whimpers. "Madark! Miron! Come back!”

Medina felt a cold dread clutch at her stomach as the dust rings expanded, caught by the powerful updrafts of the city’s central abyss—the Well—which lifted the debris high into the sky.

For a moment, the city seemed to go silent. Then, across the wide plateau of the Fifth Tier, a myriad of embers ignited. First a dozen, then two dozen bright, fiery spheres erupted from the lower terraces, summoned by the Seventh Tier battle-mages.

All at once, the fireballs streaked upward toward the hovering construct.

Seeing the incoming barrage, the Warlock flickered. In a heartbeat, its dark silhouette dissolved into thin air, leaving behind what appeared to be empty sky.

The fireballs surged into the void where the creature had been standing. Then, two—three—suddenly exploded in mid-air for no apparent reason, unleashing blinding flashes of crimson that lit up the open sky.

Medina gasped, but as the smoke cleared, she realized what was happening. The Seventh Tier wizards weren't missing. They were intentionally detonating their fireballs as proximity flares. The violent bursts of heat and light disrupted the construct's optical concealment, revealing the shimmering, warped distortion of its physical form against the backdrop of the higher tiers of the city.

Exposed by the flashes, several fireballs that had veered off-course suddenly re-aligned their trajectories, locking back onto the thermal silhouette of the target.

The construct bolted, zipping through the air like a panicked bird, dodging several projectiles. But the remaining fireballs tracked its every movement. The construct dipped sharply, but two fireballs detonated on either side of its flank, the concussive force stripping away its momentum and speed. Another fireball, then another, slammed directly into the creature's core.

With its cloaking field shattered, the burning construct plummeted out of the sky, crashing hard into the terraced gardens of the Fifth Tier and leaving a long trail of smoldering wreckage.

Distant cheers echoed up from the lower soldiers of the First Tier who had been mobilizing up to this point, but halted to watch the aerial dance. But beneath the celebration, Medina caught a different sound altogether—a low, unsettling frequency rising beyond the city walls.

Alariel watched the construct fall just as a third volley of distant siege projectiles arced wildly overhead, missing the city entirely and falling harmlessly into the ocean. “Maybe,” Alariel whispered, her voice fragile with sudden hope, “maybe Madark is okay?”

“Mom,” Medina said softly, unable to match her mother's optimism. “Do you hear that?”

Having spent years studying with the Second Tier druids and reading theoretical treatises from the scholars of the AMS guild, Medina understood the dark ecology of their world. The living lignin that formed Shrine—the massive organic material cultivated to build structures like the Temporal Tower and the Fulcrum—shared an interconnected root network with the surrounding forests, presumably linking all life on the continent. When that lignin suffered catastrophic damage, or when enough blood soaked into its fibres, a trauma response was raised, the sudden resonance aroused the Underkin—vicious, nocturnal hunters—driving them into a ravenous frenzy. At least that was the prevailing theory, Medina considered.

Theory was a cold comfort now. Looking down at the shattered catacombs of the Sixth Tier and the destruction of the Third Tier, Medina realized the devastating truth: the city was bleeding, and the monsters were waking up.

Then, the sound cut through all the others.

It began as a low, guttural screech from the northern woods surrounding the city, rising into a blood-curdling shriek that echoed off the cliffside—chillingly unnatural, vicious, and screaming beneath a morning sun. The Underkin have gone feral.