The auditorium at Calbridge University was filled beyond capacity. Students lined the back wall, media crews claimed entire rows, and academics murmured excitedly as lights flickered to life across the stage. The event was billed as “Post-Sovereign Ethics: A Debate with Nathan Hale”—a moderated discussion, polite and civil, focused on responsibility and legacy. Nathan stood at the podium, posture relaxed, sleeves rolled up. Harper sat in the front row, arms folded across her chest. Miko joined via holo projection behind him, the Sovereign Codex hovering like a living archive. It was all going as planned—until Professor Lucian Thorn took the stage. He was a respected historian, charismatic, impeccably dressed. But when he stepped forward with a thin microphone and a faint smile, something in the air shifted. Low. Cold. Harper’s fingers tightened immediately. “Mr. Hale,” the professor began smoothly, “before we discuss the future, perhaps we should revisit the past. Specifically, yo

The training amphitheater at Nova Point was fuller than Nathan had ever seen it. Rows of young Guardians—newly appointed from every continent—sat on stone benches carved into the cliffside, overlooking an endless spread of silver sea. Some wore lightweight armor. Others carried wooden practice staffs. All of them were waiting.Today was meant to be a demonstration. A gentle one.“Principles of Astral Integrity.”Nathan had barely stepped onto the sand of the open ring when it began.A young Guardian rose from the second tier and hopped down over the edge of the bench—light on his feet, coat swirling. His name was Darian Locke, Guardian of Europe. Talented. Fiercely proud. Too proud.He didn’t bow.Instead, he raised his chin so the sunlight caught the edge of his silver ring-blade. “With respect… I don’t need a lecture,” he said, voice strong and projected across the arena. “We aren’t from your era, sir. We don’t run from nightmares. We conquer them.”A few murmurs rippled through the

The rain had not stopped for three nights. It slicked the city in a constant sheen, glass and stone reflecting pale streetlamps like fractured stars. Nathan stepped through the revolving doors of the Aramond Hotel, his collar dripping, his patience thin. He had come here to meet a contact—someone whispering about the corrupted ones gathering in the city’s underbelly—but before he even reached the reception desk, the lobby turned into a stage. The marble floors glowed under golden chandeliers, but the warmth was an illusion. He felt it the moment eyes locked on him: a pressure in the air, subtle yet sharp, like a predator circling unseen. Behind the polished counter, the receptionist smirked. “Sir, this establishment is at full capacity,” she announced loudly, her voice pitched to draw attention. “We do not host… vagrants.” Her words carried, and heads turned. Guests in tailored suits, women dripping with jewels, businessmen nursing drinks in leather chairs—all turned to look at him

The rain fell in relentless sheets against the glass doors of the Grand Meridian Hotel. Lightning streaked over the peaks, throwing the marble lobby into flashes of ghostly white. Nathan stepped through the entrance, soaked to the bone, but carrying himself with the quiet certainty of a man who had faced worse storms than this.Yet, from the moment he entered, whispers slithered across the lobby. Guests in evening gowns and sharp tuxedos turned their heads, eyes narrowing. He could feel it—an undercurrent of malice not entirely human.Behind the reception desk, the clerk—an impeccably groomed man with a rehearsed smile—straightened his tie. “Mr. Hale, is it?” His voice was pitched loud enough for the entire lobby to hear. “I’m afraid we don’t accommodate your kind here.”The words struck like a whip. People froze, listening.Nathan’s jaw tightened. “My kind?”The clerk’s smile sharpened. “Those who consort with shadows. The corrupted ones.”A ripple of shock spread. One woman gasped,

Nathan did not pause as he stepped onto the cobblestone streets beyond the ballroom. The city air was thick with fog, curling around lampposts like smoke from a funeral pyre. The ash from the crown had not entirely left him; it clung to the edges of his coat and boots, a mark of the night’s reckoning. Each step carried the weight of his patience—and the promise of a counterstrike yet unseen.The shadows that had answered the call in the ballroom lingered in his mind’s eye. They whispered of corrupted wills, of arrogance, and of those who underestimated power born not from dominance but restraint. The city itself seemed to pulse, every alley and rooftop sensitized to the echo of that humiliation. Nathan could feel it—the hunger of unseen eyes, waiting for mischief, for a misstep. And yet, he moved deliberately, a predator pacing among prey that had forgotten the meaning of fear.A narrow market street opened before him, lined with stalls now deserted in the fog. Strange shapes lurked b