Year 12123, Era Elyndris
36:00/00:00
Atonement Room, Atlantis Magic School
"I can't believe this is happening," muttered the man in black, his thumb grazing the coiled dragon medallion—emblem of a bloodline famed for sacrifice and war. But tonight he looked nothing like a hero. His face was ashen, haunted, barely more than a survivor hiding behind old rituals.
Beside him, Julie—too clever, too young, too alone—squeezed her notebook tight, refusing to show fear. The glyphs on the stone walls shimmered whenever the candle flickered, casting the whole chamber in restless, mutating shadows.
"Someone's creating a shield," he repeated, voice hoarse. "A strong one. Juliet—are you really sure it's not you?"
"I'm sure," she said, but her voice shook.
Around them: five bodies. Not just anyone, but the greatest powers in Gaia—a grotesque, silent constellation. Blood still pooled on the stones, but not a wound to explain it. Julie's hands trembled, but she forced herself to write: All five. No wounds. No weapons. Bleeding from within. Why?
"It's like the spectrum itself is being strangled," muttered the Pastor, the oldest man in the room, now muttering prayers for a world that no longer listened. He flicked a handful of quantum motes into the air. They hung, lifeless, offering nothing. "Not even the elements are singing. It's as if the world's heartbeat just… stopped."
Julie's pen scratched across the page. "They all had Earth lineage. All suffered the same. Could it be genetic?"
"No," said Markuez, finally making his entrance—unseen until now. "It's not just blood. It's will. Someone's using the spectrum as a knife."
Julie froze, staring. "Why?"
"Because that's how you remake history," Markuez answered quietly.
The Pastor's hand shook, old rage re-surfacing. "Then it's treason. Or worse."
"History's full of monsters," Markuez whispered. "But only the clever ones survive to write the books."
He strode to the center of the carnage, voice lowering. "You want to stop this? Start with the spectrum itself. If it's corrupted, if it's weaponized, nothing—not council, not tradition, not even gods—will save us."
"But who?" Julie pressed, unwilling to give in. "Who's strong enough to manipulate the spectrum? Who'd dare?"
Markuez looked away, lips thinning to a cold, unreadable line. "Someone who already walks in the council's shadow."
A silence, electric and expectant, settled over the chamber. The Pastor murmured a benediction for the dead, but Julie was already moving, sketching glyphs from the walls, sampling residue from the blood, her mind whirring.
Earlier That Night: The Council Chamber
Power had always been a mask for fear, Lord Bismarck told himself, clinging to his dignity. Even as the others argued, old ghosts seemed to gather around the table, invisible witnesses to the failure of their plans.
Markuez lingered at the edge, a silver pendant flashing—an old dragon watching a dying empire.
"You think you have power, but it's all borrowed," Markuez said softly, a voice like a secret let loose.
One by one, the council turned toward him. Maximilian, skeptical, Ludwig, watchful, Beatrix, proud but wary. All of them heirs to ancient ambitions, now feeling time turning against them.
"I'm not here to condemn," Markuez said, "only to remind. There are things older and more cunning than you think—waiting for their moment."
He laid his hand on the obsidian table. Instantly, the glyphs glowed. The spectrum twisted in the walls, pulsing like a dying star. The air thickened, freezing them in place.
Gustav gasped, "What is this?"
Markuez's voice stayed calm. "Correction. The spectrum folds, the cycle resets. Your blood, your secrets—they unravel together."
Blood began to bead on their skin. At first a trickle, then a flood, as the quantum pulse inside their veins shivered itself to pieces. "No!" Beatrix gasped, trying to rise, but the air itself had become an iron band.
Markuez watched, face impassive. "You built this system on bones and lies. The spectrum just keeps the score."
As they collapsed, one by one, he whispered a final spell. The blood spiraled, glyphs flashed, and history took a sharp new turn.
Midnight. Markuez alone in his sanctum, violet quantum motes swirling around his hands. He sipped water, gaze distant. Did the world feel lighter, now that the dead weight of the council was gone? Or did it feel more dangerous, now that he alone carried the burden?
He felt the memory of every councilor—their ambition, their failures, the small cowardices they tried to bury. "Every sacrifice has a price," he said to the empty room. "The question is, who gets to pay it?"
He looked down at his own hands, bloodless, strong, but not quite steady. "Was it worth it?" he murmured.
The answer did not come. Only the steady hum of the spectrum, changed now—darker, wilder, full of echoes yet to be resolved.
Meanwhile, in the Atonement Room
Julie straightened, lips set in a line of resolve. "If he thinks this will end here, he's wrong." The Pastor put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off gently.
"This is only the beginning," she said quietly. "Someone has to remember what happened. Someone has to fight for the truth."
The candle burned lower, the glyphs fading into silence, but Julie's eyes remained bright, and her resolve, for the first time, felt like hope.