Aileen walked through yawning ash doors worked to elegance by human hands, unlike most of the Fahllyr House of Gaolyan make. Gone was the confidence in her steps. She grudgingly shuffled her feet over the stone so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if she’d ground through the soles of her sabatons.

She hated—hate is too weak a word.

What about abhorred?

She abhorred her daily duties in the Fahllyr House. Standing guard by the First Emperor’s tomb was at the top of the list. As far as she was concerned, she was guarding the air from a few hundred years ago.

But she was a Fahllyr and should be an exemplary soldier, following rules and orders without questioning them… out loud. She often had plenty of questions about the wisdom of her superiors that she kept locked behind her teeth. That was what it meant to be a soldier.

And yet, Aileen intentionally took the long route to the Room of the Resting Dragon, leisurely traversing the outer corridors of the Fahllyr House instead of going straight to its heart. Aileen would fulfill her duty… after a slight delay. If anyone would complain—and no one would dare—she’d say she was held up touring the Ottarlans.

Gazing at the unclouded day on the other side of the windows and balconies, Aileen wondered if anyone would notice if she jumped out and ran away. The desire for something exciting, anything at all, grew as the first anniversary of her unofficial imprisonment drew near.  

“You’re freer than me,” she wistfully told a solitary skybream that broke off from its school.

The ribbony creature shadowed her, lazily swimming through the air while she walked, glass framed by gilded iron between them. Skybreams hibernated during hot seasons, but there were more than usual the past few days, made restless by the shifting aileh beneath the Hold.

The Fountain drew near. If she’d ever find the resolve to leave everything behind, she’d do it after.

“I’m not going to let the opportunity pass this time,” Aileen muttered as if she could’ve done anything during the previous one. She was just a dumb toddler that could barely walk then.

Every twenty years, give or take some, aileh streams would change directions and surge into the Krysperian heart node, the biggest of Tabithala. There were no records of this phenomenon before the War of the United, so something must’ve changed during or after it. Plenty did change when the Blighted Multitude consumed the East, and a cog in the workings of nature probably got knocked loose somewhere. But those learned in aileh matters, the few that survived the War of the United, couldn’t discern its cause.

To this day, still, no one knows.

The people three hundred years ago couldn’t just braid their hairs while it happened.

Pressure builds up in the heart node when aileh reverses its flow. It was like a volcano priming itself to spew lava. Or a pimple getting squeezed—Jel’s favorite analogy—the pus straining against stretched skin until it’d burst out. Lava, pus, or aileh, any of those erupting wasn’t particularly desirable, the last being the worst. Aileh may be life, but as Aileen’s mother would often tell her, the same as practicing for hours until her hand blistered and coaxing lines bled did more harm than good, too much of anything was bad.

Even too much of life was bad. Aileen was proof of that, her sister would half-jest. ‘Aileen’ was a modern form of a Gaolyan word that roughly meant ‘bursting with life.’ Learning more about surging aileh after staying at the Hold for several months, Aileen couldn’t help but wonder if her mother had powers of foresight in choosing her name.

Aileen was thankful for the name, however. She liked it, one of the few things she’d agree with her mother.  

She was also thankful for the engynare adepts and sealcrafters of old who devised a way to control the aileh surge—the Tiberian System, named after Archmage Clement Tiberius, who headed the project. The ‘Big Spigot,’ as Jel liked to call it, was a network of massive energy pylons, constructs of lost technology, and layers of seals beneath the Hold, so complex Aileen’s brain might turn to mush if she dared attempt to understand.

It was enough to know the Big Spigot would release pent-up aileh in a controlled manner—a cascade of light, showering Krys, the imperial capital, and the rest of the valley for several days. The Fountain.

Plants would grow even in the most inhospitable places, and animals would rapidly multiply for a season, forming bigger Cores within them. The weak would be strengthened, and the sick cured. There were reports of blind people gaining sight and rare instances of regrown limbs. Tens of thousands of pilgrims had pitched a sea of tents outside the city walls like a besieging army, counting down the days until whichever gods they believed in would supposedly cause the ‘miracles.’         

For her part, Aileen hoped to achieve enlightenment in sealcrafting, any form of breakthrough, a spark of higher understanding when aileh was at its most dense and potent. There were stories of heroes born of ordinary people after bathing in the Fountain.

“Yes, I should wait for after the Fountain Festival.” Aileen nodded at the skybream as if it had convinced her. “Then I’ll run away.”

But to where? To the Unclaimed Lands at the eastern fringes of Tabithala?

She could hunt remnants of the Blighted Multitude, writing her legend with her own power. If she’d become famous, with a list of impressive feats to her name, long enough to make the Ancestor Dragon proud, maybe her family would forgive her for running away. This was a foolproof method to escape the godawful inane duty of guarding centuries-old stale air.

A guttural bellow interrupted the stupid plan materializing in Aileen’s mind.

She cocked her head. “Is that a halkor?”

At a young age, Fahllyrs were taught about various beasts with useful Cores, learning about their behaviors and training to hunt them if need be. Halkors weren’t native to Aderenthyn mountains, living near Meghindr, far west of Krysperia. But several specimens had been brought to the Fahllyr fortress manor, one of them Aileen had fought bare-handed.

Her father’s furious scolding from six years ago echoed in Aileen’s ears.

She was tasked with surviving a young bull halkor released in the manor’s training grounds, evading it through rocky obstacles and thick growth for as long as possible. Thinking of her mentor’s instructions as mere suggestions, her immature younger self charged the halkor head-on as if she was in a beast arena. She wanted to prove herself to her father watching.

Sadly, Aileen couldn’t recall much of the fight. Her next sliver of memory was waking up in the medical ward with broken ribs, her stomach torn open, and a leg hanging by a few strands of muscles. She’d never forget the sound of a halkor, and she vowed she’d fight and win against one someday.

But why was a halkor here? Aileen stopped to open a window. Her skybream friend fled.

The humid summer breeze slapped her with its stickiness, throwing her free auburn hair into disarray. Sunlight soaked the wildly swaying strands, their deep reddish brown turning into gossamer amber. A mouthful of hair was Aileen’s reward for her constant refusal to secure her long locks into pinned braids like the rest of the women in her family.

Aileen hurried to tame her hair before anyone saw her shameful state, coiling them from the root like overgrown weeds and pulling the twisted bunch against her neck. Her eyes swept the Hold grounds. Workers and Frames were busy constructing raised benches and platforms for upcoming festivities. None looked her way.

She checked her appearance on the window’s glass, grimacing upon seeing her translucent reflection.

“You don’t look bad,” Jel would say whenever she noticed Aileen making angry faces at a mirror. Her cousin would then list prospective suitors from other martial families.

“It’s not about that,” Aileen would exasperatedly answer. “And I’m not looking for a husband.”

Aileen’s face was too gentle for a soldier’s, no matter the expression she’d make—that was the problem. Her older sister and even Jel had the air of being battle-hardened. In comparison, Aileen would better fit as a nanny for little Emalee. She also couldn’t get a proper tan, her skin reddening to a tomato if under the sun for too long. She wore bulky plate armor instead of Powercore to appear more intimidating, even if it was sometimes uncomfortably toasty.

Sometimes, Aileen would think of scarring her face to look tough, but would then remember her wounds quickly healed because of the Biosyn’s generous gift to the Fahllyr Bloodline.

Another roar from the halkor reverberated, powerful and angry, snapping Aileen out of her woes. A refrain of other bestial calls answered.

Rounding the tower by the curving east wing’s end, a pair of metal heads appeared in the likeness of groffs. The bodies of the artificial beasts followed, half taller at the shoulder than the groffs they were modeled after but plodding on the same six pillar-like legs. The Burden Frames pulled a line of wheeled cages fortified with holding sigils, each containing a fearsome creature.

The first had a halkor, its massive arms straining to bend open the side of its cage, unknowing that sheer strength was the last thing to use against a holding sigil. The next cell held a crackal, gnawing on the bars with fangs long as knives. A cragodon in the subsequent cage tried in vain to ram its way to freedom with its branching nose horn the size of Aileen’s torso.

What were these beasts doing here? These animals didn’t look like they’d be for a zoo.

“They’re bringing back the beast arenas?” Aileen whispered, releasing her coiled hair to grab the window sill. She leaned so far out, another inch forward, and she’d topple over.

Bolstering her hunch, other Burden Frames ambled into view, drawing more caged beasts. Some Aileen had only seen in books, three she couldn’t identify at all. The fascinating parade made its way to the other side of the Fahllyr House. The animals would probably find a temporary home in the mostly empty west tower until the Fountain Festival.  

A few centuries ago, beast arenas pitted Molders and Melders against powerful beasts, the source of Cores. The deadly games displayed the supremacy of humans as masters of all creatures and had religious connotations while entertaining the masses. But with the Blighted Multitude drastically reducing fauna populations and countries reluctant to frivolously waste their Core stocks, wary of former allies turning enemies, beast arenas were gradually retired to memory.  

Most of all, the intention of beast arenas was on a different page from the worship of the Ancestor Dragon. It was rumored that the Krysperian royal family had a hand suppressing those sorts of games.

A boulder of disappointment dropped on the child Aileen when her tutor taught her this sad chapter of history. She bawled while her tutor was befuddled by her reaction.

Besides dragons, Aileen was likewise obsessed with beast arenas, reading about them in any Lost Period literature she could collect. Her father was only too willing to pay for her supposed scholarly interests, not knowing she only read parts of the expensive books over and over and over again. Often, she’d daydream of deafening cheers from thousands of fans as monstrous opponents twice her height and several times her weight bore down on her, brandishing fangs, claws, or horns. The ancient beast arenas partly inspired her wish to fight a dragon—the ultimate challenge.

The games for the Fountain Festival were probably for historical purposes. Having come of age a couple of years ago, Princess Adelind Melusine was taking charge of her first major imperial event. She was known for collecting relics from before the War of the United and patronizing the arts relating to the Lost Period. To remove paganistic perspectives, Aileen surmised they’d allow all to participate, not just Molders and Melders. There were so few still practicing the ancient arts.

It was good news and all… but would Aileen be allowed to join? As an imperial soldier, likely not, same as she was prohibited from participating in tournaments hosted by the crown.

But I have to fight the halkor, Aileen mentally whined. I promised myself!

Forget the halkor. It wasn’t even the same one that humiliated her; it had already been killed for its Core. She preferred taking on beasts she hadn’t seen before, childish curiosity bubbling inside her, burying any sense of danger.

“Why didn’t Jel tell me about this?” Aileen asked as the train of beasts rolled out of sight, perfectly knowing why. And it was a good reason. Wild ideas swirled in her mind like the school of frolicking skybreams above her. She needed a plan to join the tournament.

Would a disguise work? She wasn’t confident of making herself unrecognizable short of rolling in mud. A mask, perhaps? She had seen participants in various tournaments don masks, hiding their identities both as a strategy to surprise the enemy and also to keep secret the might of the countries they hailed from. After all, they were displaying their abilities to a foreign power.

A few days should be enough to make a fashionable mask that’d also strike fear into her enemies. She’d throw on an inconspicuous cap or hood to conceal her hair that was too distinctively Fahllyr. She would cut her arm off before her hair.

Then, what about wearing a full-face helmet?

“That’s a good idea, a full-face helmet.” Aileen nodded at her skybream friend who had returned. It twisted its head sideways to look at her with three eyes lining it as if it could comprehend her words. “I know it’s a stupid plan, okay?” She flicked her hand at the skybream, causing it to flee once more. “But I can’t just fly away from boredom like you…”

Her elbows on the window frame, she propped her head, palms on her cheeks. Sometimes, while doing rounds, she’d stop and stare at the peacefulness inside the Hold—the most secure place on Tabithala—and wonder why she couldn’t just sit still and enjoy this.

Many would fight, would kill for an opportunity like this.

But what Aileen wanted was an opportunity to kill.

She sighed as the rest of the skybreams soared up and away. They might’ve sensed her seeping bloodlust.

A few minutes more to watch the festival preparations, and Aileen promised to head to the Room of the Resting Dragon. The three guards assigned for the earlier shift at the First Emperor’s tomb should find no problem standing a tad longer. They were Fahllyrs, soldiers through and through. And it wasn’t like they had anything better to do.

Just like me. Aileen sighed again. It was hypnotic seeing men and hulking Frames swing their tools, the sounds of hammering almost a lullaby.

Unfortunately, the world connived to interrupt the rare moment of tranquility Aileen had found—clinking metal approached the corner at the hallway’s end.

Standing straight, Aileen ran her fingers through her hair in a hasty attempt to comb it. She was familiar with the sound of people in armor. It was getting louder. Contrasting iron or steel, the clapping plates had a dull, almost stifled tinge. She couldn’t mistake that sound for anything else. It was fierron, the Dust-forged metal used for Powercore Armor.

The group of Fahllyrs, for who else could be strolling in this place wearing Powercore Armor, rounded the corner. Unlike Aileen, gathering buckets of sweat in her suit of plate armor, evaporating them with sheer stubbornness, her relatives should be cool in their enchanted ensemble. They were led by Jelisaveda—Jel, for short, but only Aileen calls her that—cradling her helmet under her arm. Two more Fahllyrs, helmets covering their faces, flanked Jel.

The Powercore Armors, emblazoned with the ever-tiresome owl king, had adjusted to well-fit their bodies. No swords on their backs; the broad Fahllyr blade was quite unwieldy indoors. Core shards of various colors studded the fierron white, connected by Dust veins under ornate golden embossing. Fierron was like bone, dull under the sun but with an unearthly ivory sheen in the shade, seemingly coming from inside.

The three briskly walked down the hallway, discussing something in hushed tones. They quieted when they saw Aileen.

Jel raised a judging brow, her blue eyes like searchlights from the backdrop of her rich caramel complexion. Rows of red braids lined her scalp, secured by simple pins in a tight coil behind her head that’d snugly fit in a helmet. She opened her mouth.

“Hello, Jel!” Aileen spoke first, jovially waving in a wide arc though they were in front of each other. “A pleasant weather we have today.”

Aileen’s button nose and slender face contrasted with Jel’s strong features. Aileen felt envious since she took after her mother of the Samaheri House rather than the Fahllyr line. Thankfully, she inherited her father’s hair—this was the badge the Biosyn-engineered Fahllyr Bloodline ran in her veins.

Aileen nodded at the two with Jel. That was all she could do to acknowledge them. Unlike Jel, Aileen couldn’t recognize most people in the Fahllyr House if their faces were covered. The two stood straight, clicking their heels together, and made the sign of the owl king, which Aileen reciprocated.

Jel also did something with her fingers, unnoticed by her companions—a rude gesture of commoners. “I know you’re not supposed to be here,” she said. “Aren’t you assigned—”

Aileen cut through, “The three of you look serious.” She pointed at the helmeted Fahllyrs. “Well, I can see only Jel’s face, but I assume you’re both serious too. Where are you all heading in such a moderate hurry?”

“The crux sigil,” Jel replied, referring to the main controls of the Tiberian System housed in an underground vault near the imperial palace. Jel looked at her companions and nudged her head down the hallway. They moved ahead after bowing to Aileen. After they disappeared into the bend further on, Jel continued, “Those were Quinn and Daryl, by the way. I know you didn’t recognize them.”

“I’ll invent a helmet with a glass faceguard,” Aileen said. She should’ve guessed Quinn and Daryl—her cousin’s informal mentees in sealcrafting. “If you don’t mind me prying, what’s the problem with the crux sigil?”

“I can’t stop you from prying,” Jel sighed. “Abnormal signals detected, increasing since around dawn. Fluctuating levels of aileh shouldn’t happen, as all streams should be flowing inward by now. I’m not really sure about the issue. Heading there to find out.”

“Is the aileh surge happening early?”

“Don’t think so. Something else… and it’s serious. All Fourth Orbit and up sealcrafters in the Hold are called for a meeting by Premier Eamon.”  

“The Tiberian System can’t be—Did you say Fourth Orbit? I’m a certified Fourth Orbit sealcrafter. I worked hard for the Dust-blasted exams! Why wasn’t I invited?”

“Premier Eamon called for sane sealcrafters. It goes without saying that you’re not included in that category.”

“I’m being serious here,” Aileen said, though she wasn’t.

“Everyone knows you’re not going to come,” Jel exasperatedly replied.

“I just want to feel wanted.” Aileen pouted. Jel was right that she wasn’t going to show up. Aileen avoided the Premier, her great-granduncle, who was very strict regarding her sealcrafting path. Fahllyrs formed a large part of the Overseers managing the Tiberian System. They also guarded the crux sigil.

Things must be serious if her great-granduncle didn’t want her around. A prospective cure for her boredom?

“Well, here’s your invitation,” Jel said, extending her hand, “come with me to the meeting.”

Aileen grinned. “And I humbly refuse your invitation.”

“Then I’ll be going along now. As for you, aren’t you supposed to be at the Room of the Resting Dragon?”

“Yes. I’ll also be going my way.” Aileen waved at Jel, who stomped in the other direction, grumbling about duties. Aileen was just killing time since she couldn’t kill anything else. If she could annoy Jel while at it, even better.

Only with Jel could she have a semblance of a normal conversation. The other Fahllyrs her age in the House were too tense and formal when talking to her—Jel wasn’t exactly her age, two or three years older than her, if she wasn’t mistaken—but age wasn’t why Jel could speak so casually with her, though coming from a branch family.

As much as Aileen hated thinking about it, Jel was stronger than her. Strength matters most for Fahllyrs. Next to dragons and halkors, Jel was also on her list of opponents to defeat.

“Another good reason not to run away for now,” Aileen muttered. “Maybe I should try praying to the First Emperor for guidance.”