It was the tallest tower in Whitestone castle, known both as the Observatory Tower and the Astronomy Tower, a sentinel that overlooked the enormous, sprawling city far below. From this height, the labyrinthine streets were invisible in the twin lights of the moon.

  Szilard of Clan Altek lingered in the shadowed doorway leading to the tower’s outer ledge. He was among the finest of their clan, and his reputation as one of Ravenian Kingdom’s most skilled infiltrator and master of camouflage was unmatched. For a few years, he was stuck here performing a mission for his ruler. It was a mission that promised both risk but also of high glory.

  He was to journey into the human realms and deliver word of the heroes’ summoning, and should his ruler command it, eliminate them. He was not alone in this as dozens have taken this mission in hopes of winning favor and glory for themselves.

  His mind wandered as he stared outside from the crack of the door. Glory. Recognition. Perhaps even the hand of the empire’s fairest lady, should fortune favor him. He had long harbored ambitions of proving himself—not just as a soldier or a scout, but as someone worthy of skill, courage and being feared.

  And yet, he counted himself lucky. If the previous ruler had been Cinderion, had he still been in command, such undue thoughts towards his sister would not have been forgiven. Szilard shivered at the thought, under that lord’s wrath, a single misstep might have meant being burned alive, a thousand times over.

  Tonight, however, the path ahead seemed less certain but infinitely more possible. The wind caressed his face, carrying with it the scents of the city below and the faint, metallic tang of the castle’s highest reaches. Every shadow along the tower’s battlements seemed a friend or foe in disguise, and Szilard felt the familiar thrill of anticipation curl in his chest.

  This was his moment, he told himself. His chance to step from the ranks of skilled warriors into the realm of legend. Tonight, he had already fulfilled part of his mission—he had sent word that the heroes had been summoned by this weak kingdom no less. His next orders were clear, observe them closely, and identify anyone among them who was not meant to be there and should they prove troublesome, eliminate them.

  From what he had heard from the guards, there was one—someone who had been summoned by mistake. Szilard had only glimpsed the heroes while delivering their meals, but according to the guards’ descriptions, this extra individual was impossible to miss.

  He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of unease. Depending on how closely he had to watch, he might be forced into something risky, perhaps even outrageous, just to get near his target. But luck, as always, seemed to favor him tonight.

  Earlier, while keeping watch over the corridor where the heroes were sleeping, he had noted the four guards stationed outside the room. Just as he was about to retreat and wait for the next opportunity, the guards unexpectedly walked away, leaving the door unguarded.

  Then his mark, had appeared by the door. Casually, almost nonchalantly, the extra person, fat in stature, stepped out into the hallway. The opportunity was too perfect to ignore. Without hesitation, Szilard followed, his movements silent and deliberate, slipping and melding into the shadows like the master infiltrator he was.

  It was his power, his clan’s power, to slip into the shadows and command them as weapons or tools. He could not get closer at that might alert his mark, so he kept distance, but he stayed near enough that the man’s silhouette never left his sight. Tonight, every decision, every risk, could carve his name into the stories whispered across the world.

  His mark walked for a long while, wandering through the quiet corridors as though aimless. Every so often, the man stopped to study a painting, tilting his head in contemplation, lingering as if caught by some detail only he could see.

  Szilard watched, puzzled. Was this one searching for something?

  Strangely enough, they had not met anybody tonight, not run into any patrolling guards or maids going for a tryst. They liked to do those things, these human females, despite being tidy in appearance they were rather, promiscuous. Then men, in contrast however, acted like the creatures they called boaroxes.

  Then he noticed another strange detail, the man made no sound when he walked. Not a scuff of a boot. Not the brush of cloth. Nothing. Szilard frowned but dismissed the thought for now. Some humans were simply light-footed he thought.

  Eventually, the winding path led them both to the tallest tower in the castle. Szilard remained hidden as his mark climbed—hand over stone, foot over ledge—with surprising ease, pulling himself onto the battlements as though he had done this a hundred times before.

  Is he going to jump? Szilard wondered. Good. Better that he dies on his own—it would make my task much easier.

  But his mark did not jump, instead stood up and gazed at the stars, a look of wonder on his face. The twin moons bathed him in teal light, and for a moment he simply stared upward, his face softened by awe. A quiet wonder shone in his eyes, as though the night sky itself had offered him a secret meant only for him.

  Szilard watched from the shadows, the expected outcome dissolving into confusion. This was not the behavior of a frightened mistake or an accidentally summoned person. This was something else entirely.

  But Szilard would not be deterred. His masters had tasked him with observing and reporting, and he would do so. And he would be rewarded for it.

  For what felt like an entire day, his mark remained on the battlements, unmoving, simply staring up at the night sky. Szilard’s patience was tested, but he remained hidden in the shadows, waiting.

  Then—footsteps. Behind him. Someone was climbing the tower.

  Instinctively, he melted further into the darkness, slipping up into the rafters, blending with the shadows like smoke. From the doorway emerged an old woman, cane in hand. Szilard blinked, incredulous. Humans weren’t supposed to have strength like that at her age. How could she ascend the winding staircase of the tallest tower without showing the slightest sign of fatigue?

  He pushed the thought aside. There were more immediate concerns. The woman stepped out onto the battlements, her presence silent yet unmistakable. Szilard silently went back to his original hiding spot behind the doorway.

  His mark did not turn. He did not flinch. The woman stopped a few paces behind him, but he seemed to expect her, as if her arrival was expected. Both of them—man and elder—stood silently, gazing at the stars for a few moments.

  “So,” he said, scratching the back of his head without breaking his gaze, “the mages planned to get rid of two people who could threaten the world.”

  He paused, then added, with a faint, wry undertone, “Not exactly the best opening line I’ve said.”

  The old woman snorted. “It is looking that way, isn’t it? But, why bring other people along?”

  “The million-dollar question,” his mark replied, eyes still fixed on the stars. “This whole situation is… strange. We were booted from our world for different reasons, yet somehow, some planet out there is conducting a summoning, and the candidates just happen to include the very people who were with us. Two plots? Or are they one and the same?”

  “The one who gathered all of them, was Konrad and Diocletian, relying on their informant,” the old woman said, her tone grave. “We should have pressed them on the nature of their informant. Odds are high they come from this world.”

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  “Agreed,” he said. “But their reactions when they were summoned, it didn’t seem like anyone expected the mages to act like that. Or us being summoned.”

  “No one did,” she said softly, a hint of resignation in her voice.

  For a long moment, the two of them stood in silence, letting the weight of that reality settle between them. Above, the twin moons cast their pale teal glow, reflecting in the distant city below and bathing the tower in quiet, haunting light.

  Szilard, hidden in the shadows, listened intently, mind racing. The more he heard, the less this seemed like a simple mission. Observing and reporting was one thing—but understanding what he was witnessing, the layers of plots and alliances, might be the difference between survival and disaster.

  “Maybe,” his mark said breaking the silence, lowering his hand after running it through his hair, “their informant was supposed to reveal themselves within the week. But because of the mages’ interference, we got yanked here instead.”

  “A possibility,” the old woman murmured. Her cane clicked softly against the stone as she shifted her weight. “What about the entity that summoned us? Is it malevolent?”

  “There is a possibility,” he replied slowly. “I could not truly sense it. Two of this world’s gods tried to contact me during the transition, but they couldn’t reach me. That royal mage opened the door for our summoning—but something else was interfering. I felt it as we got dragged in.”

  The old woman mulled over his words, her brow tightening. After a moment she asked, “Can you convince them that we were summoned by a malevolent entity?”

  “Already working on it,” he said. “I need at least three solid reasons. I’ve got one so far. Give me two more, and I can drop that truth on them like a bomb.”

  The old woman nodded, then tilted her head back to gaze at the night sky.

  “It’s really a beautiful world,” she said, the beginnings of a smile forming on her lips.

  “Yeah,” his mark replied, still staring upward. “The way the mana streams flow—”

  “I’ve been in five, heard of six,” he finished, “but I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a world like this.”

  “Nine mana streams,” the old woman said, her voice low. “It feels… artificial.”

  His mark nodded silently, still facing the sky.

  Szilard’s mind raced. Two plots? Mana streams? Artificial worlds? He pressed himself deeper into the shadows, determined not to let a single word escape him.

  After a long pause, the old woman finally asked, “So… what’s our next move?”

  “My first priority,” his mark said, “is to figure out exactly where we are. Next is to find out how many players are involved.”

  Then he did something that made Szilard’s heart pound. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted one foot off the battlements, then the other. Before Szilard could react, the man was floating in the air, seated cross-legged as if some invisible force held him up.

  Szilard’s breath caught. His mind raced, but the conversation continued as though nothing had changed.

  “My concern,” the old woman said calmly, “is that we must be ready for your family… and Kuuko’s family… when they learn the truth about us.”

  “Divide and conquer, as they say,” his mark replied, slowly turning on the spot. Then his eyes caught the moonlight.

  Blood-red. Slit like a drakes’ it was unnatural. Unnatural. They glinted sharply, reflecting the twin moons, and Szilard felt a chill crawl down his spine.

  These people were no ordinary humans. Perhaps they were—but far more dangerous than any Szilard had encountered. Where his master radiated power, these—beings, hid their power behind calm, unshakable demeanors and wore the guise of humans.

  “You have a plan then?” the old woman pressed.

  “I do,” his mark said, a wide, gleeful smile stretching across his face. “There are more than a dozen questions and strategies I’ve had on my mind since we got summoned. But before I explain… what role would you like me to play in this grand game?”

  The old woman paused, considering for a long moment, her gaze drifting over the glowing city below. “Just as I have taught you. Just as we have taught you,” she finally replied.

  A mischievous grin spread across his mark’s face. Then, with a fluid motion, he rotated—upside down from where he had been floating—defying the very laws of balance and gravity.

  “Alright then,” he said, voice eager, “listen carefully to plan divide and conquer.”

  He began to outline a plan—a plan for the heroes, one that moved pieces and set strategies in motion, a plan that Szilard knew he must report to his master immediately. Every word, every step in the strategy, could shift the balance of power.

  Szilard’s mind raced, trying to parse the implications. He remained hidden in the shadows, listening with acute attention. This was no ordinary mission anymore. This was a glimpse into a web of power and cunning that could alter worlds—and he was the only one who could carry the news back to his masters.

  When he finished, the old woman gave a satisfied nod. “Make sure to keep our granddaughters safe,” she reminded him firmly, her voice carrying the weight of command.

  “Always have,” he replied, his tone gentle.

  The old woman snorted. “Really? And what about that little prank you pulled?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, it’s true,” he said, a hint of petulance in his voice. “Besides, I was annoyed at the whole situation. And, at my titles.”

  “Why didn’t you just hide all of them?” she asked, confused.

  “That’s the thing, I tried to hide all of my titles and skills, and there was a fuckton of them,” he said, shrugging and slowly rotating back right side up, floating effortlessly. “But the ones that appeared in their… evaluator thingy? Those were the titles I couldn’t hide.”

  The old woman’s eyes widened, her expression shifting to sheer disbelief. “Really?” she asked, voice rising with incredulity. He nodded vigorously in confirmation.

  Then, he casually raised a finger. From the tip, bands of orange fire unfurled into the air, twisting and coiling until they formed glowing words.

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  “Then there’s this,” he said, gesturing toward the fiery display, “This is a skill I didn’t hide. I wanted everyone, or at the very least, the king and the mage to react to it, yet somehow, it didn’t show up in the display.”

  The old woman leaned closer, her expression a mix of curiosity and confusion. Szilard, hidden in the shadows, felt his pulse quicken. Every word, every magical manifestation, was another thread in a tapestry of power far beyond what he had anticipated.

  “And you have no idea what it is?” the old woman asked.

  His mark shook his head.

  “Then be careful,” she warned, her voice low but firm. “You don’t know how this world might have affected you.”

  He nodded once, then rose higher into the air, still floating. He walked forward as if the space beneath him were solid ground, his gaze flicking down to the ground.

  Then he paused, turned, and looked back at the old woman.

  “So,” he said, voice calm, almost playful, “who’s going to take care of the rat?”

  At that, Szilard felt a chill unlike anything he had ever experienced creep up his spine. A wave of cold that froze his blood.

  They had sensed him.

  They knew he was there.

  Panic seized him. He had to get this information to his masters—now.

  He bolted, silent as the shadows could allow, down the castle’s empty corridors, deeper into the heart of the fortress. The stone walls and silent halls offered no comfort. He ran faster, driven by fear and duty.

  Finally, he reached the inner part of the palace. Relief flooded him. Yes!—he thought, he had escaped. All that remained was to alert his companion, and together they could flee. This kingdom had unwittingly summoned beings of this magnitude.

  But as he reached the last stretch of hallway and slid his hands across the door to open it…

  He froze.

  The door swung open—and he found himself staring, impossibly, back at the astronomy tower’s doorway.

  Every instinct screamed at him.

  It was empty. No trace of his mark, no sign of the old woman. It did nothing to ease what he was feeling, and he turned, sprinting back.

  Then, just as his hands touched the door handle… horror froze him in place.

  He was back in the damned astronomy tower. He recoiled, heart hammering, and tried again. And again. A fifth time.

  Each attempt ended the same way. No matter how he ran, no matter which door he opened, he always wound up back in the tower.

  What was happening!?

  Panic clawed at his chest. With each return, the dread that had been simmering in the back of his mind grew heavier, more suffocating. The cold crept into his bones, icy and unnatural.

  His breath began to cloud the air in white puffs. There was no cold season here, and only at the high mountain peaks had he ever felt such chill.

  Desperate, an idea struck him. He leapt from the battlements, summoning every ounce of his clan’s power to catch him mid-fall. The wind tore as he plummeted, and with a bone-jarring thud, he landed on the roof. Guards might hear him but escape had become the only priority.

  He scrambled to a nearby window by the kitchens, pushed it open, and dove inside.

  “What is this magic!?” he screamed, panicked and desperate, his words curling into the mist of his own breath.

  He was back. Back at the tower.

  And this time, it was not empty.

  The old woman was there, carrying not a cane, but what looked like curved, sheathed sword.

  Szilard froze, every instinct screaming at him. Then, a soft, metallic clink echoed through the air.

  Before he could react further, his vision fractured. Reality seemed to split in two, and in an instant, Szilard himself was split—body and soul ripped apart. Still connected, yet torn, he exploded into flames, fire consuming him. It devoured him ravenously, leaving no trace of the man he once was.

  Szilard never hit the ground. He was gone, reduced to nothing more than ash scattered by the wind.

  To anyone observing from afar, the Observatory Tower remained dark that night, silent and unremarkable. No hint of the violence, no evidence of the power that had just been unleashed. To everyone else, it was a quiet night.