The capital city of Luxurite, still wounded from the grand rapture, stood half-healed—cranes of stonebound magic hovering over half-built walls, merchant stalls reconstructed from scavenged timber, and streets lined with banners of the Order… though some were already torn down, burned at the corners.
Beneath a gray hood and threadbare cloak, Arasha walked unrecognized.
A group of commoners clustered beneath a half-covered awning, huddled around cups of watered-down ale and flatbread. Arasha stood nearby, pretending to inspect herbs at a stand.
Their voices carried.
"Three more rifts opened in the east quarter. They say it's a reaction to the sanctuary's mana barriers."
"Tch. Mana barriers, or mana bait? We never had so many tears until they started tampering."
"The Sanctuary again? You mean the one Commander Arasha made for the Awakened? Course she'd favor them—they're her little army now."
"And what about us? What about our homes? My cousin still lives in a tent while those freaks have enchanted barracks!"
"You ask me, she's just another noble. Tastes power, wants more. Let the world burn so long as she gets to play queen of monsters."
What she found was not gratitude.
It was restlessness.
Her fingers curled around the edge of her cloak, knuckles whitening.
"I see. People still don't trust me," she murmured to herself. "Even after all that's been done."
She remembered the sleepless nights, the blood-soaked floors, the burial trenches—all borne on her shoulders while nobles drank wine and gossiped in gilded parlors.
Now, those same nobles whispered poison into the ears of the people.
"Arasha hoards her strength."
"Arasha commands the monsters."
"Arasha wants a throne."
Even as she rebuilt their homes, guarded their gates, sheltered the cursed and condemned… they saw a villain in the making.
And worst of all?
Some of them truly believed it.
It was a wise decision to check on the capital to see the effects of the reopening of the rifts and the increasing number of them around the kingdom.
If she didn't, she wouldn't be aware of the restlessness and might be too late in addressing it. It would be close to impossible to gain the people's trust if she were just a step behind.
"They call this justice?" a rough voice scoffed from a nearby alley.
Arasha turned slightly, keeping her hood low. A small group of newcomers stood together, their voices hushed but their frustration clear.
"The Awakened get homes, food, training, and protection," one man muttered, his arms crossed. "Meanwhile, villages are still rebuilding from the last rifts, and many of us had to flee from lands too dangerous to live in."
"Not to mention," a woman added, her voice sharp, "that not everyone who fought against the monsters was Awakened. What about the regular soldiers? The townsfolk who defended their homes? Where's their reward?"
Arasha lingered, listening, absorbing the weight of their words.
She was aware of the lingering resentment even after she addressed the issue about the sanctuary before, but now it seems it's reappearing once again.
Restlessness
Fear
Uncertainty
The perfect blend to bring forth conspiracy.
The rifts had torn through the kingdom, leaving ruin in their wake. While she had focused on protecting and organizing the Awakened—**the ones who could actively stop the rifts from consuming more land—**others had been left struggling to survive in the aftermath.
It wasn't as if she had ignored them completely. Rebuilding efforts were ongoing, supply lines were in place. But resources were finite.
And no matter how much she wanted to save everyone…
She couldn't.
Her hands curled into fists beneath her cloak.
The kingdom had nearly collapsed under the weight of the first rifts. If not for the Awakened, they wouldn't even have this fragile stability.
Yet—
They had a point.
The world wasn't just made up of those with powers.
As she turned away, making her way back to the Order's fortress, her mind churned.
The rifts.
That was the true issue.
So long as they kept appearing, the kingdom—and the entire continent—would remain in crisis.
She needed to end them.
Her focus had been on containment, on survival. But now—she had to find a way to close the rifts permanently.
If she failed…
Then no amount of shelters or aid would ever be enough.
****
That night, she returned to the fortress—her hood damp with rain, her cloak heavy as well as her heart.
Sir Garran met her at the archway, his expression shadowed with concern.
"You went without telling me," he declared with a hint of sadness.
She didn't answer immediately. Only unclasped her cloak, revealing the deep furrow in her brow and the fire in her eyes.
"I went to check the capital. I wanted to see with my own eyes how the civilians are faring because I know that only a few nobles care to address their needs. And now that some rifts are reopening, I had to make sure of the situation in the capital, so I can make plans." Arasha stated as she headed to her office.
Sir Garran followed quietly for a while, then asked," So how was the capital, Commander?"
Arasha sighed. It seemed Sir Garran noticed her silent rage.
"They think I built the Sanctuary for power," she explained. "That I crave dominion. That I... want to be queen of a broken kingdom."
Sir Garran looked at her for a long moment. "And what will you do?"
Arasha's voice was low and fierce.
"I'll give them the truth. I'll give them walls, medicine, safety. I'll bleed myself dry if I must."
"And when this world still stands—when they're safe, fed, and whole—I'll look them in the eyes and ask if they'd rather have died free of my shadow."
Sir Garran's lips curved—not in amusement, but in admiration laced with sadness.
"Then I hope the world is ready for your reckoning, Commander."
She turned her gaze towards the sanctuary, where Awakened and civilians alike slept beneath sigil-woven wards.
Her voice drifted like steel in the wind.
"Let them whisper. Let them curse. I didn't come here to be loved. I came here to make sure they survive."
****
After a week of preparation, Arasha went to the capital this time as the commander of the Scion Order. Using her prestige and connection she was able to set up a grand stage to address the unrest and dissatisfaction of the people.
The sun rose sharp and golden over the capital of Luxurite, where once the cries of despair echoed after the first rapture. Now, a large crowd had gathered—commoners, traders, artisans, foreign envoys… and nobles cloaked in silk and masked scorn.
A raised platform stood at the heart of the square. Behind it, Arasha, the commander of the Scion Order stood.
Imposingly.
She stepped forward, no crown on her head, no medals on her breast—only her scarred armor, half-cloak, and steady eyes.
The hush that followed her presence was heavy.
Then she spoke, her voice cool, clear, and carried by spell-threaded winds.
"To those who wonder where I stand—I have come not to silence voices, but to answer them."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"You speak of the Sanctuary. You speak of power hoarded. Favoritism. Betrayal. And yet, in the silence of your words, you forget who it is that built the walls that now keep the monsters from the rift from devouring your homes."
She gestured behind her. Projection sigils flickered to life—images illuminating in the air:
Sanctuary grain stores, open to public access points for the needy.
Water purification towers, installed throughout the country.
Mana ward posts that shielded all, not just the Awakened.
"As of this week, twenty-three thousand families have received food assistance. Eight thousand wounded treated. Forty-five rift incursions thwarted."
"Not by nobles. Not by foreign embassies. Not by the High Houses."
"But by the Awakened. The cursed. The unwanted."
The crowd began to stir. Some with shame. Some with awe.
Arasha's tone remained firm.
"I do not favor the Awakened because I hunger for power. I support them because they are the ones still standing when the nobles turn their faces away."
The sigils shifted again—financial records now, glowing scrolls in the air.
House Verath: illegal conscription of refugees for debt labor.
House Melcairn: falsified troop support to an ally nation, pocketing the difference.
House Ivenhart: trade embargo against a rift-crippled border city in favor of luxury exports to the Western Isles.
"These are the hands that claim to act for the kingdom's good."
Arasha paused, letting the words sink in.
"These are the tongues that accuse me of ambition."
Arasha stood straighter and her aura sharper.
Gasps. Whispers. Some of the nobles paled. One tried to shout—only to be silenced by a dozen glares.
Arasha stood firm and composed yet her eyes holds intense blaze within it.
"If you want truth—see it. If you want justice—demand it. But if you want to silence me, you'll have to outwork me, outbleed me, and outfight me."
"And none of you have the spine for it."
Arasha, composed and dignified, exited as soon as she said her piece.
Not leaving any opportunity to be countered.
There was silence for a while then a burst of cheer from the crowd.
Even the wary began to applaud. The unsure stood a little straighter.
And the nobles?
They sat in gilded silence, their sins dancing in light above them for all to see.