Sixth Hour: Skywind Tower, Stormhaven

It is the sixth hour of the sixth day, Praeluna, of the sixth month, Brigid, six hundred and eleven years after the accession of the First Adzar Emperor. Farjika Pendragon prefers to count time from the founding of the Arten Commonwealth by Ulf Pendragon, ninety-nine years ago. But that is a tradition kept only among the Safir Paladin order, the Order of the Dream -formally established that same year.

She watches the dawn sky for dragons. A line of them appears in the distance, like green stingrays drifting through the air. The Drakai have no legs – they are all wing. Creatures of the wind they never land.

Not words but a clear intention enters the Paladin’s mind as the shapes grow larger.

“You call us dragons, but we are not as in your stories. We do not eat men or sheep, we live on air, water, and light. And on more subtle elements that you do not yet know. We do not breathe fire. Still, call us dragons or ‘Drakai’ when you are being polite — we are Kai like Manakai, or Elvakai, Dwarakai, and Orakai. Actually, we are more conscious. But we too attempt to be polite.”

The first Drakai hovers above the tower’s roof, never touching it. Farjika calls the first Paladin forward from where nine wait by the tower door.

As the Drakai draw closer the paladins can see subtle distinctions in the pattern of markings, etched in shades of green, unique to each Drakai. The first is not R’yokkon, their leader, nor is Farjika the first to mount. That honour belongs to Sigurd. Lightly armed and clad in leather not steel, he climbs onto the Drakai’s neck fastening straps to ridges along its back. These connect to his harness, holding him secure.

The Drakai waits in stillness until Sigurd is ready and then lifts, rising straight, into the air.

One by one, the others mount — Orland, Ysoria, Thorne, Amrit, Veronia, Makonnen, Aranya, and Abdul Hakim. Only Abdul, hesitates even a moment. He is the newest Paladin. His calling was unexpected, and he still feels that he is dreaming. He feels Farjika’s hand squeeze his shoulder. She smiles confidence at him. Abdul returns the smile with a slight bow and then pulls himself up onto the Drakai. He crawls forward, settling astride the raised spine and fastening his harness. It takes him longer than the rest. He has listened to Farjika’s lessons on Drakai-riding, but where the others are simply new to this, everything is new to Abdul Hakim.

Finally, Farjika is ready to mount R’yokkon. The two leaders acknowledge each other with deep respect. Their communication is direct, between their minds, not through words. There are no physical features to indicate it, but the Paladin senses the feminine resonance of the Drakai leader, and it seems to deepen their connection.

Each Drakai with its Paladin rider rises into the air and then, in a line, begins their journey north, following the path of the T’Ever River far below.

Abdul Hakiim feels his stomach seeming to fall as the Drakai ascends fast into the sky. The dark green scales feel slicker than he’d imagined — warm, alive, and there is something else: a field that seems to push gently but insistently at him, a field that hums. Abdul senses that it is this field, more than the beat of wings, that sustains the Drakai in flight.

Stormhaven is spread beneath him: towers and canals, the Old City and the Fringe and Sprawl, and beyond them, the great patchwork of farms that feeds the city and the silver braid of the T’Ever winding between Stormhaven and Sanctuary and the Nar Mountains beyond. Wind batters his face. His heart slams the cage of his ribs. He cannot hear his own breath for the roar of the air.

And then — like an unseen hand — the Drakai’s mind wraps around his fear. Sensing it, and responding, as a mother reassuring a frightened child that she is present. His grip on the harness loosens.

Soon the line of Drakai is beyond the city, above farms and forest. Ahead, other Drakai — and their riders — slice through the dawning sky like living spears.

Abdul Hakiim, Abs, dock labourer, fish-runner, one-time secret informer for the Pendragon, no one of consequence, laughs into the wind.

He is a Paladin now. And the sky itself has come to greet him.

Seventh Hour: The Administrator’s Palace

At the seventh hour, Peredur Du Valle, Paladin, stepped forward, offering a sealed letter to Euen Mistborn. “From Farjika Pendragon,” he said.

Mistborn broke the seal. He read silently. Then said aloud to the Council:

“Ten Paladins have left Stormhaven to join the resistance in Narshadow.”

It was not unexpected. Mistborn had not sanctioned the Paladins’ action, but he was satisfied that she had made the correct decision. The presence of even a small contingent of Paladins could turn the tide of a battle.

Moments later, and before the Council members had started discussion after offering reports on the growing strife in the city, two guards stumbled in — bloodied, wild-eyed.

“My Lords! The Sprawl — it’s burning!”

Gasps.

“Riots! Fires everywhere. Refugees and citizens at each other’s throats. It’s spreading — fast.”

“Who leads them?” Mistborn asked.

“Strike, my lord. The vigilante. He’s with them.”

Mistborn noted that the guard had said “he’s with them,” not “he leads them.” For half a year, the Administrator had prevented Guards and Paladins from taking action against the vigilante who had been keeping a lid on crime and the most violent elements in the Sprawl by being even more violent towards them. The Paladins objected to Strike’s methods because they were unlawful and unethical; the Guards objected because Strike had killed one of their number, Rob Growler, when he had first arrived in Stormhaven. For Mistborn, Strike was simply a variable in the equations that kept his city functioning.

While not trusting the objectivity of the Guards, Mistborn knew that their Captain, Julian Greatfield, was a sensible man — especially when his Dwarakai sergeant, Ongrin Stormfist, was with him. The Administrator commanded Greatfield to organise the Guards and meet Strike with force if force was necessary.

But Euen Mistborn knew that the trouble in Stormhaven could not be just the work of the vigilante. Reports still coming in made it seem that the whole city was waking up angry. It was clear that demons and other dark forces were the predominant cause. The matter had been discussed enough. The sorcerer, Guian Starshadow, knew what to do. The deputies of Farjika Pendragon, Galhadris D’Ancellus and Peredur Du Valle, knew what to do. Mistborn ordered that they do it.

Guian and Peredur huddled briefly by the door, then exited.

Galhadris left to retrieve her bagpipes from her quarters in the Abbey.

The Administrator dismissed the Councillors, Guildmasters, and District Representatives, advising them to stay in the Citadel.

Then they were alone: Euen Mistborn and his advisor, sorceress Shanti Celestine.

“It’s time, Euen,” she began. “Past time for the Arten Emperor to die.”

Euen looked at her, his dark eyes as piercing as her blue ones.

“No,” he said, simply.

“Genericus is barely alive, Euen,” argued Celestine. “He is almost two hundred years old, his soul tied to his body by the enchantments of Kigam Kalb and the College of Sorcerers. It would be a mercy to stop his heart — to release him to the mercy of the Light.”

“No,” repeated the Administrator.

“This will save many lives. Genericus will be replaced, but his death will be a disruption. The Empire will pause its attacks. Buy us time, especially in Narshadow.”

“Yes. But committing murder from the Astral Plane will open a door not easily closed. I cannot accept that, Celestine.”

The sorceress bowed and turned to leave.

“Celestine,” he said. His voice was firm. She stopped but did not turn back to him. “Do not misunderstand me. When I say I cannot accept it — I mean I don’t want you to do it. If you do this, you will no longer be welcome in Stormhaven. Understand that this will not be a punishment for you, but for me — because I could not make myself clear enough. It would hurt me to lose you. It would hurt Stormhaven.”

For long moments Shanti Celestine stood there, not moving, not turning. Then her head lowered, proud shoulders dropped as though in defeat, and she left.

Euen looked after her. Sometimes Shanti did things that he could not command — but she had never done anything that he had directly commanded her not to do. And he had been clear. He remembered Farjika Pendragon saying to him, “There are some lines we do not cross — or permit those we love to cross.” He smiled at the thought that the Paladin might be proud of him.

Ninth Hour: The Beheadings

They had come expecting blood — but not like this.

Ongrin Stormfist stood just behind Captain Greatfield as the crowd parted, revealing the aftermath. The heads of four noble scions — once arrogant boys in fine robes, now sightless masks — lay in a row like sacrificial offerings. Their bodies slumped nearby, in a heap, with several others.

Behind the heads, Strike stood still. Beside him was his lieutenant Chad Crayson, his tall blond looks, hair cropped, contrasting with the darker complexion and black hair of his master. And though Strike stood a head shorter than Chad, there was little doubt that he was the master. His gang ranged behind him was silent, obedient, and utterly composed. It felt chilling.

“Traitors,” began Strike — gesturing towards the heads on the ground, where fat black flies were already settling, crawling at the corners of their mouths.

Guards murmured behind Ongrin. One retched.

Strike continued unperturbed.

“These scions of noble houses, sought to cause rebellion in the Sprawl against the lawful government of Stormhaven and the Commonwealth. But the Sprawl stands with Stormhaven. The Sprawl presents their heads to Euen Mistborn.”

Greatfield said nothing for a long while. Ongrin glanced sideways at him. His jaw was clenched, knuckles white on the grip of his sword.

“You knew them.”

He nodded once. His voice was low. “Arcosi. Tyven. The Veldan boy was just knighted.”

Ongrin exhaled slowly. “They were fools. But someone meant for them to die.”

“You think this was planned?”

“You don’t?” She looked at him squarely. “Strike didn’t save us. He outplayed them. And us. These young nobles… they came to Stormhaven, to the Sprawl, with a small retinue. See — there are about thirty bodies behind the four heads.”

The bodies were piled in a mound on the ground. They had died quickly. Knives in the back.

“They couldn’t possibly expect to succeed in a coup with such a small force,” continued Ongrin. “Not unless someone promised to help them. Someone who has built his own militia from the street gangs. And who perhaps presented himself as an agent of the Empire… Someone who now presents himself as speaking for the entire Sprawl.”

They both turned to the crowd. Aristocrats were not well liked and would find little sympathy in Stormhaven. Whispers had already begun to spread. Some called it justice. Some vengeance. Some divine intervention.

Ongrin knew better. This was provocation — cleanly executed and seemingly aimed at the Houses. But she knew Strike. There was always something more behind the curtain with him.

Rain began to fall — not heavy, just a soft drizzle like dust settling. The guards moved to clear the street. Someone fetched a cart for the bodies. The heads were covered hastily in sacks.

Ongrin knelt by one of the corpses, feeling for papers, insignias. The lad’s signet ring was still on his hand. She slid it off and wrapped it in cloth. His family would want it.

“Sergeant Stormfist,” Greatfield said, his voice tight. “You’ll take command here. I need to… notify the Council.”

She nodded. She didn’t envy him that task. He looked shaken — wounded in some way that was deeper than battle. He was of the old Arten Nobility. Nobility didn’t often die like this. Not in the open. Not without ceremony.

“We’ll have reports by dusk,” Ongrin said. “I’ll write mine personally.”

Greatfield looked back at the blood-spattered stones, then walked away.

The crowd lingered, but the mood was hushed. Not fear. Not awe. Something stranger. The sense that a boundary had been crossed. Something had changed, and there would be no going back. Strike was more than a vigilante and a gang boss now — he was becoming a legend.

From streets away, in another quarter of the Sprawl, Ongrin heard the sound of distant piping and singing.

Galhadris. Strike’s was not the only legend being born today.

Ninth Hour (continued): The Circle of Light

By mid-morning, Peredur had gathered the seven.
They came quietly from barracks, training halls, and watch posts near the Citadel. Most had not slept. All understood what was being asked of them — though none had been asked directly.

They met in the Chapel of Light, beneath the great round skylight, where sun and stained glass painted a wheel of radiance on the flagstones below. The air was scented with incense. They sat in a circle of eight, with the seer-sorcerers Guian Starshadow and Chanto Delan in the middle of the circle.

Behind the Warriors of Light, sixteen Light Keepers — monks and nuns, of the same order as the Paladins, — formed an outer ring. Their chanting was soft, whispered, yet insistent.

The Paladins — Peredur, Sorab, Amahle, Kenjiro, Akanksha, Nebo, Taliesin, and Anaya — were silent. Each wore a white tunic bound with a black belt over loose black leggings. No armour. No blades.

Guian spoke first. “We will take you to battle,” he said gently, “but not in this world — in the plane of shadows that some call the Astral. There, the veil between thoughts and things is slight. Your thoughts, passions, may manifest. So may your fears.”

He paused, searching their faces.

“But then you’re Paladins, so I don’t suppose you fear much.”

Only Akanksha and Kenjiro smiled back.

“It is not a place I ask you to enter lightly. If your astral form is broken, your physical body will die. But your soul — your true self — will not be harmed. It will return to the Lands of Light and Spirit. Beyond even the Astral. Beyond this war.”

Chanto Delan shifted on the floor. Her knees ached but she said nothing. ‘Shanti Celestine should be here‘, she thought. ‘Where was the girl?‘

“You are not trained in the occult.” Delan began. “But you are trained in something rarer: Stillness. Devotion. Presence. Will. These are your weapons.” Her voice was calm, almost melodic. “The demons that rise now do not come for the body, but for the soul of this city. You — eight points of light — can meet them where others cannot.”

Peredur bowed his head and said nothing. He raised his eyes. “We are ready.”

Guian instructed them to lie in a circle, their heads toward the centre , where he and Delan sat. “Lie with your legs a little apart,” he instructed, “arms a little away from your bodies, the palms of your hands turned upwards.”

Sitting back to back, Delan began drawing soft runes in the air, whispering the old syllables that opened the inner eye and loosened the bonds between the physical and astral bodies. Guian spoke words to anchor them in their bodies before they separated from them.

The sunlight through the skylight flickered, then dimmed. Perhaps clouds. Perhaps something more.

Guian’s words and Delan’s whispers wove together guiding the eight deeper into meditation.
Their breaths slowed. Their pulses settled.

And then —

They were no longer in the Chapel of Light.

The Astral Realm

They stood upon a silver field that stretched in all directions, a land without sun but not without light. Above them, a sky churned in shades of indigo and pearl.

Each Paladin still wore their tunic and leggings, but now, in this place, a sword of light hung at their side — no hilt, no guard, only a solid blade of radiance that pulsed with their own heartbeat.

Taliesin blinked. “I hear… music,” he said. And the others realised it too — not with ears, but with mind.

Their own thoughts, echoing. Their doubts. Their dreams.
The ground beneath them rippled.

Then came the first shapes.

At first, they were small — twisted mirrors of childhood terrors, of loneliness, of unworthiness.
The Paladins held firm, each facing the shadow that rose before them, and each remembering the words of their creed:

“I shall meet every foe with courage and grace,
With fear left behind every challenge I’ll face.”

The phantoms quickly dissipated. It was not rage or strength that drove these shadows away. It was the clarity born of relentless physical and mental discipline.

But that was only the threshold. Now the greater darkness came.

Forms too vast to see whole. Wings of smoke. Eyes of hatred. Mouths of fire that spoke in no tongue but bled despair into the air.

These were not personal fears. These were the world’s fears. War, greed, hatred, suffering unspoken. They gathered from across Stormhaven in response to the presence of the Warriors of Light.

Anaya raised her sword of light and whispered a prayer in the language of Sinde.

Sorab stood without flinching before a form that bore his father’s face, and drove his blade into it with tears streaming down his cheeks.

Kenjiro cut down a horned giant with perfect stillness, his breath unbroken.

And Peredur — Peredur knelt, blade still at his side, and simply opened his arms to the black-winged thing that flew at him.
It struck him — and shattered.

Light burst from him as from a new formed sun.

And in another world, in the Chapel of Light, the Light Keepers began to chant words that seemed to the Paladins like, more than an umbilical cord connecting them to their physical bodies, but rather a sure connection to the structure of Being itself:

“Abun d’bashmayo
(Our Father who art in Heaven)
nethqaddash shmokh
(hallowed be thy name)
tethe malkuthokh
(thy Kingdom come)
nehwe tzevyanoch
(thy will be done)
aykano d’bashmayo af b’ar’a”
(on earth as it is in heaven.)

Eleventh Hour: Asha

Moonwell District lies in the Fringe, beyond the city walls but north of the river — not the Sprawl. It is a better neighbourhood, better even than most of the Old City where houses press shoulder to shoulder. Not as wealthy as Amberwell Forge District, but far from the slums that face Amberhill across the river.

The artisans here call it “a good place to grow children.” They are content.

But this morning, a very sensitive ten-year-old girl named Asha cries in her bedroom as her parents shout at each other. It has been like this for days. Two days ago, her father struck her for the first time. He apologised later, but she knew something was wrong. Shadows had been hanging over the house — moving like living creatures where no shadows should be.

As the shouting grows louder, she runs into the kitchen. Her parents stand facing each other, knives in hand. The shadows coil around them.

“Paladins appear!” she cries, remembering the stories: Paladins always came to those in need.

A figure of light appears — a woman, shining — and the shadows take the form of demons, lunging at her. The Paladin’s sword of light cuts through them; they dissolve like mist in the morning.

Asha’s parents drop their knives, stunned at what they were about to do. The Paladin, Anaya, stands still for a moment, not from the effort of this battle, but from a weight carried from an earlier, harder-won victory. From the loss she and her companions have sustained.

Anaya notices the girl watching her. Somehow — through gift or grace — Asha can see her astral form.

Anaya and her companions have been sweeping the city, driving out the remnants of the dark forces — it is almost house cleaning now, yet here, in this quiet kitchen, in being seen by Asha, she finds a different kind of victory. A reminder of why she fights.

The Paladin smiles, and in that smile there is both weariness and gratitude. She raises her sword in salute — and vanishes.