A sinister notion

The air crackled with tension as Leon halted the spear mid-flight, its deadly tip hovering mere inches from the center of his brow. His fingers clenched around its shaft, halting its momentum with practiced precision. The polished steel glinted in the dim candlelight, humming with latent energy.

With a slow, calculated motion, he turned his head, his piercing gaze sweeping the room before locking onto the source of the attack beyond the open window. The glass panes still trembled from the force of the spear's launch.

"Your jests have grown rather audacious, Teress." His voice was calm but carried an undertone of quiet reproach, reverberating through the room like a judge passing sentence.

In response, the very air seemed to shift as a figure glided through the open window, her movements fluid as a shadow cast under moonlight. The captain's office was perched on the third floor of the garrison, a formidable height that would deter most from attempting such an entry. But for this woman, such trivial obstacles were mere playthings.

She landed gracefully on the polished floor, rising with the ease of someone in full command of her body. The flickering candlelight danced over her form, revealing a figure both regal and deadly. Long, silver hair cascaded down her back like liquid moonlight, its strands catching the dim glow as if woven from the stars themselves. Her face, a seamless blend of beauty and severity, bore sharp cheekbones and an expression that balanced amusement and calculation. But it was her eyes—twin pools of deep ocean blue, enigmatic and unfathomable—that held the true weight of her presence.

Teress Silver, the Blue Throne.

The emblem of the blazing sun adorned her shoulder, a mark of her formidable rank as one of the Seven Thrones. Her silver-white uniform clung to her form with precise tailoring, accentuating her athletic frame while maintaining an air of nobility. A dark blue shoulder cloak, reminiscent of a storm-laden sky, billowed behind her, bearing the insignia of her station.

"What? Got scared by just that?" Her voice carried a teasing lilt, the smirk tugging at her lips adding to her playfulness. Yet beneath the mirth lay a keen edge, a predator's amusement at toying with its equal.

Leon exhaled through his nose, releasing the spear with a slow flick of his wrist. It clattered against the stone floor before vanishing into mist—a conjured weapon, merely a test of reflexes.

Approaching him, Teress folded her arms, tilting her head slightly. "Did you already slay the Wyvern? That was remarkably fast."

Leon shook his head, his expression turning grave. "It wasn't me that killed it. It was already dead when I arrived."

Teress's amusement faded. "Dead? By whom?" The weight of her question pressed against the room's silence, the camaraderie they shared shifting into something sharper—an understanding between warriors who had seen too much to dismiss an anomaly lightly.

Leon gestured toward the enchanted scroll suspended in the air. "I was just about to find out. Join me."

She stepped beside him, her gaze drawn to the glowing parchment. With a flick of his hand, the recording resumed, the arcane script unraveling into moving images. The scene unfolded with stark clarity—the black-haired mage caught in the Wyvern's devastating breath, his form engulfed in searing flames.

They watched in silence, dissecting every harrowing detail with the unflinching composure of seasoned veterans. But even Teress, hardened as she was, felt her throat tighten at the sheer devastation that played before them. The city's streets were awash with destruction, bodies strewn like discarded dolls, homes collapsing under the heat's relentless fury. The scent of burning flesh and the echoes of screams felt almost tangible, woven into the spell's playback.

"You shouldn't bear guilt for this," Leon murmured, his voice quieter now, as if speaking more to himself than her. "I know this all might bring back bad memories. But we don't have the luxury of dwelling on what's already lost." He turned to her then, his gaze steady. "Especially now that we've lost one of our own. We're racing against time."

Teress bit her lower lip but nodded, her focus returning to the scroll. As they continued watching, the playback reached the crucial moment.

A spear of ice, gleaming with frost-bound power, materialized out of nowhere. It streaked across the battlefield, impaling the Wyvern's jaw with pinpoint precision. A shockwave of cold rippled outward, freezing a portion of its fiery maw, sealing it shut.

Leon's fingers twitched at his side. That level of magic...

As the ice expanded, the inferno that had consumed entire structures was quelled, replaced by crystalline pillars of frost. A suffocating heat transformed into bitter cold in mere moments, shifting the battlefield in a way that was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Their eyes tracked the recording, searching for the source. The perspective shifted, revealing a lone figure standing amidst the wreckage.

He was clad in a dark-red cloak, its fabric tattered and stained with the remnants of countless battles. His face was obscured by an ornate white mask, delicate golden-red filigree curling along its surface like veins of molten metal. But what drew the eye most was his stance—unshaken, defiant, his piercing gaze locked onto the Wyvern as if daring it to challenge him.

In his grasp, another spear of ice shimmered, its surface steaming as if it held the very essence of winter within. Despite his apparent confidence, his body remained taut, poised for the Wyvern's retaliation.

"Quite audacious to lock eyes with that beast," Teress murmured, her arms crossing over her chest. "Attempting to provoke it, to draw it away from the city. A sound move—but he failed."

Leon's brow furrowed. The man's magic was formidable, his tactics clear. Yet something was missing.

He spoke, his words measured. "So why didn't he succeed?"

The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication. Then, a thought stirred at the back of Leon's mind, a thread of logic weaving into something unsettling. He remembered the old man—the one who had seemed so angry, so hateful, ready to stand against a throne itself. A man consumed by bitterness, one who spoke of rebellion as if it were his right, his duty.

He murmured, half to himself, "Unless all of this was an act."

Teress turned to him sharply. "What do you mean?"

Leon exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "The timing. The precision and the very fact that ice mage was present at flaming wyvrens attack- a perfect counter. Not to mention the malfunctioning dimensional gate at the same time. It can't be all just a coincidence. Everything about this incident feels... constructed. If you wanted to sow doubt in the empire, to force people to question our control, what better way than this? Let a crisis unfold, let the authorities fail—and then appear as the savior."

"what the best place to begin but the city at tye edge, far from ots capital."

Teress's fingers curled at her sides. "You think he orchestrated this?"

Leon didn't anwser immediately. His mind raced through the different possibilities. Was the masked figure a hero, merely responding to catastrophe? Or was he the architect of this disaster, a puppet master pulling unseen strings?

He exhaled sharply. "I don't know yet. But one thing's certain—we need to find him." His gaze darkened, a silent vow taking root within him. "Before the next act begins."