PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
It hurts to protect
This hurt I protect
I hurt to protect
Fists clenched and arms flexed, release.
The light of the sunrise stretches up their back as it fills the room. In the background, there's a faint, muffled bass, like the sound of a hundred booming fireworks popping off in the far-off distance. A bunch of out-of-sync beating drums and popping.
The person ignores it. They sit in a failed meditation with their head bowed in exhaustion—their silent acceptance. Their dark clothes are a blend of regal and casual, matching the darkness of the surrounding room.
An exhausted release. It's followed by a simple breath. Then, in a fluid motion, they heft themselves up with one hand while their free-hand glides over a slightly curved blade. It's too long to be a dagger, too short to be a sword, too sharp to exist. They pick it up. They stand.
In the middle of a room that's both too big, and too small. A room that gives off the illusion of being without walls—vast and endless with nothing but the shallow waters, the island, and a large panoramic view. Surrounded by ankle-high water, on a small island of black sand in the middle of the room.
Dagger in hand, with the same strained grace they used to stand, they now walk to the view as the shades finish rising. Floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, they peer out of the view, asking only with their eyes only, of the fate that awaits them. The looking glass.
Then sudden explosion in front of them. It does nothing to shake them, or the window—nor the room. Everything is steady, sturdy, and calm—resigned to its fate.
Another breath. Their head slowly tilts up to the ceiling. Then, one more breath, more certain this time. Their conviction is found.
Now they release and they gaze down upon the raging war in and around the vast ocean, far far below. So far down, that while explosions light the sky above, one can only see large fires dot the sea down below.
Even at dawn, the fire and explosions light up their floating city. The view finishes parting. Opening up to reveal the next act.
The winds rush in and their coat flutters behind them like a flag on a pole.
Their free hand reaches out behind and on cue, a faint shrieking sound announces the second blade flying firmly into their outstretched hand.
Now, twin blades gripped strong, down now they go, descending like a single drop into still water. To do what must be done. Oh the ripples they will leave.
The thunderous drum strikes once...
