Chapter 1: The Elemental Origami
The Shimmering Protocol was more than a disguise; it was a physical and spiritual violation. To become Maylon, Valanda had to perform a feat of agonizing elemental origami. Her natural state was a roaring, fluid fusion of all twelve essences—a chaotic symphony that B’Ahl had taught her to conduct. To hide from his surveillance, she had to deform that symphony into a single, flat note: the dense Earth-and-Fire resonance of a mid-level lieutenant.
The sensation was akin to having her soul forcibly pressed into a suit of iron three sizes too small. Every breath was a battle against elemental recoil; her ten suppressed essences screamed to be released, poisoning her internal balance as they pushed against the artificial walls of the Maylon persona. Combined with the lingering, nauseous ache of the Severance from Kyndrad, Valanda was a walking powder keg. Her vision swam as she fought to maintain the disciplined, impatient stride of the man she’d replaced.
Shadow Mountain’s secondary prep halls were a gauntlet of ghosts. Genuine Chaos generals hurried past, their minds consumed by the final deployment of the Bromin cavalry. Every officer who nodded at Maylon was a comrade Valanda was preparing to bury. She played the part with grim-faced authority, her focus locked on the armory—the most heavily shielded point in the complex, secured by a deep-Earth seal.
Using Maylon’s biometric key, she bypassed the heavy stone doors. She ignored the racks of high-output weaponry and went straight to a hidden compartment, retrieving a dull bronze artifact—a device designed by her father nearly thirty cycles ago. It was archaic, operating on a low-power Aether wave that modern sensors ignored as environmental background noise. It was a testament to her father’s wisdom: B’Ahl had spent centuries mastering the symphony of the gods, but in his hubris, he had forgotten the frequency of the soil.
It would be her only means of receiving the coordinates from Shauvan via the Domè.
The escape from Shadow Mountain was a vertical dance with death. The fortress was wrapped in passive Aetheric traps that acted like a spiderweb, designed to ensnare any unsanctioned flight. On the secluded observation deck, Valanda looked out at the horizon. The Shaytan were moving, their crystalline bodies catching the sickly red light of the Torshanah sky.
“This is it,” she breathed.
She initiated the breach by sending a rapid, directional pulse of pure Chaos Aether—a fake command signal that mimicked B’Ahl’s own digital fingerprint. It told the air-defense grid to blink. In that momentary lapse, she didn’t fly; she plummeted. She hugged the sheer face of the mountain, keeping the dense, slow Earth signature of Maylon locked tight so the traps would register her as a falling stone. Simultaneously, she utilized a technique she had learned from Kyndrad: a focused Air pulse to create a micro-cancellation field around her body, silencing the whistle of the wind.
It was the ultimate irony—using her sister’s Harmony to shield her Chaos.
She didn’t stop until she reached the landing pads at the mountain’s base, where the Goliath-7 stood like a jagged scar of black iron against the bruised sky. This was her ticket out of Akrador.
The belly of the heavy transport smelled of stale ozone and the cold, metallic tang of the Void. Inside its cavernous hold hung the nine massive, reinforced Aetheric Husks—the only nine Shaytan in existence. They floated in vertical stasis-rigs, their crystalline bones shimmering with a sickly, necrotic green light. To the High Houses who created them, they were a colossal mistake; to B’Ahl, they were the ultimate siege engines.
As Maylon walked the gantry, the stasis-fluids inside the spheres began to boil. The Shaytan weren’t awake, but even in their deep sleep, the Nine sensed the twelve-essence feast hidden inside her.
“Lieutenant Maylon,” a voice rasped from the shadows. It was Inquisitor Vane, his mechanical eye whirring as it locked onto her. “The Nine are restless. The Aetheric floor is spiked. It is almost as if a rich source of resonance has entered the room.”
Valanda forced the rough, impatient bark of her persona. “They’re predators, Inquisitor. They’re reaching for the nearest light. Check the harmonic dampeners and stop wasting my time.”
She turned away, heart hammering against the iron suit of her disguise. A droplet of sweat rolled down her neck, and where it touched her collar, the Shimmer flickered—a microsecond of iridescent gold peeking through the drab grey. Vane’s head tilted, the gears in his neck clicking with predatory interest.
Suddenly, a proximity alarm shrieked.
“Multiple contacts! Ahmacian Interceptors!”
The Goliath shuddered as a kinetic slug slammed into the hull. The Nine began to scream—a high-pitched, harmonic wail that vibrated into Valanda’s marrow. The hold descended into chaos. This was her window. She moved with a predatory grace Maylon had never possessed, heading for the Interceptor Bay.
As she punched the launch sequence for a Viper craft, Vane’s voice drifted over the sirens. “Lieutenant! The Nine require a handler! Where are you going?”
Valanda didn’t answer. She triggered a Chaos Aether pulse, mimicking B’Ahl’s fingerprint to force the bay doors open. The dark, churning expanse of the Whispering Sea lay below.
“I’m taking the fight to them,” she muttered, the Maylon voice finally cracking.
She slammed the throttle forward, screaming out of the hangar just as the Goliath’s fuel cells ignited. In her display, the massive transport became a funeral pyre of green flame, sinking into the clouds with the Nine still screaming inside.
Valanda was out. She was alone. And as the salt spray hit the cockpit glass, she prepared for the thousand-kilometer gauntlet toward the northeastern shores of Myon.
