Echoes of a Seraph

September 10, 1735

Ranann sat on a stool in a dark, crowded tavern, one he had stumbled upon while wandering through the city. The wooden walls creaked with every gust of wind, and the beams groaned as if threatening to collapse at any moment. The place was dimly lit by flickering candles, their flames casting long, wavering shadows. The sharp aroma of spilled beer and greasy food permeated the air, mingling with the sweat of weary travelers.

Around him, murmurs mixed with raucous laughter and the snap of cards being shuffled. At a nearby table, a group of middle-aged men played cards, their greedy gazes fixed on the meager coins they wagered. The clinking of glasses and the thud of mugs against wood added a steady rhythm to the atmosphere.

Ranann, however, remained alone. He hated talking to people; his thoughts were the only company he needed. He watched the amber liquid in his mug, observing the bubbles slowly rising to the surface and bursting in fleeting flashes.

He had no surname—he had left it behind long ago. In truth, he barely remembered it. The faces of his father and two brothers had become a blur in his memory, smudged like a painting exposed to rain. His clothes, once elegant, were now worn and tattered. He had never bothered to replace them. As long as they served their purpose, what was the point of acquiring new ones? He didn't wash them either—they would end up stained with blood sooner or later.

His black hair fell messily over his shoulders, with two red streaks running through it. He hadn't dyed them; they were a consequence of using dark magic, which few dared to explore. That had been a long time ago, though. Because of it, his golden eyes were now surrounded by dark sclera, devouring the whites around them. It drew the attention of the curious, but stares had never bothered him. If anyone held his gaze, he simply ignored them until they gave up.

His face and body were covered in dirt and dust. He couldn't recall the last time he had bathed. For an ordinary assassin, such negligence would be unthinkable—stealth meant nothing if people could smell you from several meters away. But for Ranann, that was never an issue. By the time someone could smell him, their head would already be rolling on the ground.

He carried no visible weapons, only the hilt of a broken sword hanging from his belt. He wore it to command at least a modicum of respect. People would never guess it was merely a fragment of a blade. Who would be foolish enough to carry an unusable sword? Ranann would. For him, weapons had lost their usefulness long ago; he relied solely on his skills to eliminate anyone in his way.

Killing. The act had become as commonplace to him as breathing. The first time he had wielded a sword, they told him he had talent, that his heart was made for killing. He hadn't cared about taking the lives of his enemies, even when they begged for mercy. Yet, over time, it had become tedious, devoid of challenge or any kind of emotion.

He had once served a lord—a powerful one, the most powerful. But like all leaders, his downfall had come sooner than expected. Now, Ranann was nothing more than a wandering traveler, taking assassination jobs to earn enough money to live.

He lifted the mug of beer to his lips and took a deep draught. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, but it failed to make him tipsy. Ranann had never gotten drunk. He had tried countless times, but to no avail. Seeing the world spin uncontrollably, not knowing what you were doing, and waking up the next day with a pounding headache—he didn't know that pleasure. Still, he greatly enjoyed the taste of beer.

As he took another long sip, the tavern doors swung open with a bang. A rush of cold air swept through the room, making the candles flicker and drawing several heads toward the entrance.

A young man with an imposing demeanor crossed the threshold. His black hair, with white streaks cascading down either side to his chest, was disheveled, though not as much as Ranann's. Appearance was secondary to him; grooming was a waste of time.

The young man wore feather-shaped earrings. At his waist hung what appeared to be two katanas. He was dressed in a red haori with black embroidery along the sides, leaving his chest partially exposed. A complex tattoo snaked across his skin. Ranann couldn't recall seeing such attire anywhere before—it likely came from a distant land.

What caught Ranann's attention most were the man's eyes. His pupils were elongated, like a feline's.

From his appearance, he could have been a draconid. However, upon closer inspection, Ranann noticed he lacked horns, a tail, or any distinctive draconid features. Perhaps he was a hybrid.

Conversations in the tavern momentarily halted as the patrons took note of his presence. Curious gazes followed the newcomer as he scanned the room, his eyes eventually landing on Ranann, who indifferently continued drinking. A sly smile spread across the stranger's face as he approached, his boots echoing on the wooden planks.

A voice resonated from behind him.

"Are you Ranann?"

Ranann didn't bother to turn around. He looked straight ahead, raising his mug for the barkeep to pour him another round.

"That depends on who's asking."

Footsteps sounded behind him, and before he knew it, the young man he had seen at the entrance took a seat on the stool opposite his.

"Azrath Ryvark. A pleasure."

He extended a hand in greeting. Ranann glanced at it briefly before focusing on the foam in his beer. Seeing his gesture go unacknowledged, Azrath withdrew his hand, though his smile remained.

Ranann downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and slammed the empty mug onto the wooden table with a dull thud. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, further soiling his already dirty clothing.

"So, you're Valthor's son. I thought your face looked familiar. You have the same gaze as him," Ranann murmured. His golden eyes locked onto Azrath's, threatening with a coldness that could freeze blood. His gaze shifted to Azrath's head. "I thought all draconids had horns. Are you some kind of hybrid or something?"

"Let's just say—"

"I don't really care."

The barkeep returned, placing another mug of beer in front of Ranann, who grabbed it immediately. He took a long drink, leaving Azrath with his words hanging in the air.

"How's your father?" Ranann asked, his eyes never leaving his drink. "Haven't seen him in a while. Is he still alive?"

"For now, he's in good health, though I don't think it'll be long before he loses his mind. I'd say he has about five hundred moons left," Azrath replied casually, resting his elbows firmly on the counter, though his eyes never left Ranann. "When that happens, I'll become the leader of the Red Scales. So I hope we can forge as good a relationship as you had with my father."

"Don't get your hopes up," Ranann replied disdainfully. "I have no intention of associating with lizards like you. If I worked with Valthor, it was because he was different."

A cold smile spread across Azrath's face.

"Don't worry. I'm not thrilled about dealing with a human, either."

Humans and draconids had never gotten along well. In general, draconids were the most hated among the Six Crowns. In Eriath, many species existed, but some ruled over others, wielding greater influence and power. These were the Six Crowns: Humans, Elves, Draconids, Soras, Arenesi, and Nautilids.

Each of the Six Crowns resided in different territories, except for the elves, who claimed forests in all types of regions. The separation had become even more pronounced after the War of Discord erupted.

Ranann took another sip of his beer, letting its bitterness fill his mouth before continuing.

"Let's stop wasting time. Explain the mission."

Azrath crossed his arms, leaning forward with an enigmatic smile.

"It's quite simple. We need to retrieve an artifact guarded by humans. According to my sources, it's located in a city nearby."

Ranann frowned at Azrath's response.

"If it's just that, why do you need my help? Can't you handle a simple theft on your own?"

Azrath smiled at Ranann's question, a gesture that only confused him further. He stared at Ranann for a moment before adopting a more relaxed posture.

"It's not as easy as it sounds," he replied, picking up Ranann's empty mug and examining his reflection in it. "The artifact is guarded by a Tuned One."

"Huh?"

Silence settled between them like a dense fog. Ranann raised an eyebrow, processing the information.

"So, your plan is for me to face an Arcane while you steal the artifact. Am I wrong?"

"You catch on quickly. But don't worry—you'll only need to distract the Arcane. We'll handle the rest of the bonded ones in the area."

Ranann leaned back in his chair, considering the proposal. He had never faced an Arcane before—not because he hadn't wanted to, but because he'd never been tasked with it. The idea of going up against an Arcane excited him. What would happen? Would he win? Lose a limb? Die? For the first time in a long while, the prospect of killing someone thrilled him.

"You must have a lot of faith in my abilities if you're asking me to take on an Arcane alone. Do you really think I'm that strong?"

"I've heard enough of your feats from my father to be sure of it," Azrath replied, his eyes meeting Ranann's with unwavering confidence. "So, do you accept the job?"

"How much are we talking?"

Azrath sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"My father was right." He rummaged through his tunic and pulled out a small pouch, tossing it onto the table with a metallic clink. Its weight made it fall instantly. "You're quite the greedy one."

Ranann picked up the pouch, feeling its satisfying weight in his hand. He untied the cord and peeked inside. Gold coins and at least ten platinum ones glinted under the dim light. It wasn't the best payment he'd ever received, but it was certainly among the most generous. Then again, it was only fitting for a mission involving such a powerful and dangerous target.

"Deal," he replied immediately, pocketing the pouch. Azrath smiled in response, and Ranann began glancing around. "I thought we'd have a decent crew. Where's the rest of them?"

"As you can imagine, draconids like them wouldn't go unnoticed in a place like this," Azrath said, rising from his seat and adjusting his haori. "So I asked them to wait outside while we talked. Still, it would've been easier if you'd come to our territory."

Ranann grimaced in disgust.

"I wouldn't set foot in a place like that even if I were dead."

"That's what I thought. Well, we'd better get going."

As he stood, Ranann rummaged through his bag and pulled out a few coins, placing them on the table. Azrath observed him with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"I didn't expect you to pay. With your reputation, I thought you'd just leave, and if the barkeep complained, you'd cut out his tongue."

Ranann let out a heavy sigh.

"Being an assassin doesn't mean I enjoy killing without reason. There's no need to spill blood all the time—it's not practical."

They left the tavern and ventured into the labyrinthine streets of the city. They walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Upon reaching the outskirts, they entered a forest whose dense canopy seemed to swallow them whole.

The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. After some time, they reached a clearing where a large group awaited, shrouded in gray cloaks that concealed their features.

As Ranann and Azrath approached, the figures pulled back their hoods, revealing their faces.

They appeared human, but something set them apart. Atop their heads were horns of various shapes, sizes, and colors—some curved like a ram's, others sharp like daggers. Scales ran along parts of their skin, reflecting the light like embedded gems. Some had sharp claws, while others sported long, restless tails.

The color of their scales distinguished their class and determined the type of magic they could wield: Red Scales controlled fire, Blue Scales mastered ice, and Yellow Scales wielded lightning.

Despite their magical limitations, draconids had the unique ability to absorb magic corresponding to their class. Unlike other species, they didn't use ambient mana; they were born with a lacrima in their hearts that allowed them to use magic from a very young age. However, this lacrima generated what was known as tainted mana, as it didn't come from the environment but from an internal source that could consume them over time.

Ranann scrutinized his future companions. None seemed to have elongated pupils like Azrath's. However, one of them already had a fully developed tail. That could pose a problem later.

"So, this is the assassin I've heard so much about," came a deep voice from the draconid Ranann had been eyeing. He was sharpening his sword with methodical movements, the sound of metal against stone echoing in the clearing. "Do we really need the help of a human?"

A dark cloak partially concealed a set of light armor, and a belt full of daggers crossed his chest. His hair was black, and his yellow eyes gleamed with intensity. Blue scales ran along his neck and part of his face, and a muscular tail swayed impatiently behind him.

"What's that one's name?" Ranann asked Azrath, nodding toward the draconid.

"That's Fafnir, a Blue Scale. He's one of the most talented in our infantry," Azrath replied with a proud smile. "Want to know anyone else's name?"

"No need," Ranann replied dismissively. "I just wanted to know who he was. The rest don't matter to me."

Fafnir approached Ranann with heavy steps, each footfall leaving a deep imprint in the ground. Up close, he was even more imposing, standing over two meters tall. Compared to Ranann's height, he seemed like a giant. Ranann had never been particularly tall, measuring less than one-seventy, but his stature allowed him to slip easily through his enemies.

Fafnir stared at Ranann with his elongated pupils, but Ranann felt no intimidation.

"You're pretty scrawny for an assassin. What's your name?"

"Ranann."

"Ranann what?"

"Just Ranann."

Fafnir smirked, revealing sharp fangs.

"I'm Fafnir. We've paid a lot for your services, so I expect you to be useful," he said, eyeing Ranann with suspicion. "Though I still don't understand why you'd ally yourself with us. Are you really going to betray your own kind so easily?"

"I ally myself with those who pay well. If the pay is good, I don't care who I have to kill, even if it's the king himself. Though I can't guarantee success."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-seven."

"Really? You look much younger."

"I have no reason to lie to you."

"Doesn't matter. Let's get along," Fafnir replied with a smile, extending his hand. "Even if it's just for a short time."

Ranann glanced at his hand, noticing the sharp claws protruding from his fingers. His gaze shifted to the blue scales on Fafnir's torso and then to the tail that hadn't fully grown yet.

"How long until you lose your sanity?" Ranann asked, ignoring Fafnir's extended hand.

Fafnir blinked, surprised by the blunt question. His tail struck the ground harder, kicking up small clouds of dust.

"I have no idea. I never think about it, so I couldn't tell you."

"Are you aware of the danger you pose to all of us?"

"Don't worry," Fafnir replied.

He dragged a finger across his neck, smiling with an expression only a madman could wear.

"I'm willing to have my head cut off if necessary."

Ranann stepped away without saying another word. To him, Fafnir was nothing more than a ticking time bomb that could go off at any moment.

The draconic lacrima in a draconid's heart granted them immense power, but it was also their greatest weakness. The tainted mana coursing through their bodies gradually corrupted their anima. The more they used their power, the more contaminated their anima became, causing changes to their very being. Sharp claws, dragon scales, a fierce tail, and even wings would begin to emerge over time.

But it wasn't just their appearance that changed; they also lost their ability to reason, consumed by an insatiable thirst for destruction. Eventually, they would lose the ability to use magic altogether.

It was said that a draconid became fully corrupted when the whites of their eyes turned yellow and their pupils elongated like a reptile's. In that state, they transformed into mindless dragons, devastating everything in their path. The only way to prevent this was to sever their head before the transformation became irreversible. In past wars, corrupted draconids were used as weapons of mass destruction, sent against enemy armies even though they would never return.

After the brief introductions—though Ranann had barely exchanged words with the rest of the group—they set out for the city. The plan seemed straightforward, but Ranann knew that things rarely went as expected.