The chime rang once.

  Then again.

  Across the Dominion of Vera—and far beyond it—the World Tree lattice adjusted, threads aligning as priority channels rose to the surface. Private feeds dimmed. Entertainment streams paused mid-beat. Arcane windows shifted, their borders thinning as a single signal took precedence.

  Eight bells meant only one thing.

  Caelis Morwyn sat perfectly still at the center of the frame.

  She was breathtaking in a way that felt deliberate rather than indulgent.

  Her hair, a deep, luminous violet, fell in a flawless cascade over one shoulder, smooth and heavy with care, not a strand out of place. Her eyes matched—sharp, saturated purple, steady and unblinking, the kind that made it clear she missed nothing and forgot even less.

  The dress she wore was immaculate and unapologetic. Tailored to her form with exactness that bordered on audacious, it followed every line of her posture without ever crossing into impropriety. The fabric was a rich, dark purple, so deep it seemed to absorb the studio light, cut high at the collar, sleeveless but structured, the fit close enough to command attention while remaining undeniably professional.

  It was the kind of attire that reminded viewers that authority did not require bulk, and composure did not diminish beauty.

  “Good evening,” Caelis said, her voice calm and measured. “This is an emergency Eight Bell Broadcast. What you are about to hear has been verified through multiple Dominion channels and confirmed by Knight Order deployment.”

  The man seated beside her cleared his throat.

  Edrick Halven was handsome in the safe, carefully curated way Dominion audiences trusted—dark hair cut just long enough to soften his features, clean jawline, posture trained into composure by years of broadcast discipline. His suit was immaculate, slate gray with silver trim that marked him as senior staff rather than decorative presence.

  He nodded once, professionally.

  But his eyes betrayed him. They flicked to Caelis for a fraction of a second too long before returning to the projector, as though gravity worked differently in her direction. He recovered quickly, he always did, but the moment didn’t go unnoticed by anyone watching closely.

  Behind them, the studio wall shifted. Lattice visuals bloomed into place—layered sigils resolving into live feeds, tactical overlays, and slow-spinning Dominion markers as the broadcast moved from ceremony into crisis.

  In the control room above, Director Halen Veres leaned forward, hands braced on the console. Readouts scrolled too fast to track individually—reaction spikes, sentiment curves, cross-dominion pings.

  “Engagement’s already doubling,” someone said. “Skepticism’s high.”

  “Let it be,” Halen replied. “They’ll catch up.”

  Back on screen, Caelis continued.

  “Earlier tonight, a coordinated attempt was made to initiate a mass-casualty event within the Valecis Isle. With terrorist assets acculiming at one of the privite reserve lodges in the Kagourian Preserve,” she said. “Preliminary intelligence indicates that the ultimate target was Arclight Academy.”

  A ripple passed through the lattice.

  In homes, taverns, academies, and command halls, people leaned closer to their screens.

  The co-anchor’s eyes widened, just a fraction. “Arclight?” he said. “As in the—”

  “Yes,” Caelis replied smoothly. “That Arclight.”

  Behind her, the visuals shifted again. Aerial feeds. Knight Order sigils flaring. The unmistakable outline of Valecis Isle under night sky.

  “Knight Order of the Silent Decree confirmed,” an analyst murmured. “Night Garrison deployment logged.”

  Caelis’s tone sharpened becoming nore directed and sharp.

  “The Knight Order of the Silent Decree was mobilized in response to an active threat. After receving informaiton from an infiltrator on the ground. ”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  She paused.

  “And then,” she said, “something else happened.”

  The studio lights dimmed slightly as new footage replaced the lattice graphics.

  Grainy at first. Then clearer.

  A ruined stretch of ground, scorched stone glowing faintly in the night. Smoke drifting low. Knights moving cautiously at the edges of a devastation that looked less like destruction and more like absence.

  The feed stabilized.

  A figure stepped into view.

  Black matte armor, light swallowed rather than reflected. A long blade in one hand, its surface so dark it seemed to cut a hole in the image. A cloak moved in the night wind, heavy and deliberate.

  And in his other arm—

  A child.

  She was small, her head tucked against his shoulder, one hand curled into the fabric of his coat as if it were the safest place she’d ever known.

  The studio went silent.

  Caelis did not speak for several seconds.

  Neither did anyone else.

  In the control room, someone whispered, “No way…”

  Halen didn’t answer. He just stared at the image, pulse thudding in his ears.

  Finally, Caelis spoke.

  “As many of you recognize,” she said carefully, “this individual has been known—until tonight—only through sealed reports and distant rumor.”

  The name landed without embellishment.

  “The Ghost of the Wastes.”

  The co-anchor swallowed. “The… living mercenary legend?”

  “Yes,” Caelis said. “Confirmed by Knight Order sensors, lattice cross-verification, and direct field contact.”

  The footage replayed, slower now. The way the figure moved. The calm precision. The child’s steady breathing.

  “For years, the Ghost of the Wastes has been active beyond Dominion borders,” Caelis continued. “Operating in regions classified as nonviable. Surviving environments most units cannot enter. Resolving conflicts that never reached public record because no one involved remained to report them.”

  Her gaze held the camera.

  “Until tonight, he was believed to be confined to the Wastes.”

  The words hung there.

  “In other words,” the co-anchor said quietly, “he’s here.”

  “Yes,” Caelis replied. “He is.”

  The feed cut again. The lattice feed shifted again. This time, the camera wasn’t in the studio.

  It hovered at ground level, the image trembling slightly as the relayer adjusted position. Smoke still curled through the shattered grounds, emergency lights washing the ruins in alternating bands of white and blue. Knights moved in the background, careful now, respectful of a space that no longer felt like theirs.

  And then the Ghost came into frame.

  He was walking away from the ruins, not toward the cameras.

  The same child was tucked against his side—small, wrapped in a blanket that looked too thin for the night air. She clutched his coat with both hands, face buried against him, utterly unconcerned with the world around her.

  The wind picked up as he moved.

  Not a natural breeze. It rolled outward from him in slow, deliberate pulses, tugging at cloaks, lifting ash and loose debris from the ground. The closer the relayer drifted, the heavier it became.

  A field reporter stepped forward, lifting her focus crystal.

  She was young. Poised. Trained for chaos.

  She opened her mouth—

  And froze.

  The Ghost turned his head slightly.

  The mask caught the light for a moment, skull-white against the dark. And beneath it, his eyes burned—deep crimson, steady and unblinking, fixed on the relayer with a presence that made the air itself feel thinner.

  The wind surged.

  The relayer's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her breath hitched. One hand trembled as the crystal dipped, its image skewing as if reality itself didn’t quite want to frame him.

  Someone off-camera whispered, “Pull back—”

  But the Ghost had already turned away, which in theory was the most nonthreatening thing he could have done. Simply walking, one arm steady around the child, the other resting on the long, dark blade at his side.

  The relayer staggered back as if released from a pressure she hadn’t known she was under. She didn’t chase him. She didn’t try again.

  The feed cut.

  Moments later, another image replaced it.

  This time, a small girl sat on a med-stretcher, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks smudged with soot, but her eyes were clear. A field relayer knelt in front of her, voice gentle, careful not to crowd.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” the reporter asked softly.

  The girl nodded solemnly.

  “The bad people were yelling. They were mean. They were hurting people,” she said. “And then he came.”

  “Who?” the reporter prompted.

  “The man with the mask, Mr. Ghost,” the girl said, as if it were obvious. “He picked me up. He said it was going to be okay. That I should close my eyes so the bad people couldn’t hurt me anymore.”

  She smiled—small and certain as she showed the relayer her arm. "The bad men cut me. It hurt. It hurt so much, but he stopped it. it doesn't hurt anymore."

  The relayer’s own smile tightened, something sharp slipping through it. “But wasn’t the man in the mask scary?” she asked. “We’ve heard he did… frightening things.”

  The girl looked at her, expression suddenly serious.

  “He is scary,” she said. “Very scary.”

  The relayer leaned in slightly sense a story amongst the chaos.

  “But only to bad people,” the girl continued. “Bad people should be very scared. Because he won’t let them be bad anymore.”

  She hugged the blanket tighter.

  “He isn’t scary to me,” she finished. “He’s my hero.”

  Back in the studio, Caelis Morwyn closed her eyes for a single heartbeat.

  Then she opened them.

  “This situation is still developing,” she said evenly. “Knight Orders remain on-site. Survivors are receiving care. Investigations are ongoing.”

  Her voice did not waver.

  “But one thing is already clear.”

  Behind her, the lattice filled with a still image.

  The Ghost of the Wastes stood amid ruin, cloak stirring in the night wind, a child held safely against him. His blade rested at his side, dark and silent, as if it had already said everything it needed to.

  The image held.

  No one spoke.

  “Tonight,” Caelis said, “a myth stepped into the light.”

  The broadcast sigil flared.

  “This has been Dominion Eight Bell News,” she finished. “I’m Caelis Morwyn.”

  The signal faded.

  In the control room, Halen leaned back slowly.

  “Archive everything,” he said. “And prepare follow-ups.”

  Someone laughed softly, disbelieving. “You think this is over?”

  Halen watched the lattice spike higher than it ever had before.

  “No,” he said. “I think it just started.”