"Dormants are cursed beings!" The raw, guttural hiss tore through the cavernous courtroom, sharp enough to scrape against every nerve. It belonged to a man forged like a weathered oak, his frame thick with muscle even beneath the formal, high-collared uniform of a Sergeant.
The deep, military green of his tunic, braided with the glint of gold, spoke of rank, but it was the contorted snarl on his chiseled face, the fanatical contempt blazing in his dark eyes, that seized the attention. His posture was a rigid, uncompromising demand for notice, gloved hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The courtroom itself was a stark, formidable chamber, carved deep into the enduring heart of what must have been an ancient, pre-Aurafall edifice within Eldoria's shadowed domain. Towering arched windows, reinforced with thick, grimy Aura-glass, struggled to coax the pale, bruised light of the outside world into the space, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed across the polished obsidian floor.
Heavy, dark wooden benches, worn smooth by countless tense gatherings, stretched in precise, unyielding rows, bisected down the center by an invisible, yet utterly tangible, line.
Indeed, the room was a chilling tableau of the world's fractured power. One side, a sea of pulsating Ascendant Aura, shimmered with subtle, almost imperceptible glows from some, while others flared with vibrant, swirling halos of crimson or gold. Their expressions ranged from casual disdain to the coiled aggression of predatory beasts, their posture stiff with an ingrained, inherited superiority.
Across the aisle, the Dormants sat like shadows, their Aura marks dark and inert, their faces often etched with a weary resignation that occasionally flickered with suppressed resentment. A low, nervous hum vibrated on the Ascendant side, answered only by the Dormants' brittle silence, a stark counterpoint to the aggressive murmurs that felt like the courtroom's permanent atmosphere.
The air itself seemed to vibrate with a palpable suspense, thick and oppressive with the weight of unspoken grievances and the tension of years of simmering, unresolved conflict.
At the chamber's head, three judges sat behind a grand, elevated bench, their faces a mixture of grave authority and overt exhaustion. Their robes, a deep, muted grey, seemed to absorb the light, their own Aura signatures carefully subdued, projecting an air of weary neutrality that felt increasingly like a fragile, dissolving illusion.
"Mr. Kael, please, you're in a courtroom," one of the judges, a woman with sharp, weary eyes, reprimanded, her voice cutting through the din like a honed blade. It was a familiar, tired rebuke.
Sergeant Kael stiffened further, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped. He shot a final, venomous glare at the Dormant side, a promise of retribution etched into his gaze, before slowly, grudgingly, sinking back into his seat. The heavy oak chair groaned in protest, a small, loud sound that echoed in the sudden, precarious quiet, like a coffin lid shifting.
"So," another judge began, clearing his throat, his gaze sweeping across the room with a practiced air of forced impartiality, "we still haven't heard anything about opinions on the Dormant decisions on division."
A profound, tense silence descended, heavier than anything that came before. Every soul in the room leaned forward, anticipating the inevitable eruption, the next volley of accusations or defiant counter-arguments.
This particular decision, known simply as "the division," had been a point of bitter contention for weeks, rumored to be a radical, desperate move by the Dormants to finally gain an upper hand in the fight for power in a world that had long denied them any.
For the past eight years, the Ascendants had utterly dominated. Their glowing marks, their overt abilities, their sheer numbers had relegated the Dormants to a state of inferiority, treating them with thinly veiled contempt, almost like trash in this new, Aura-defined world.
It was as if the Dormants had just been given a new name, a mere label, but no actual change in status or power. They were still defenseless, still susceptible.
But the Dormants, despite their suppression, hadn't relented.
Secretly, painstakingly, they had finally discovered the abilities of the Contractors. These Contractors were Dormants who, through desperate measures, had learned to pact and sign deadly contracts with demi-humans.
These powerful, often unpredictable beings, existing on the fringes of the Aura-infused world, would grant the Contractors their abilities and aid them during battle or when needed. It was a dangerous, desperate gamble, but for the Dormants, it offered the only glimmer of true power in a world where Ascendants reigned supreme.
This "division" was undoubtedly tied to this new, perilous strength.
Then, a voice. Clear, calm, and utterly, unnervingly unexpected.
"I think it's a good choice."
Every head in the courtroom whipped around in unison. The murmurs died instantly, replaced by a stunned, almost disbelieving silence. All eyes fixed on a figure standing tall from one of the less prominent benches.
There stood Aira. She moved with an innate grace that defied the world's worn state, her posture commanding attention without any overt effort. She wore a long, dark tunic dress of practical, yet exquisitely fine, woven fabric. It seemed to absorb the dim courtroom light, giving her a silhouette of quiet, almost forbidding power. The material, a deep charcoal or perhaps a muted midnight blue, draped elegantly, hinting at a lineage of wealth and influence without being ostentatious.
Simple, polished leather bracers adorned her forearms, their worn edges speaking of long journeys, and her soft leather boots were scuffed but sturdy. Her dark hair, perhaps tied back in a single, neat braid that cascaded down her back, framed a face that carried both the crushing wisdom of ages and a youthful, almost serene composure.
There was no visible Aura mark on her, or if there was, it was too subtle to be discerned by the untrained eye, lending her an air of deceptive normalcy amidst the highly visible factions.
"I think Dormants need their space," she reiterated, her voice carrying across the hushed room, firm yet understated, cutting through the silence like a scalpel. Having delivered her concise, impactful statement, the representative of the strongest clan on Earth calmly, deliberately, sat back down, the simple movement drawing a hundred bewildered, furious, or hopeful stares.
Aira knew exactly why she had offered her support, and it had nothing to do with caring which faction won the petty squabbles amongst humanity. In her past lives, she had intervened in this very "division" countless times, always striving to save Leo from its catastrophic consequences.
The riots that would inevitably erupt, the bloodshed that would follow – she knew the exact moments they would surely shoot out, had felt the sting of the dust and the spray of the blood. And she was, as always, ready for the riot. She carried the blueprints of chaos in her mind.
But this time, a profound, terrifying shift had occurred. Leo hadn't "re-birthed" as he always had before; he was fundamentally, inexplicably different. And because of that, she felt a powerful, almost agonizing urge not to save him from this particular conflict.
She had gambled on him in a way she never had before. She trusted him, believed he had a plan, an unknown path unique to this iteration. His continued detachment, his serene anomaly, was a testament to something.
'Maybe letting this present Leo live this life without any external interference, without my usual heavy-handed intervention, will finally save the world this time around.'
The thought was a fragile, terrifying hope, a desperate wager unlike any she'd ever dared to place.
She was ready for the war, ready to fight the world to protect him and her mission. She was ready to face any horror. But she wasn't ready to let Leo go, not truly. Not into an unknown where her intervention—her love, her protection—might actually be the very thing that broke him, or their final chance. This time, the gamble was on him and the terror of it was a cold, constant knot in her gut.