Eos I

[ Paris - 2:48 PM, 3rd of August 2076 ]

[ Two weeks later ]

Amid the shattered remnants of buildings, a man meticulously combed through the debris, a dogged determination in his eyes. When the colossal tremor struck, he had been away, camping with his family. They emerged relatively unscathed, the forest shielding them from the worst. However, their return to the city revealed a grim reality—few shared their luck.

Paris lay in ruins, a clear testament to nature's wrath. Once-proud houses were reduced to rubble, iconic landmarks disappeared, and the city's skyline forever changed. Amid this destruction, a lone sentinel remained: the Eiffel Tower, an architectural marvel from the past, now repurposed as a sanctuary for the last survivors.

"Found another one," the man's voice carried a mix of weariness and duty. He delicately unearthed a lifeless figure, offering it a final dignity. Grit and sweat marred his face, the weight of hours spent unearthing lost lives evident in his eyes. This grim task, a mandate for the camp's male inhabitants, was both a testament to resilience and an unbearable burden.

Another figure rounded the corner, gaze falling upon the scene. "Hey, Arthur, is this one...?" He trailed off, catching sight of the corpse beside Arthur. Life extinguished, crushed by fallen debris, a tragic tableau of suffering. A muttered curse acknowledged the sad reality they were in.

Arthur's lips curled into a subdued smile, a hint of empathy in his eyes. The newcomer's hope was unmistakable—an ember of optimism that those accustomed to this grim routine had already forgotten.

"Thomas," Arthur's voice carried a gentleness borne of experience, "take him to the others. Let everyone know it's time for a break. Four hours of this, we all deserve a break."

Standing, Arthur arched his back, feeling the ache in his bones. Searching for survivors beneath the rubble exacted a toll—every muscle in his body protested, his stomach rumbling, and a dizzyness signifying intense fatigue.

---

Arthur observed his men, their conversations carrying a deeper meaning. To a discerning eye, a subtle divide was evident among his ranks—the newcomers, brimming with optimism and determination, and the veterans, their eyes hollow, the weight of despair etched into their expressions. Mentally drained and robbed of hope after bearing witness to the true magnitude of the tragedy, they stood together in a somber camaraderie.

As they approached a gate, the Eiffel Tower loomed above, an indomitable sentinel. It stood witness to the devastation that had befallen its homeland. The wind wove through the ruined city, a mournful symphony that seemed to echo the sorrow of France's very soul.

A guard stationed at the gate greeted them, a silent question in his eyes. "Any survivors today?" His words held a glimmer of hope, though deep down he understood the futility of such optimism.

"Only one this time," Arthur's gesture indicated the figure in the carriage behind them. "At this rate, in two days, our efforts may yield no one left to rescue. Our purpose will shift to offering solace to the departed." His gaze met the guard's, empathy evident in his expression. "My condolences for Camille, Jerome."

A brief sigh escaped the guard. The truth weighed heavy—he had long relinquished hope for his daughter's return. Arthur's words merely formalized the reality he had come to terms with. A tear traced a path down his cheek, its journey a testament to his grief.

Drip

At that moment, Arthur reached out, holding the guard in a wordless embrace. It was a bond forged in the crucible of adversity. These men had been strangers before the catastrophe, their paths never intersecting. Yet, the trials they shared had woven them into a brotherhood that transcended time.

An eternity seemed to have passed when the men released their hold on each other, unspoken understanding passing between them. Silently, they moved toward the gate, their purpose clear. In the sprawling camp, paths diverged—one group gravitated toward the southeastern park, where makeshift shelters provided safety from the weather. While others made their way beneath the towering Eiffel Tower, bearing the weight of their findings and provisions.

Arthur followed a different trajectory, his steps leading him to the heart of the camp, where the command center resided. The southern leg housed the nucleus of their operations, dominated by a green-brown military tent. The hum of a generator, procured from a nearby warehouse, supplied power to the assemblage of electronic devices within. Technicians labored tirelessly, striving to reestablish communication, a lifeline to the outside world. Their efforts were punctuated by the audible frustrations that underscored their struggle.

Entering the tent, Arthur's presence seemed to stall the conversation. These were men accustomed to boardrooms and politics. His intrusion— that of a common man—disrupted their equilibrium. Yet, his shrewd intellect had earned him a place here, a representative of the everyday citizen amidst a gathering of the elite. The missions he was dispatched on were less about his skills and more about testing his resilience.

"You're behind schedule," one of the men chided, his words dripping with condescension. But Arthur remained unperturbed, his focus unwavering as he took his seat.

"Any updates, Moreau?" The president's tone was as frosty as the air that surrounded them.

In his characteristically measured manner, Arthur responded, "Only one survivor today, who we have handed to the medics. Additionally, we recovered two-hundred-eighty-four bodies. The usual routine prevailed—we gave them a proper farewell." His voice held an unspoken ache; his stoic facade concealed the grief he felt for every life lost. Though human, they were reduced to mere statistics, each soul carrying a story silenced forever.

The president's acknowledgment was curt. "Well done. Tomorrow, you'll continue," his words echoed with a chilling detachment, revealing a callous disregard for the toll their task exacted. The room nodded in assent, acceptance of their grim mandate.

"Now, gentlemen," the president's gaze swept the room, "let us shift our focus to the main cause of this meeting. What is this enigmatic energy source we've encountered?"

The head of the research department stepped forward, poised to elucidate their findings. "The energy appears to permeate and exit the body, its flow influenced by the individual's constitution. Notably, humans can sense and manipulate this energy, although it demands intense concentration and exacts a mental toll. On a positive note, when this energy disperses from the body, discernible environmental effects follow. By mentally converting this energy into photons, we can potentially emanate photon energy from ourselves. Our ongoing experimentation aims to manipulate the properties of these photons to emit visible light."

A hushed murmur swept through the crowd, gasps punctuating the astonishment. The researcher's gaze sought validation from the president, who nodded in approval, permitting him to continue.

"The energy's name is Aetherium—a name we've ascribed. However, it possesses another name, one known more commonly: magic."