Fight

The council chamber was a grand room with high, arched ceilings and ornate carvings depicting the history of the Has Republic. The long, polished mahogany table in the center was surrounded by seats reserved for the most influential figures in the land. The atmosphere was one of quiet anticipation, though patience was beginning to wear thin.

"...How long should we wait for Martimus?" grumbled Roth Mayars, a council member of human origin and in charge of commerce. His dark eyes were narrowed, and he tapped his fingers irritably against the table. "That fool is always late. I say we begin the council meeting without him. It's not like he contributes much."

Diyana, a wolf beastfolk, opened her eyes slowly, revealing striking amber irises. Her face was undeniably lupine—sharp and regal—making her appear as though a wolf had taken her place at the table. Her calm demeanor was a stark contrast to Roth's impatience. "Let's wait," she said, her voice measured and serene. "We're not in any rush. Martimus has already taken charge of the Festival of Kan. Let him handle it—it gives us time to focus on other matters. Perhaps he'll surprise us."

Beside her, Kergen, a beastfolk of avian origin, nodded in agreement. His feathers were muted and grey, with a face that bore both human and bird-like features. His folded wings rested neatly against his back, giving him an air of quiet dignity. "I concur with Diyana. Regardless of personal opinions, Martimus was chosen as a council member by the people and the voting committee. He deserves our respect and patience."

Diyana acknowledged Kergen with a solemn nod. "Thank you, Council Member Kergen."

Roth sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "Fine, fine. But don't expect me to show him any respect outside of these meetings. I still think he's a poor choice and shouldn't have made it in. Not sure how he got the votes, honestly."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, not tense, but one of those habitual pauses the council had grown used to. It was broken by a knock at the door.

"Come in," Roth called, his voice laced with mild irritation.

The door opened to reveal a maid who entered silently, bowing slightly before crossing the room to open a window. She stepped aside, her task completed. Moments later, a distant shouting grew louder, accompanied by the sound of something approaching at high speed. The council members collectively sighed, knowing exactly what was coming.

In a whirlwind of noise and motion, Martimus flew through the window, his flamboyant robes fluttering behind him. He halted abruptly in mid-air, only to drop unceremoniously onto the floor with a thud. "I'm here! Sorry for being late! I was busy ensuring the festival was running smoothly! Huzzah! Magic and mmmm...magic!" He raised his hands dramatically, a manic grin plastered across his face.

Roth raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You seem awfully excited. And did you really spend time...doing your duties?"

Martimus puffed out his chest, adjusting his gaudy robes adorned with stars and crescent moons. "But of course! What else would I be doing as a member of the Has High Council?" He laughed heartily, though his sincerity was questionable.

The other council members exchanged skeptical glances, their doubts written clearly on their faces. Diyana, ever composed, gestured towards the table. "Nonetheless, come sit, Mr. Martimus. It's about time we begin our meeting."

With a flourish, Martimus took his seat, still beaming with a peculiar mix of pride and obliviousness. The council members prepared themselves, knowing the meeting ahead would be as unpredictable as Martimus himself.

__________________________________

"Is that guy... alive?" Adam asked, his gaze fixed on the man sprawled across the dirt, blood smeared across his face. The crowd had quieted momentarily, their attention shifting as the defeated fighter was carried away on a stretcher.

Lidya leaned casually against the wooden fence, her arms crossed. She glanced at the injured man and shrugged. "Meh, he'll be fine. They've got healers on standby. This place wouldn't last long if they didn't." Her nonchalance was palpable as she turned back to Adam. "So, what do you think? About the arena fights, I mean. This is just the qualifiers for those wanting to enter the real matches, but it's pretty close to what you'll see in the official ones."

Adam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he watched the commotion unfold. "It's brutal. Even with healers and magic, it still feels dangerous. I can't imagine putting myself through something like that. What could they possibly offer that's worth fighting like that?"

Lidya yawned, her expression unchanging. "Well, it depends. The rewards change every year, but they're always something valuable. Last year, we had three winners. Third place got a pair of earrings that let them shoot fire from their eyes. Weird, right? Another got a magic mirror—no clue what it does, but it was fancy-looking. And the first place? They got a special, secret gift along with several thousand gold coins."

As she explained, Adam's eyes drifted back to the makeshift arena. The ground was a mix of dirt and worn wooden planks, giving it a rough, rudimentary feel. He watched the victor of the current round—a foreigner, much like himself. The fighter stood tall but not overly imposing, with long, flowing hair and a poised demeanor. His clothes were of decent quality, suggesting he was well-off, and his weapon of choice—a small sword and a rapier—reflected his refined style.

Lidya noticed Adam's scrutinizing gaze. "Thinking of joining?" she asked, her tone light but with a hint of challenge.

Adam snapped his attention back to her, eyebrows raised in surprise. "What? No, not really. Why would I join... that?" He gestured toward the arena, still shaking his head. "Besides, I have a job to do. I need to keep an eye on you and the girls. Ferosa already has her hands full, and she can't watch over all of you by herself."

Lidya smirked, pushing off the fence. "Fair enough. Just thought I'd ask. You never know—might be more exciting than you think."

Adam chuckled dryly. "Exciting? Sure, if you call getting pummeled for sport exciting."

____________________________

Danmel wiped the sweat from his brow, his gaze distant as the crowd erupted in cheers. Another victory, another step closer to the real arena. He sheathed his blade with a practiced motion, his thoughts drifting back to his master's words.

"I wonder if Master was right," he mused aloud, his voice barely audible over the din of the spectators. "If I can truly find someone worthy of being my rival. He sent me to work for Mistress Sara, the so-called Demon of Lust, but so far, all I've encountered are weaklings and the feeble-minded, barely worth my time." He allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smirk before continuing. "Then again, perhaps the real arena will be different. Perhaps there, I'll find someone who can actually challenge me."

With that thought lingering, Danmel strode confidently out of the arena, ready for what lay ahead.

___________________________________

Adam and Lidya walked side by side along the cobbled streets, the setting sun casting long shadows as they made their way back to the brothel. The air was thick with the scents of roasted meats and the distant hum of festival music. Their last day staying at the brothel had arrived, and the prospect of moving closer to the arena weighed on Adam's mind.

"So, this is it," Adam muttered, glancing over at Lidya, who seemed as unbothered as ever. "Our last day here before we move to that place near the arena."

Lidya nodded, her hands tucked casually into her pockets. "Yep. Maria thinks it's a good idea. Festival season brings in a lot of gold, and it's worthwhile to send a few of the girls to advertise near the arena."

Adam raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Advertise? What kind of advertising are we talking about here?"

Lidya shrugged, her usual nonchalant demeanor on full display. "Probably just mingling, handing out flyers, talking to people, that sort of thing. You know, drumming up business. The arena's where the action is, and it's packed with potential customers. Makes sense to have a presence there."

Adam sighed, shaking his head. "I guess. Just doesn't sit right with me, dragging them out there in the middle of all that chaos."

Lidya gave him a sidelong glance. "Relax. They're not exactly defenseless, and besides, you'll be there. Isn't that what you're here for? To keep us safe?"

Adam smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

As they reached the brothel, the warm glow of lanterns welcomed them. Adam couldn't shake the feeling that things were about to get a lot more complicated. But for now, he'd focus on the task at hand—protecting the girls and surviving the chaos of the festival.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" 

The piercing scream echoed down the quiet street, followed by a resounding crash and a heavy thud. Adam and Lidya spun around, eyes wide, as a cloud of dust and debris billowed out from a spot a few feet away. Through the haze, a series of coughing fits broke the silence.

"Bwahaha... ahh, that was the wrong time to let go of the spell," a gruff voice muttered amidst the dust.

As the debris settled, the figure of a tall, muscular man emerged. He sported a long gray beard, tangled but somehow dignified, and was clad in tattered wizard's robes. His eyes twinkled mischievously as he dusted himself off, seemingly unfazed by his dramatic arrival.

"Ah, excuse me, lady and gentleman," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. "Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am? I seem to have gotten a bit... disoriented."

Adam stared in disbelief, struggling to process the scene unfolding before him. Lidya, on the other hand, simply shrugged, her expression as nonchalant as ever.

"Sir Martimus, this is the North District, on Greyhound's Crossing," Lidya replied, her tone calm and matter-of-fact.

Adam's jaw dropped. "Wait, Lidya, you know this guy?"

Lidya turned to him, her eyes narrowing slightly as if questioning his intelligence. "Oh, right, you're new here," she said, her tone bordering on amusement. "This is one of the High Council members, Sir Martimus, the Grand Mage of Has Republic."

Martimus straightened up, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Actually, it's Magic King Martimus," he corrected, stroking his beard with a flourish. "Though I also accept titles like Magic God or Magic Genius."

Adam's mind raced as he pieced together what he'd heard. He remembered Nilguard's warning about a self-proclaimed Magic King from the Has Republic, notorious for his unconventional methods and chaotic magical prowess. His eyes widened in alarm as the realization hit.

"Wait... you're the guy who tore a cart-sized hole in reality?" Adam asked, stepping protectively in front of Lidya. "Lidya, get away from him!"

He positioned himself between them, his stance tense and ready for anything. Martimus, however, seemed entirely unfazed. He raised an eyebrow and chuckled.

"Oh, that little incident?" Martimus said, waving a hand dismissively. "A mere experiment gone slightly awry. No need for alarm, young man."

Adam didn't budge, his gaze locked on Martimus. "Slightly awry? You ripped reality apart!"

Martimus chuckled again, as if the very notion was trivial. "Well, yes, but it's all in the name of progress. Besides, I fixed it, didn't I?"

Lidya, leaning casually against a lamppost, watched the exchange with mild amusement. "Relax, Adam. If he wanted to do something, he'd have done it by now. Trust me, he's more interested in his own eccentricities than causing trouble."

Adam glanced at Lidya, then back at Martimus, his guard still up. "I'm not taking any chances."

Martimus sighed dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. "Such mistrust. I assure you, my intentions are purely academic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way. Duty calls!"

With a flourish of his robe, Martimus began to walk away, only to pause and glance back. "Oh, and if you ever find yourselves in need of some... magical enlightenment, you know where to find me."

Adam watched him go, his shoulders still tense. "What the hell was that?" he muttered.

Lidya shrugged, pushing off the lamppost. "Welcome to Has Republic, where even the High Council is a bit... unconventional." She smirked, starting down the street again. "Come on, we've got places to be."

Adam sighed, shaking his head as he followed her. "Yeah, and apparently, a lot more to worry about."

________________________

"Amali, my darling daughter! Come, give your papa a kiss!" Martimus bellowed, throwing his arms wide open in a dramatic gesture of fatherly affection. His eyes sparkled with exaggerated hope as he leaned forward, ready to envelop her in a grand, theatrical hug.

Amali, without even a glance in his direction, walked right past him with the grace and poise of someone who had mastered the art of ignoring. Martimus froze, his outstretched arms hanging awkwardly in the air, his expectant expression slowly morphing into one of heart-wrenching disappointment.

With a theatrical sniffle, he clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. "Bwaaa! No one loves me! I'm all alone!" he wailed, his voice echoing dramatically through the grand halls of the Martimus estate.

He turned on his heel, robes swirling around him, and ran off in an exaggerated slow-motion sprint towards his magical study. "To my solitude!" he cried, his voice trailing off in a pitiful sob.

From down the hallway, the faint sound of doors slamming and muffled cries of self-pity could be heard. "Bwaaa! Not even a glance! I'm forsaken! Alone in my magical misery!"

Uruua, standing nearby with an amused smirk, gave Amali an approving nod. "Good job," she said, her tone dry but clearly entertained.

Amali, maintaining her cool composure, gave a slight nod and continued on her way. Together, they walked toward the tea lounge, their footsteps echoing softly in contrast to the distant, dramatic sobs of Martimus.

As they reached the lounge, Uruua chuckled softly. "You'd think he lost a kingdom, not just a hug."

Amali smirked, pouring herself a cup of tea. "He'll be fine. By the time we finish our tea, he'll have conjured up some new grandiose scheme to win me over."

They settled into the plush chairs, the cozy ambiance of the lounge a stark contrast to the theatrical wailing still drifting down the hall.

"Think he'll try poetry next?" Uruua mused, raising an eyebrow.

Amali took a sip of her tea, her eyes glinting with humor. "I hope not. Last time, he rhymed 'love' with 'shove' and 'potion' with 'ocean.' It was... painful."

The two shared a knowing laugh, the sound blending with the distant lamentations of Martimus, now likely composing an overly dramatic letter to the "Cruel Mistress of Indifference" he called his daughter.

_________________________________

A Secret Council Meeting

"Mr. Roth, good evening. I came as soon as I received your letter. What's the issue?" Diyana, the wolf lady, stood at the entrance of Roth Mayar's humble home. Despite his position as a council member, the simplicity of his residence often shocked those aware of his status.

"Ms. Diyana, please come in. This will take a while. The others are already here, except for Martimus," Roth replied, opening the door wider. "Before you say anything, I did send him a letter, but as usual, he hasn't shown up."

Diyana entered, her sharp eyes scanning the modest surroundings before settling into a simple wooden chair around a small, worn table—likely where Roth took his meals. Seated around it were the full members of the council, all four of them, along with their respective assistants.

Roth poured tea for everyone, the warm aroma filling the room as he began. "Let me get straight to the point. There are demons invading Has."

A collective gasp filled the room, eyes widening in shock. Roth raised a hand to calm them. "I'm not done. We currently don't know their objective or how they bypassed the barriers, but they are here. Alongside them are cultists, likely after something significant. Given the timing, I fear it involves human sacrifices."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in before motioning for questions.

"How do you know of this?" Diyana asked, her gaze intense.

Roth explained, "As the head of commerce, I often work with the adventurers' guild. They supply us with high-quality goods—weapons, armor, potions, monster parts, and so on. Recently, I received word of a sudden rise in demonic activity in Veldr. I contacted a trusted source there, who confirmed the demons had appeared out of nowhere, wreaking havoc. Thankfully, the local adventurers managed to contain the threat. However, today I received another report from my men. They discovered traces of what appears to be a blood ritual for summoning demons right here in Has."

Diyana nodded thoughtfully. The next question came from Hertha, the council member overseeing agriculture. "You said they bypassed our defensive magical barriers. Do we have confirmation on this? How could they breach it? Or perhaps they found a way around?"

Roth sighed, "We have no evidence of the barriers being breached. If they were, every mage within the borders would have been alerted. Yet, there was no such alarm. It's possible they found a hidden way in, which is concerning. We have no clue about the scale of this invasion. I've gathered you here because I fear they may already have spies among us. I've had my home thoroughly examined by a trusted mage—it's clean. Discussing this in our usual manner seemed too risky. Secrecy is essential to maintain peace, especially during the festival. If word spreads, it could be disastrous for Has's reputation."

Diyana, as head of Has's national security, spoke with resolve. "I'll mobilize my family and deploy search parties. The Greyhound Knights are our best bet for gathering clues. Security will be tightened, with increased patrols. I'll also deploy air guards." She glanced at Kergen, the birdman council member, for support.

Kergen nodded. "I'll send air scouts along with a few hawks. They'll be able to spot any small details we might miss."

Hertha spoke again, her tone serious. "As Mr. Roth mentioned, any disruption to the festival could damage our relations with neighboring kingdoms and sour the citizens' morale. We can't let that happen. I'll increase the festival's funding to ensure that, even if something occurs, it won't ruin the event entirely."

Roth sighed, his expression grim. "One more thing. The only way I can imagine the cultists and demons entered is if someone on the inside helped them."

A heavy silence settled over the room. Kergen broke it, his voice calm but firm. "Are you suggesting there are traitors among us? That's possible. Aside from Uruua, the dragon who bows to no one, and Martimus, who, despite his eccentricities, remains one of the most powerful mages, it leaves the four of us in this room."

Diyana glanced around, tension thick in the air. She opened her mouth to speak, but Roth interrupted, "I'm not necessarily accusing anyone. There are ways to control minds. We must also consider the possibility that the cultists have developed something capable of bypassing our barriers."

The weight of his words hung heavily as the council members pondered the dire situation, each realizing the stakes had never been higher for Has.

A Moment of Tension in the Council

"I see," Kergen spoke, his tone thoughtful but firm. He looked around the room, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the situation. "But perhaps this is exactly what they wish for."

Mr. Roth raised an eyebrow but remained silent as Kergen continued.

"Mr. Roth, we might have a problem," Kergen said, his feathers ruffling slightly as he spoke. "While we can certainly send the Greyhounds and air guards, we won't be able to detain or attack them without reasonable assumption. It's possible that they simply came in like any other traveler. Has, as you know, is a nation that welcomes all those willing to follow its laws and traditions. If we take action without proper cause, we risk undermining the very principles Has stands for."

Diyana, who had been quiet up until that point, was visibly shocked. Her normally composed features tightened with concern. "Master Kergen, is this a joke? I understand that your lineage places heavy emphasis on tradition, but surely, this is an exception! These are demons and cultists! If we wait too long—"

Kergen held up a hand to interrupt her, his voice calm but resolute. "Mr. Roth, do you have proof that the blood ritual belongs to any innocent civilian of Has? I presume not. And again, if there are no traces of them breaking through the barriers, then we cannot act on mere suspicion. I understand your concerns, and I will continue sending scouts, but until we find reasonable evidence, we cannot detain or attack them. Doing so would go against the laws of the Has Republic, Section 3, Partitions 8 through 23."

The room was heavy with the weight of Kergen's words. Diyana's sharp eyes flickered toward Roth, her lips pressed into a thin line. She opened her mouth to argue, but Roth, though visibly frustrated, only nodded in response.

"I understand, Kergen," Roth said, his voice low but carrying the tension of someone caught between duty and fear. "But we're running out of time."

Diyana, unable to hold her worry back any longer, stood up abruptly. "Must we really do this? Can't we make an exception this time? I don't want to sit idly by while demons roam free and risk another catastrophe."

Her voice cracked with emotion, the concern in her eyes reflecting both the weight of her position and her sense of responsibility. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as her thoughts raced—she, the head of national security, had always been the one to protect Has and its people. Now, she felt powerless to stop what might come.

Kergen, unmoved by her distress, spoke again, his voice as steady as ever. "Ms. Diyana, I understand your worries fully. But if we make one exception, then soon we'll make another, and another, until all our laws become meaningless. Freedom is one of the core pillars of Has. If it were to fall, the rest would crumble with it."

He locked eyes with Diyana, his gaze unwavering, and his words seemed to echo in the room like a quiet storm. "You, as both the head of national security and a member of the wolfkin, are loyal to Has above all else. I know your instincts tell you to take action, to protect the people no matter the cost. But if we abandon our laws now, what will we stand for? What will Has stand for?"

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, each council member reflecting on the weight of Kergen's words. Diyana's face softened for a moment as the tension drained from her features. She had always known that her duty was to protect the people of Has, but to abandon the very laws that protected them from chaos—was that what she wanted? Was that the example she wanted to set?

Roth broke the silence with a sigh, his hand resting heavily on the table in front of him. "We are all bound by our laws, Diyana. But the world outside is far more dangerous than we realize. If we wait too long..."

His words trailed off, unfinished, but the concern in his voice was unmistakable. The room remained heavy with a sense of impending danger, and despite Kergen's staunch argument for adherence to law, the threat of what might be lurking in the shadows weighed on all of them.

Diyana slumped back into her chair, her thoughts in turmoil. "I just don't want to see more people hurt... And yet, I know you're right. If we lose our sense of justice, we lose everything."

The council members exchanged uncertain glances. It seemed the debate was far from over, and they all knew the next steps they took could determine the future of Has itself.

___________________-

Diyana walked through the streets of the city, the weight of the council meeting heavy on her shoulders. The night air was cool against her fur, but the sense of urgency and tension in her chest kept her from feeling the bite of the evening wind. Her thoughts churned, and her steps were mechanical as she made her way home. 

The mansion loomed ahead, its grand structure bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. Her family had always resided in this estate, a symbol of their longstanding status and influence within the wolfkin community. The familiar scents of old wood, polished stone, and the faint trace of incense filled her nose as she approached the door. 

She took a deep breath and pushed open the large, ornate door. The mansion was quiet, save for the distant sounds of a few night guards moving through the hallways. Her brothers and sisters, ever vigilant, kept watch over the estate while the others slept. Their keen senses ensured nothing passed unnoticed, and Diyana felt a measure of comfort in their presence, even though she knew they would never truly rest until the threat was neutralized.

As she walked down the long hallway, the flickering light from the nearby torches cast strange shadows against the walls. She passed the various rooms where her siblings slept, and the soft sound of breathing filled the air. Yet, there was one room that she needed to visit—a room that belonged to her father, the patriarch of their family, and the man whose influence within the wolfkin society was undeniable.

She approached his door and paused. With a soft knock, she entered without waiting for a response. Inside, the scent of aged wood, leather, and faint traces of smoke from the fireplace greeted her. 

Her father, the great wolfman who had seen and endured countless battles in his lifetime, was seated in a large chair by the hearth. The fire flickered low, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. His massive form seemed to fill the space, a hulking presence that demanded attention. His fur was dark and streaked with silver, his body covered in countless scars, each one a testament to the years he'd spent defending his family and Has itself.

Despite his imposing appearance, Diyana had never been afraid of her father. His voice, though gruff and tired from age, carried a deep warmth and authority. His eyes, though clouded with age, always saw right through her, as if he could read her very soul.

"Daughter of mine, what worries you?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. He did not need to sniff the air to know she was troubled. She had been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for days, and tonight, it had finally broken through.

Diyana didn't mince words, her voice tight with restraint. "Has is in danger again."

Her father's response was a deep, rumbling hum, and he shifted his gaze toward the wall behind him. His eyes lingered on the massive spiked mace that hung above the fireplace, the weapon a reminder of his long years of service. The weapon had seen countless battles, each blow struck in the name of protecting Has and its people.

"You wish to call us to fight? So be it," her father said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen enough bloodshed to last several lifetimes. He did not question her decision; his place was to serve, as it had always been.

Diyana's heart clenched. "No, Father. I've come to warn you. We can't fight just yet. We need to find proof, to know they're criminals that have broken the law. Only then can we move, only then can we strike."

Her father's eyes softened as he regarded her, and there was a moment of silence before he spoke again. "Was it Kergen?" he asked, already knowing the answer. He had lived long enough to understand the intricacies of the political world in Has, and he knew the stubborn nature of Kergen, the birdman of the council.

Diyana nodded. "Yes. It was Kergen. He believes in waiting for proof, but I'm not sure we have the time. The demons and cultists could be anywhere, and we're not prepared."

Her father nodded slowly, his gaze distant as he seemed to weigh her words. The scars on his face twitched as he looked at her more directly, his features growing more solemn. The right side of his face, once handsome, was now a horrific mess of scar tissue, the remnants of countless battles and a life dedicated to protecting his people. It was a face that told stories of sacrifice, loss, and an unyielding will to endure.

"I see that old bird is still around and kicking," he said with a smirk, his voice thick with both fondness and a touch of humor. He knew Kergen well, and though he respected the birdman's wisdom, he could not deny that Kergen's views sometimes frustrated him.

"Very well. Go rest," he said with finality, his voice dropping a little in weariness. "I'll talk to your brother and sister tomorrow. You will lead them, Diyana."

His words were not a command, but a trust placed in her. It was in these moments, when his gaze softened, that Diyana felt a deep connection with her father, despite his rough exterior and the years of battles that had shaped him into the man he was. His presence was a constant, a reminder of the sacrifices they had all made for Has.

"Good night, Father," Diyana said, her voice quiet but full of gratitude. She gave him a soft smile, the warmth in her expression breaking through the weight of the night's events. Despite the turmoil, she knew she was not alone in this fight.

Her father nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he gave her a silent, approving glance. "Rest, my daughter. Tomorrow we act."

As Diyana turned to leave the room, she was suddenly tackled from behind by a small, playful force. Her younger siblings, having been waiting for her, jumped onto her back, giggling and calling for her attention. 

"Sister! Sister, come play with us!" they cried, their voices high-pitched and full of excitement. Their energy, so pure and free from the burdens of the world, was a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere Diyana had just left behind.

She laughed, the sound rich and genuine, as she tried to shake them off. "You two never rest, do you?"

The moment felt like an anchor, grounding her amidst the chaos of her thoughts. Though the world outside was fraught with danger, here, in the safe confines of her family's home, there was still warmth and light. Despite the war, despite the sacrifices, Diyana knew that her family would always be her strength.

Her younger siblings, their laughter echoing through the halls, reminded her that there was still hope, still joy in the world—even if it was fleeting.

_______________________

The soft rustle of leaves in the towering trees above signaled the arrival of Kergen's assistant, Artom. The birdman's footsteps were light and sure, the sound of his talons scraping against the wooden floor was the only indication of his presence as he entered the room. Kergen, perched comfortably at a large oak table laden with scrolls and maps of Has, didn't look up at first. His gaze was fixed on the intricate patterns drawn on the parchment before him, tracing the roads and borderlands of the kingdom with an intensity that spoke of his years of experience. The map itself, weathered and fraying at the edges, was annotated with cryptic symbols—details of their enemies' movements, secret locations, and potential threats.

"Master Kergen, the hawks wish to speak with you," Artom's voice was calm but carried a note of urgency. He understood that his master, despite his unshakeable composure, needed the full clarity of the situation to proceed effectively. 

Kergen, deep in thought, lifted his eyes slowly, his sharp, avian features sharp and calculating. With a nod of his head, he gave a simple yet commanding response. "Let them in."

Moments later, the soft chirps and rustling wings of the hawk platoon's leader filled the room as he entered, his wings fluttering in the cool, evening air. A tall, slender figure with deep brown feathers streaked with lighter hues, his eyes gleaming with the sharp focus of one who had seen countless battles and surveillances. He stepped forward, his talons scraping softly on the wooden floor as he addressed Kergen.

"Master Kergen, we have received word," the hawk said, his tone clipped and professional. "The hawks of the south are willing to join, but..."

Kergen, who had been quietly studying the map, raised a hand with a deliberate, calm motion. His gaze shifted to the hawk with a knowing look. "No need to elaborate. The north and east will join in due time; this I assure you." His voice was firm but carried the weight of a seasoned strategist. "For now, send word to our nightowl friends. Tell them to go and look for prey within the city—those who carry the scent of blood and only them." Kergen's eyes narrowed as he spoke, his gaze as piercing as ever, locking onto the hawk's with the precision of a practiced leader. 

The hawk leader bowed his head respectfully. "Understood, Master Kergen. We shall begin preparations immediately." With that, he took off, soaring through the open window, his powerful wings cutting through the air with ease.

Artom stepped forward, his talon-covered fingers wrapping around a brass handle of a nearby drawer, retrieving a set of lenses and a long, fine map case. He placed the glasses on the table in front of Kergen, who paused to inspect them before putting them on. The thin lenses settled on his sharp beak, and with a deep breath, Kergen's intense focus shifted. The faint silver gleam in his eyes behind the glasses reflected the candlelight, magnifying the already sharp determination in his expression.

"Artom, go bring me my detailed maps," Kergen ordered, his voice lower now as he prepared to plan the next moves of the delicate operation. "I wish to analyze every detail, every possible escape route. We cannot afford to make mistakes." 

Artom nodded quickly, his gaze flicking to the many scrolls lining the shelves. He hurried to gather the maps Kergen needed, the sound of his wings flapping lightly as he moved with purpose. He knew better than to question Kergen's methods—the birdman was one of the most precise, calculating strategists in Has.

While Artom scurried to collect the maps, Kergen's thoughts were already turning to their next steps. His sharp eyes scanned the map in front of him, his fingers lightly tapping on the roads leading through the north and south districts. His mind was running calculations faster than a scholar could read the words on a page. Despite his age, his mind remained as sharp as the day he had first taken flight, and as a member of the council, Kergen's reputation for his keen intellect and strategic prowess was well known. He had earned the trust of his people through years of unwavering loyalty and wisdom.

The hawk platoon leader's report had only served to confirm Kergen's suspicions: the city was under threat, and time was not on their side. The night had already begun, and the hawks and owls were already out in the city's shadows, hunting their prey. But Kergen knew that their efforts would be futile if they could not identify their enemies first. Those who had infiltrated the city were far too skilled at hiding their true identities, and the barriers surrounding the city had proven useless against them.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. This wasn't just an ordinary attack—it was an orchestrated scheme, one that had been set into motion long before the council had even realized the danger. The demons, the cultists—they were but a distraction. The true enemy was something far more elusive, far more dangerous. The forces they were up against knew how to strike in the darkness and leave no trace of their presence. And Kergen was determined to find out who was behind it all.

Artom returned with the maps, unfurling them carefully across the table before Kergen. Each map detailed a different part of Has, from the central districts to the hidden paths through the mountain ranges. Kergen studied the intricate details with a calculating eye, his fingers tracing the lines and landmarks, mentally organizing the forces he would need to deploy.

"We'll need to be meticulous," Kergen muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. "Every movement will be watched, and every wrong turn could be our last."

As Artom observed Kergen's focus, he felt a sense of awe at his master's unwavering dedication. There was no room for error, no time for hesitation. In Kergen's mind, every second spent in indecision was another second wasted. The enemy was already out there, hidden in plain sight, and Kergen would not rest until he had found them.

"Ready, Master Kergen," Artom said, his voice breaking Kergen's concentration. 

Kergen nodded slowly, the weight of responsibility settling firmly on his shoulders. With one last glance at the maps, he stood, his sharp gaze meeting Artom's. 

"Prepare the hawks," he said, his voice steady. "We strike before dawn."

__________________

Roth Mayars sat slumped on his worn couch, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions as he stared down at the report in his hands. His fingers absentmindedly rubbed at his temples, a habitual gesture born of countless sleepless nights spent in the grip of stress and frustration. The soft flicker of candlelight cast long, dancing shadows on the walls of his modest living room, a stark contrast to the grandiose halls he often frequented in his capacity as a council member. The once-vibrant colors of the room had dulled over time, much like his own spirit. 

"Gods above, at this rate, I'll be bald by thirty-five," Roth muttered bitterly, his voice heavy with the weight of exhaustion. His gaze flicked to the pile of paperwork scattered across the small table in front of him, the unending stream of reports and complaints from the citizens of Has. He could feel the pressure mounting on his chest, as if the walls of his own home were closing in around him.

"Why did I ever have to become a council member?" he grumbled, as if the thought itself had physically drained him. "If I had just stayed out of those damn protests in my youth... if I had kept my mouth shut and never raised my fist in defiance of the powers that be, I could've lived a simple life. A laborer's life. A life where the only thing that mattered was the work done with your hands and the food on the table at the end of the day." 

The report, now crumpled from his frustration, fell onto the table as he stood up, pacing back and forth. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he moved, a rhythm he had become all too familiar with over the years. Roth's room, though modest, held a stark beauty in its simplicity. A few well-worn pieces of furniture, a few plants in the corners, and the faint scent of wood and earth that clung to everything. The air smelled of old books and dried ink, a reminder of the many years he had spent in the pursuit of something—anything—that might leave a legacy behind. 

He turned back toward the table and sighed deeply, his hand coming up to scrub his face. "No mansions, no gold statues, no books written about me. What have I really done with my life?" The words echoed in the silence, a hollow lament that seemed to hang in the air long after he stopped speaking. His mind wandered, remembering all the promises he'd made to himself when he first entered politics: promises of change, of progress, of a future that would be brighter for the people of Has. But now, years later, it seemed that all he had accomplished was a greater weight on his shoulders, a weight that refused to ease no matter how hard he worked. 

He let out another frustrated groan, flopping back down onto the couch, letting the cushions swallow him whole. His eyes closed for a moment as he listened to the sounds of the city outside—distant voices, the clatter of carts, the soft hum of life continuing on without pause. And then, in the stillness, the truth hit him like a punch to the gut. 

The only thing he had done—perhaps the only thing he would ever be remembered for—was ensuring that every child in Has had food, clothes, and shelter. He had been the one to push for the laws that made it illegal for any child to go without the basics, that made it so that no child in Has had to endure the agony of hunger, the shame of cold, or the isolation of homelessness. And yet, it had never been out of love, nor care, but out of sheer selfishness.

He had done it, Roth would admit to himself in rare moments of honesty, because he knew that when he died, the people would remember him. They would remember the laws he passed, the children he had helped, and perhaps—just perhaps—someone would write a book about him. They would carve his name in stone or paint his portrait, and for once, he would have something to leave behind, something that would immortalize him in the eyes of the world.

Roth let out a dry laugh, bitter and hollow, as he opened his eyes and stared at the report once more. A part of him felt the emptiness of it all, the void where his soul had once been. All his accomplishments, all his victories, had never been for the right reasons. He had always told himself that it was for the good of others, but in the quiet moments, when no one was watching, he knew it was for the recognition, the glory, and the certainty that, when he was gone, people would remember his name.

But as his eyes lingered on the pile of reports, a thought flickered in his mind—was it too late to change? Could he have done it differently? Could he have fought for the people not just for his own selfish desires, but because he genuinely cared? Roth shook his head, the thought fading as quickly as it had come. It was too late now. He had made his choices. The path he had walked had led him here, and there was no turning back.

With a heavy sigh, Roth leaned back in the couch, staring at the ceiling as if the answers to all his questions might somehow fall from the sky. "I'll never be the hero they want me to be," he muttered. "But maybe I'll be the one they need." 

And so, with that thought lingering in the air, Roth closed his eyes once more, knowing that the real battle—whether for his soul, his legacy, or his future—was just beginning.

___________________

"Welcome back, Madam Hertha! Here's the new batch," called out Farmer Drell as he stood in front of the large barn doors, a hand raised in greeting.

Hertha's carriage had just rolled to a stop at the entrance of her estate—a sprawling farm unlike anything one might expect from a council member. While many members of the ruling class preferred opulent city estates, Hertha had always insisted on remaining close to the heart of the land. She could often be found here, among the crops, working side by side with her farmers and mages in a way that few could imagine. This estate was a fusion of agricultural mastery and cutting-edge magical technology—rows of golden wheat interspersed with rows of enchanted crops, carefully tended by both the local farmers and mages who had come from all over the region to contribute their expertise. 

Hertha was a woman of few pretensions. The sleek, noble attire of the council chambers was nowhere to be found here; she wore sturdy boots, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hands, though finely manicured, bore the faintest marks of hard work. She was a leader who understood that true change and progress came from the soil, and she was not afraid to get her hands dirty. As she stepped down from her carriage, dust clung to the soles of her boots, and the unmistakable scent of fresh earth filled her nostrils—an aroma she would never trade for the sterile air of the capital.

Hertha turned to the man who had greeted her, a farmer whose worn hands and sun-baked face showed the signs of a life spent laboring in the fields. Drell stood next to a large wooden cart piled high with crates, each brimming with new produce—apples, potatoes, and even a selection of rare herbs grown under magical enhancement. The faint hum of magical energy rippled through the air, ensuring the crops would be fresh and abundant, ready for market.

Hertha smiled warmly as she approached him, her sharp green eyes scanning the produce before glancing up at Drell with an approving nod. "Good work, Drell. Everything looks healthy."

"Thank you, Madam. The new batch should fetch a good price this season. We've also managed to stabilize the soil in the west fields using the new infusion technique you suggested. The yields should be higher this year," Drell replied with a grin, clearly proud of the results.

Hertha's estate was a place of constant innovation. Mages from various schools of thought worked alongside farmers to experiment with new ways to improve crop yield and quality, using everything from simple enchantments to complex magical infusions. Even the plants themselves were subtly altered to thrive better in Has' diverse climate, a task that required both magical and agricultural skill. 

Despite the elegance of her estate, with its tall, ivy-clad stone walls and expansive grounds, Hertha always made time to mingle with her workers. She would spend hours out in the fields, learning from them, offering guidance, and sometimes simply getting her hands dirty in the soil. This was her true pride: a working farm where magic and nature could coexist, a place where practical wisdom and arcane knowledge met at the crossroads of progress.

She walked through the rows of crops, inspecting them closely as the workers bustled around her, carrying their tools and checking the enchanted irrigation systems. As she passed by the magical cornfield, she paused to speak with one of the mages overseeing the enchantments. The mage bowed slightly and greeted her.

"Madam Hertha, the new spell we've implemented has been successful. The soil is absorbing nutrients at an unprecedented rate, and we're seeing rapid growth in this batch. We've also managed to reduce the risk of pests with the wards we set up," the mage explained.

Hertha's eyes gleamed with approval, though her face remained impassive as always. "Good. Keep monitoring the effects. We can't afford any setbacks. I want every crop on this farm to be the best in Has."

As she walked, her thoughts were focused not only on the farm's success but on the larger impact her work could have on the future of the Republic. Has' agricultural sector was the backbone of its economy, and it was her duty to ensure that it not only thrived but that the advances made here could be replicated across the nation. She thought of her council colleagues, most of whom had little understanding of the hard work that went into feeding the people. The idea of getting "down and dirty" in the fields was a concept few of them could relate to.

"Madam, the new shipment from the east has arrived," another worker called out, holding up a bundle of materials wrapped in cloth. 

Hertha nodded and walked over, inspecting the goods with the keen eye of a person who had spent years on the ground. She ran her fingers over the cloth, the fine weave betraying its origin. This was the kind of work that mattered—growing crops and nourishing the people, not the politics or games of the council. Here, there was no pretending. You either had a good harvest, or you didn't.

With a satisfied sigh, she turned back to Drell. "We'll need to expand the eastern fields. The increase in production will mean more mouths to feed, but it also means more trade routes and more revenue for Has. Tell the mages to begin preparations for the next infusion cycle."

"Yes, Madam," Drell replied, his voice full of respect. "And… thank you. For everything."

Hertha smiled again, this time with warmth. "No need for thanks, Drell. It's all part of the job." She paused, her gaze softening as she watched the workers toil away. "Besides, I'll take the soil and sweat over politics any day."

With that, she turned and began to walk deeper into the heart of the farm, her boots crunching against the dirt, her mind already on the next step. It was a simple life by most standards, but it was her life, and for all the luxuries her council seat could afford, there was nowhere she would rather be than here, among the earth and the people who had made Has what it was today.