The Unrule of the Secret Order

On the battlefield, geomancers, necrologists, and memory archivists stand with their respective leaders, each conducting intricate investigations.

The air hums with the resonance of ancient power as the geomancers shape and read the earth beneath their feet, unraveling its hidden truths.

Necrologists weave through the mists of death, communing with lost spirits and deciphering the echoes of fallen souls.

Memory archivists, with eyes aglow, delve into the fabric of time and thought, sifting through spectral fragments of forgotten histories. Together, under the watchful eyes of their commanding masters, they seek answers that lie buried within the ruins of war.

As the first light of dawn breaks across the horizon, casting a soft glow over the sky, a man with white beared of commanding presence and regal bearing steps forward.

His aura radiates majesty and unshakable authority, a beacon of leadership that draws the attention of all who gather.

His eyes, sharp with wisdom and purpose, sweep across the scene where investigations unfold.

He stood adorned in imperial robes, their rich fabric embroidered with intricate patterns of gold and deep crimson, a testament to his high rank and undeniable authority.

The symbol of the Triquetra which represents the harmony between body mind and spirit gleamed proudly on the left side of his chest, a mark of ancient power and eternal unity.

His very aura was one of command, exuding the calm, decisive strength of a seasoned leader amidst the chaos of the battlefield.

"Any leads?" His voice cut through the morning air, firm and resonant with the weight of unquestionable authority. It was not a question so much as a command, a demand for answers that brooked no hesitation.

Around him, geomancers, necrologists, and memory archivists paused in their work, their gazes lifting to meet the keen, unrelenting eyes of their leader.

At the sound of his commanding words, a ripple of energy coursed through the assembled investigators.

Geomancers straightened from their communion with the earth, necrologists turned from their spectral whispers, and memory archivists ceased their silent probing of lost thoughts.

Leaders of each order moved with purpose, drawing closer to present their findings. Every member, driven by a renewed sense of urgency, responded to the call except one.

A lone figure, cloaked in shadows as if darkness itself clung to his form, remained still. His demeanor was calm, his presence enigmatic, as though he was the leader of his members which belong to secret Order.

He belonged to the Secret Order, though it was impossible to discern his exact division.

His expression was devoid of interest in the unfolding investigation, his detachment palpable. It wasn't that members of his order had been spared from the catastrophe, death had touched them too.

But for the followers of the Secret Order, Death was not a tragedy. It was a hunter, a force that culled the weak and unworthy.

In their doctrine, survival was a privilege earned by strength and will, and those unable to endure held no place among them.

To him, the loss of lives was not a matter for sorrow or justice; it was simply the inevitable order of existence.

The Arcana and Magical Experts serve as the cornerstone of all organizations, akin to the guiding mother of the collective. Whenever they embark on a mission whether it be for investigation, assault, or any other endeavor, divisions from each organizations are dispatched to accompany them, bound to their expertise and leadership.

Because of this, members of other factions show deference to the Arcana experts, acknowledging them as the leaders during joint expeditions.

The Triquetra symbol, borne proudly by their leaders, represents authority and unity, granting them the right to command any division as they see fit with one exception: the Secret Order.

The Secret Order, however, is like a diseased organ within the body. If left unchecked, it festers and spreads its corruption, yet to exterminate it entirely would also destabilize the balance, leading to unforeseen consequences. It exists in a precarious space where its elimination or survival both bring peril.

Driven by their own enigmatic goals, the Secret Order operates outside the bounds of any law or structure.

They follow no rules but their own, walking the razor's edge between necessity and chaos, their loyalty forever an unanswered question.

As the gathered members converged around the majestic figure with the Triquetra symbol gleaming on his chest, the leader of the necrologists stepped forward. His dark robes whispered against the ground as he bowed deeply, his voice calm yet burdened with grim certainty.

"Your Highness," he began, "two factions clashed with relentless fury, draining their strength and spirit in a savage battle. When both sides were weakened, barely clinging to life, a third force emerged from the shadows, striking mercilessly and cutting them down before they could recover."

The words hung heavily in the air. The man with the white beard and silver hair, sank into deep contemplation, his eyes narrowing as he processed the revelation.

A second figure approached, his steps firm, his bearing one of steady command. The leader of the geomancers bowed with respect before speaking. "Your Highness, my findings align with those of the necrologists. Two forces members were from beaster tamers and

Martial and Weapon Specialists. The third party that claimed victory amidst the carnage… it could only be the Spirit Race."

He paused, his voice gaining weight as he delivered his conclusion. "Only they possess the ability to manifest from the ethereal realm, slipping unseen from the Spirit World into ours."

A murmur of acknowledgment stirred through the gathered ranks, but the geomancer raised a hand, his expression grave. "Yet the true question remains who dismantled the country's defensive formations? Without internal betrayal, the Spirit Race could never have breached this land. Someone within these walls… let them in."

The weight of his words hung like a stormcloud, dark and foreboding, as all eyes turned to the majestic leader, awaiting his judgment.

The white-bearded sage remained silent, his eyes fixed intently on the pair of master and the pupil, his gaze expectant and discerning. He held them in high esteem, and his anticipatory gaze seemed to say, "I await your insightful perspectives."

The female oracle materialized before the venerable white-bearded mage, her ethereal presence commanding attention.

However, she defied convention by not bowing to him, instead meeting his gaze with an air of quiet confidence.

"All visions of the past converge on a singular truth," she declared, her voice like music. "As my brothers have foreseen, the threads of destiny are indeed entwined."

Though her words were laced with respect, her tone remained steadfast, unwavering in its conviction.

The white-bearded mage's eyes narrowed, his interest piqued by the oracle's unorthodox demeanor.

As the oracle stepped forward and addressed the white-bearded leader with such directness, a ripple of emotion passed through the gathered ranks.

Many of those present felt a surge of envy, their eyes narrowing with subtle resentment.

To stand before their leader without bowing, to speak with such unguarded confidence, was a privilege few would dare. Yet not all shared this sentiment.

Among them, a select few who knew the true identity of the girl maintained their composure, their expressions carefully schooled into neutrality.

Meanwhile, the leader from Secret Order remained motionless, but his eyes gleamed with sharp, predatory focus.

He had been waiting for this very moment. His gaze tracked her every word and gesture, watching intently for the slightest mistake, the smallest sign of weakness.

The female oracle, her expression serene but her mind racing, cursed silently. You bastard, Anderson. What have you done? Drawing a slow breath, she composed herself and met the gaze of the white-bearded leader.

"If you seek my opinion," she began, her voice steady, "I will offer only this: the conclusion we have all reached… is precisely the one the culprit wanted us to find."

Her words hung in the air like the final stroke of a blade, sharp and cutting.

The white-bearded man's smile widened, his eyes glinting with newfound amusement and admiration. He echoed her words, his voice rich with approval, "The conclusion we have all reached… is precisely the one the culprit wanted us to find."

His gaze never left her as he continued, his tone now a blend of respect and intrigue. "As expected of one from the Knowledge Keepers' royal bloodline. You see what others cannot see. You feel what others do not feel. You hear what others cannot hear."

He turned to the gathered assembly, his voice steady with quiet authority. "And what of the rest of you? Do you see it as clearly as she does?"

His question lingered, daring them to challenge her insight, his words stirring both reflection and unease among the onlookers.

The moment the oracle, had spoken, the leader from the Secret Order, silent and observant until now finally broke his stillness. His voice was cold and sharp, laced with calculated intent.

"Why does Lady Elizabeth think this way, when all the others have come to the same conclusion?" he asked, his words carrying a challenge, a subtle accusation.

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he gauged her reaction before continuing. "Could it be that you have an alternative motive? Or perhaps you are protecting someone by altering the conclusions of the others, twisting their perceptions to suit your own agenda?"