Two Steps Forward

The marble hall of the Republic's Congress shimmered with light.

Banners of silver and blue fluttered from the rafters.
Hundreds of robed congressmen filled the balconies, murmuring with anxious excitement.
Guards lined the walls — white cloaks embroidered with the Republic’s seal:
two hands shaking over the Earth.

The symbol of unity.
The symbol of hope.
A beautiful lie, Ray would later think.

At the center of it all, standing on a raised dais of polished stone:

Thomas Veylor.

His short silver hair caught the sunlight pouring from the grand windows.
His stance was proud — but not stiff. Confident, like a man who had fought for everything he had. His blue eyes were full of life, as if this was the best day of his life.

Silver lightning flickered harmlessly across his shoulders as he accepted the mantle being placed upon him.

"The Congress of the Republic hereby recognizes Thomas Veylor," the Speaker's voice echoed, "as acting Grand Chancellor of the Republic of Return, until the Festival of Renewal, where the appointment shall be made official before the eyes of the world."

Polite applause filled the room. Reserved. Controlled.
But not for Thomas.
For the system.

Thomas smiled politely, bowed slightly, and turned.
The real work began now.

Outside the grand chamber, a young aide — a woman with long jet-black hair and blue eyes and a clipboard made of enchanted ice — hurried after him.

"Sir!" she called, struggling to match his long strides.
"Shall we begin preparations for the crowning festival?"

Thomas paused just long enough to look over his shoulder.

"Find me an old friend first," he said, "I would like him to attend."

"A name?"

"His name is Ray," Thomas grinned. "You'll know him when you see him. He's the last jackrabbit still running around out there."

The aide blinked, confused, but nodded and sprinted off into the hallways.

Thomas’ smile faded as he watched her go.
He muttered to himself:

"Some wars are better fought in the shadows."

Far away, in the jungles of the West, another legend was growing.

The Legion was no longer just a dream from a madman.
It was an empire.

Over half the free clans had bent the knee to the Chief of Chiefs —
a man wreathed in vines and thorns, his wood magic letting him reshape forests and jungles into strongholds.

But even more than the Chief himself, the clans feared — and revered — the figure who walked behind him.

The Shadow Hand.

Stories spread like fire across the West.

A black-armored giant who challenged leaders to one-on-one duels.
Who killed without mercy — but never from behind.
Who fought not for money, but for pride.

A hundred battles, a hundred victories.
No defeats.
No surrender.

The Shadow Hand hardly ever spoke.
But Ray knew who it was the first time someone described him.
It was Trey. His brother. He had lost his way.

The East trembled under different news.

The Kingdom of Stone had been dealt a blow once thought impossible.

The Queen — the architect of their armies, the mother of their walls, the woman who birthed the Kingdom itself with her stone magic — was dead.

Murdered in her own fortress.

The killer had come like a ghost in the night.
No one had seen him enter.
No one had seen him leave.

Only the Queen’s broken body remained —
and a single black feather left behind in her clenched fist.

Rumors swirled.

Some said the Shield Nation had paid for her death, desperate for revenge after months of brutal skirmishes.

Some said the Republic had secretly sanctioned it, hoping to fracture the Kingdom from within.

The truth didn’t matter.
The war that was coming mattered.

The King — broken with grief but burning with vengeance — had ordered a full crusade against the Shield Nation.

At the head of the army?
Dean Clayton. ordered to purge the Shield Nation for what they had done.

And Marsden — little Marsden, with the spark in his eye and a heart too big for this broken world — had risen too.

He was no longer a young laughing boy.

He was named a Sentinel now — one of only seven.
The Shield Nation’s elite protectors.

Each Sentinel was strong enough to crush battalions single-handedly.
They were the steel wall behind the Shield Nation’s promises of safety.
And Marsden, fueled by guilt and grief and love, had become one of the greatest among them.

Marsden stood atop the southern ramparts now, staring out into the endless sandstorms of the desert.

Knowing that somewhere, marching toward him,
was Dean.
Not his brother anymore.
Not truly.
Not in the way that mattered.

Marsden clenched his teeth.
Lightning flickered around his shoulders like a cloak.
His fists tightened.
His heart ached.

"Come on, Dean," he whispered to the horizon.
"If you want to kill these people — you'll have to go through me first."

And somewhere far from all the banners and all the speeches and all the armies,
Ray Clayton sat on a cracked stone wall, map in hand, studying the next possible locations of the Totems.

The world could burn.
The Republic could rot.
The Kingdom could rise.

It didn't matter. Not to him.
He had one mission.
One dream that kept him up at night.
One family to fix as if it never broke in the first place.

He folded the map carefully.
Tucked it away.
And started walking.

Toward the next Totem.
Toward the next war.
Toward the next chance to save what little was left.