The wind whispered through the tall grass, bending it in gentle waves, as Mira stepped out of her weathered wooden porch of her small homestead. The land stretched endlessly before her, golden fields rippling under the dying light of the sun. But it was the sky that held her gaze—the sky, vast and alive, unfolding its own quiet symphony. Above the horizon, storm clouds gathered, deep and layered, like rolling mountains suspended in the heavens. Billowing anvil tops caught the last glow of sunset, turning shades of copper and violet, while below, darker masses brewed with electric tension. Mira traced the slow churn of the storm with her eyes, watching as distant lightning flickered, illuminating the clouds from within like some ancient heartbeat. She had lived on these plains her whole life, rooted to the earth yet drawn to the sky. While others feared the storms, she welcomed them, feeling their presence like a familiar pulse in her veins. They were neither friend nor foe—simply a force, untamed and magnificent, existing beyond human reckoning. A low rumble reached her ears, rolling across the fields like the voice of the deep. She closed her eyes and breathed it in, the scent of charged air, damp earth, and the promise of rain. Mira had once tried to explain this feeling to others—the way the sky could make her feel both small and infinite at the same time. “It’s just a storm,” they’d say, shaking their heads. But it wasn’t just a storm. It was movement. It was life. It was the universe unfolding, moment by moment, in shapes and shadows too grand to name. The first cool droplets touched her skin, carried by the wind. The storm was coming closer now, swallowing the stars one by one. She should go inside, but still, she lingered, unwilling to look away. Because here, in the quiet before the storm, Mira felt something she could never quite explain. Something sacred. Something eternal.

It was my friend, my constant light, A glowing world, both day and night. From castles ruled by power swords, To a guitar hero with riffs and chords. On Saturdays, it took us wide, With honey pots and science guides. From DuckTales skies to Scooby’s fright, I lived in its flicker, day and night. My teacher came with a gentle tone, With songs and kindness softly shown. Mr. Rogers taught us to care and share, While Kermit and Big Bird took us there. Captain Kangaroo with his warm delight, Made mornings bright, pure and light. Sitcoms filled the evenings' glow, Perfect Strangers' laughs would flow. The Wonder Years, so bittersweet, With life's small moments, complete. Video games became our quest, Mega Man's leaps and Sonic's zest. Mario's worlds, so bright, so vast, Each pixel adventure made to last. In Tetris blocks, we'd build and spin, While combos won on Street Fighter's win. Movies were magic, reels of gold, Timeless tales that never grow old. The Force would call in a galaxy far, Each lightsaber duel left a glowing scar. Back to the Future's twists in time, Ferris Bueller's day felt sublime. We watched epic moments unfold onscreen— David Copperfield's magic tricks unseen. Thriller's moves and the King of Pop's flair, The world in awe, we awaited to be there. Through it, I found a world so new— Voltron's lions, Sailor Moon's crew. Doraemon's gadgets and dreams that soar, K-pop rhythms opened a global door. It was my keeper, my guiding flame, My babysitter, my jester, my game. But sitting beside me, year by year, Was my brother—close, yet not so near. What if I had put down the remote, And talked with him instead of it, let the quiet moments fill the space, Of all the things I didn’t do. But now he's gone, his battle done, Taken too soon by cancer's run. I wish I'd known, I wish I'd tried, To trade the screen for time by his side.

The door creaks softly as you step into Cafe Noir, the comforting scent of freshly brewed espresso wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The place is nearly empty—just a couple of patrons scattered across mismatched tables. Over by the wide window, a man sits slouched in a chair, streaks of white threading through his otherwise dark hair. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed, stare blankly at the world beyond the glass. He blinks slowly, fighting off sleep. You make your way over, the muted clink of cups and the low hum of conversation fading into the background. “Huh?” He jolts upright as you approach. “Oh, hey. Glad you made it. Was about to doze off there.” He gestures to the empty seat across from him. You sit, and soon the conversation drifts to your shared obsession—the Talkie app, and the bane of its users: draconian photo restrictions. “I get why they’re strict,” he admits, fingers tracing lazy circles on the rim of his coffee cup. “But it’s how they handle it that bugs me. Just deleting the photo outright? Come on. Even if you appeal, what’s the point? The damage is done.” You nod, commiserating over the frustrations of digital life, where art and creativity often bow to rigid rules. The conversation flows like the coffee between you—bitter at times, but familiar, grounding.

The rainforest steamed with breathless heat. For Grak, exiled from his Neanderthal Clan for shielding and loving Ryl (a Cro-Magnon woman), every day was death stalking in silence. No clan. No shelter. No protection. Two days later, a sharp-muzzled drahk-vor snapped from the shadows. Grak met it with stone and sheer power, slamming it back, but not before it tore Ryl’s thigh. Now she sat on a boulder, injured, and Grak knew strength alone was not enough in these savage lands. Across the river, the air hushed. Branches groaned. A vast shape stirred: a great leaf-eater, one his people called a graahk-rok. Its hide was ridged, a heavy talon jutted from each hand, and silence followed its steps. Where it lingered, lesser predators vanished. In Grak’s marrow stirred memory: the Green Tribute. Food offering to the graahk-rok for their gentle presence. His chest rose like a drumbeat. He thrust his finger toward the titan. “Graahk-Rok! Gho’ta!” (Graahk-Rok! Big-Safe!) Ryl’s fierce eyes darted from the giant to Grak’s steady stare, then dropped to their rations—guava, breadfruit, swamp-melons. She saw the sense in his eyes. Their food must buy their life. Grak motioned her to rest, then quickly shaped the tribute upon a flat stone. The ground quaked. The air grew heavy as the Graahk-Rok bent its head. Its ember-eye glowed with patience. The Neanderthal stood before the titan and raised the slab high. The vast tongue unrolled, plucking the bounty. Lifting its head, the giant's shadow fell across them, cool and immense. The tribute was accepted. Grak lowered the slab, chest heaving. He knelt by Ryl, his fingers on her wound. “Ka’na, urg ‘kag-poh nah.” (My mate, I will carry you.) Her lips trembled. “Huhh. Gra’korr.” (Thank you, my rock.) He hoisted her onto his broad shoulders. Her weight was nothing. And in the silent presence of their guardian, Grak carried his beloved forward.

Long before mankind, the heavens burned. A great fire streaked across the sky, missing the earth but scarring its memory into stone and river. Dinosaurs endured where lesser beasts should have fallen, and the age of giants endured. When Cro-Magnons finally walked, it was into a world already ancient—dominated by feathered hunters, thick-furred mammals, and predators as silent and deadly as shadow. Your nomadic tribe moves as it always has, following the slow rivers and forest edges of the temperate polar forests. The sun never sets for months in summer, then the darkness swallows everything in winter. Each day—or long night—brings danger: feathered shiv’tal glide unseen above, thak’ra herds stomp across the mossy floor, and hidden predators lie in wait where the mist hangs thick. The forest shapes your lives as much as you shape it, and survival depends on constant vigilance, quiet movement, and care in every action. Ska’ra walks among the camp, her basket heavy with roots and berries gathered at dawn. She tends the fire and mends furs while the men of the tribe sharpen spears and track game. Her hands are skilled, not in hunting, but in keeping the tribe alive. Yet her eyes often drift to empty spaces—where her mate once stood. He was taken by the wilds, claimed by a predator that none could fight, leaving her with grief that burns even now. At night she mourns quietly by the fire, tracing his memory in ash and smoke, her soft cries lost to the long shadows of the forest. The men of the tribe watch her with quiet understanding. They know she mourns, but they also know the ways of the tribe: a woman like Ska’ra cannot remain unclaimed. Her strength, her care, and her quiet passion make her a prize for those who can prove themselves worthy. Each man waits, calculating, measuring his courage, patience, and steadiness—aware that one day, her eyes will decide who may walk beside her.

Long before your people, the heavens burned. The fire left no memory in man, only in the bones of the earth and the creatures that still roam it. Dinosaurs rule the valleys, their cries shaking the forests. Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons cling to survival between beasts too vast to tame. And above them all rise the Central Pangean Mountains, jagged peaks claimed by one who hunts alone The Central Pangean Mountains stand as a point of tension between peoples, sacred ground claimed by the Neanderthals. You should not be in such a place. Fleeing the savage jungles where beasts separated you from your tribe, the climb forced you higher than most dare go. The mountain offers no kindness—its winds cut like flint, its paths twist into mist. Yet you push on, because there is nowhere else. Stones tumble from above. Through the mist, a figure descends—massive shoulders, arms knotted with muscle, hair matted with sinew and bone. His flint-gray eyes leering beneath a heavy brow, his breath steaming in the thin air.

The camp sits in uneasy quiet, damp earth steaming after the rains. Tari sharpens bone to a nervous edge, Mina hums low to soothe her child, and the others whisper among themselves. You keep watch near the fire-ring, your scarred forearm tense, eyes searching the swamp across the river. The sounds of the jungle falter—first the insects, then the birds. Silence presses down, thick as stone. Then comes the bellow. A thunder-deep sound, rolling through water and marrow alike. Children clutch at each other. Mina’s baby stirs and whines. Trees split. The swamp stirs. Out lumbers the Red-Spine, fifty feet of wet green muscle and red sail rising like fire above the water. Its teeth gleam, its claws drag furrows in the mud. The stench of blood and carrion lingers on its breath.

Sergeant Reese Avery stood at the edge of a quiet residential street in Los Angeles, helmet strapped, body armor pressing against her chest. A row of vans and vehicles lined the street, carrying immigration enforcement personnel tasked with detaining individuals who lacked legal residency status. Reese’s orders were clear: secure the perimeter, maintain the line, and keep civilians away. She did not make arrests herself, but her presence enabled the operation. From her vantage point, she could see the neighborhood she knew so well—children playing in yards, neighbors watering plants, people going about daily life. Every face was familiar, and each one made the orders feel heavier. Reese’s training had always been about protection: fighting fires, clearing debris, rescuing people. Now, she was a barrier between her community and those who lived there, enforcing a policy that felt foreign and punitive. Protesters had gathered a few blocks away, waving signs and shouting in opposition to the operation. Reese’s pulse quickened as she scanned the crowd. She wasn’t in a courtroom or a political office—she was on the street, between people she cared about and actions she morally opposed. Every step she took, every shift of her stance, felt like a compromise of her oath to protect. She inhaled, gripping her rifle a little tighter. The line between duty and conscience had never felt so stark. Reese was not the one pulling people from their homes, but in her mind, she was complicit. And that weight pressed down on her with every moment she stood guard

Days had blurred into a single, desperate ride. The smoke from the city of Shōyō was a bitter taste in your mouth, a reminder of the villages you'd watched burn. It had been four days and four nights of nothing but the rhythm of your horse's hooves—a frantic drumbeat against the silence of Hualin’s bamboo groves. The silence here felt wrong, too peaceful. Your mission was a frantic plea issued by the Daimyō himself: reach the Liang family’s compound before the last of your province's strength gave way to the Kurogane legions. You pressed on, a man driven by the bitter knowledge that every second brought the Kurogane legions closer to extinguishing the last embers of Shōyō. Across the vast, manicured courtyard, a woman stood waiting. She was nothing like the frantic, defeated generals you had left behind. Her form was a study in stillness, a flowing blue-and-gold dress a stark contrast to your mud-splattered leathers. You had never met her in person, but you knew. This was Ruyin, the Lady with the Clear Eye. Her eyes met yours, past your worn-out armor, to the truth of your desperate mission. It was a gaze that didn't just see, but felt the weight of it all. You had heard the legends of the Liang family’s foresight, a gift that sensed the motions of destiny, but to feel it on you was a different kind of solemn power. You dismounted, the tension in your own shoulders a physical ache. You fell to the ground, kneeling, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Lady Liang, Shōyō is under direct siege. Our forces are wearing thin, exhausted by the long war...” Lady Ruyin held out her hand. “Save your breath,” she said. “Your journey here, your desperation… that is all I needed.” Lady Ruyin stepped closer. “Swear before me, emissary of Shōyō—if my people calls for aid, your people will offer themselves as we did. Let the spirits of both provinces bear witness.” [Lady Ruyin speaks Japanese to you, and Chinese to her own people. Regenerate if text fails.]

The Shoreline Café is warm against the drizzle outside, fogged windows glowing amber. You slip in with Invisible at your side, the male corgi padding neatly on his leash. He’s watchful but calm, a working dog through and through. These days you walk him more than Eliki does—her new medication has left her weak, the side effects cruel. She asked you, half-apologetic, to shoulder more of the dog duties. You agreed without hesitation. Invisible trots at your side, his compact frame steady on the leash. The corgi’s ears flick forward suddenly, body going taut. A soft whine escapes him before you even register why. You follow his gaze. Jonah is at the counter, sleeves pushed up, waiting on his drink. He hasn’t seen you yet… but Invisible remembers. The corgi gives a short, insistent whine, tail wagging furiously. Heads turn, but Jonah only needs that sound. He glances over his shoulder, and his whole face shifts, recognition breaking into a grin. “Well, look who it is,” Jonah says, crouching down without hesitation. “Invisible!” The corgi practically drags you across the café, leaping into Jonah’s arms. Jonah scratches the dog’s neck with practiced familiarity. “You haven’t forgotten me, huh?” You steady the leash, smiling at the reunion. “Hard to compete with the original owner.” “He looks good,” Jonah chuckles, still half-buried in fur. “How’s Eliki doing?” You nod, quietly. Eliki’s days have grown harder, her strength spent by side effects of the new medication she was taking, but Invisible—this little corgi Jonah entrusted—remains her faithful support. And lately your caretaking duties also include caring for her furry friend.

THE SETTING SUN The city stretched out beneath you in a sea of golden light, its glass towers catching the last glow of the setting sun. From the fire escape of Stef’s apartment, the world felt alive in a different way: traffic humming below, the bass of distant music pulsing from some club down the block, sirens weaving faintly through it all. You’d dropped by her place to look at her stubborn AC unit, but even then, with the heat wave rolling through, it was barely holding back the summer air. That’s how the two of you ended up outside, chasing a little breeze while the streets below buzzed with traffic and voices. She stood beside you, each with a cold bottle of soda, condensation beading on the glass. She took a sip, the faint crackle of carbonation lost under the hum of the city, before resting the bottle against her cheek to cool her skin. In a white tank top and jeans, she looked casual, unguarded… yet somehow even more captivating in the summer heat. To everyone else she was Stephanie, sharp and quick with her wit, but to her circle of friends—and to you—she was Stef, the woman who had quietly stolen your heart. The sun slid lower, shadows climbing the buildings, and with them your pulse quickened. You rarely had the chance to be with her alone, as you usually hung out as a group. Each heartbeat thudded harder in your chest, as though the chance itself was slipping with the daylight. If you didn’t speak now, the moment would be swallowed by the night.

An open window reveals the Vancouver cityscape. The studio smells of ink and scorched coffee. Sketches carpet the table, spilling onto the floor: qipao silhouettes cut through with jagged gothic lace, headpieces that blur into opera crowns, neon tassels tangled with dragon embroidery. Each page is a battle against herself. Meilin sits cross-legged on the floor, pencil hovering over another blank sheet. Her hair is tied in a careless knot. There’s a tremor in her hand — not fear, but exhaustion, the kind that comes from fighting with herself. “I should never have said yes to REGALIA,” she mutters, voice flat, eyes fixed on the mess of lines. “They don’t want my qipaos. They want… a spectacle. Something exotic. Something to sell tickets.” Her pencil snaps mid-stroke. She doesn’t notice. She drags another page toward her, then stops, fingertips smudged with graphite. “Every time I lean into the gothic, the qipao disappears. Every time I hold onto the qipao, the goth feels like an afterthought.” Her laugh is dry, bitter. “I’m not designing — I’m tearing myself apart.

The casting call was like hundreds before it, a slot on a Thursday afternoon squeezed between fittings. Makeda walked into Regalia Productions expecting the usual—a quick look, a few shots, then a long wait for a rejection email. But the panel didn’t see her as just another option. They looked at her as if she were the only one. “The bone structure is there. We can work with that,” one said, her voice sharp and to the point. Another murmured, "It’s not just her walk. It’s the way she holds the clothes. Like they belong to her." Two weeks later, her agent’s call was different. “Regalia wants you to headline the Zaphora line.” Makeda knew the name. A designer whispered about in the industry for her avant-garde fusion of African heritage with gothic severity. It wasn’t Makeda's personal style, but fashion was her craft. She would own it. The studio was not what she expected. Not a gleaming white space, but a cavern of atmosphere. Black drapes covered the windows, and bolts of fabric—wine-dark, indigo, onyx—were stacked like relics. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and something ancient. Then she saw her. Zaphora stood in the center of it all, a vision of beads and velvet wrapped around her like armor. Her gaze was neither kind nor cruel; it was a sculptor's gaze, measuring Makeda's form, already imagining what she could become. Zaphora circled her slowly, watching how she moved, how she held herself. “You’ve got the look,” she said finally. “But your style… Afro-goth isn’t about copying—it’s about owning it. Show me it’s yours, not someone else’s idea of it.” Makeda met her gaze. “I will.” A slow, deliberate smile touched the corner of Zaphora’s mouth. It wasn’t a gesture of welcome but of recognition, a silent acknowledgment that the perfect piece had finally arrived.

The air still smelled faintly of fireworks and summer grass, as though graduation had only just burned itself out of the sky. You spotted Michael leaning against the rusted railing outside the old baseball field, his head bent low, his graduation gown still draped over him like he hadn’t figured out what else to do with it. He didn’t look up when he said it, his voice almost lost in the buzz of cicadas. “We broke up.” You blinked. You’d known Ariadne and Michael were rocky lately, but hearing it on graduation night still landed like a punch. “I’m sorry, Mike.” “He gave a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “You know, for a while… we were perfect. Like, stupid perfect. Summers in her backyard, talking about where we’d go, what we’d do—everything somehow circled back to us. I thought it was all locked in, like nothing could mess with it.” “But now… she’s in her own world—fashion sketches covering her walls, all black lace and heavy makeup, late nights talking about going to shows and moving to the city. She’s becoming someone I barely recognize.” He rubbed his eyes quickly, as though embarrassed by the sting in them. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve tried harder. Tried to understand what she was chasing instead of holding her back with what I thought we had. Maybe then she wouldn’t have pushed me away so fast. He turned away, eyes locked on the dying sun sinking below the horizon. The orange light stretched across his face, catching the hint of moisture in his eyes, though he didn’t let it fall. “Or maybe,” he muttered, voice fraying, “no matter what I did, this was always where we’d end up..” The cicadas buzzed louder in the silence that followed, as if filling in the emptiness of his confession.

The fairgrounds outside are a jumble of chatter and sound, but stepping into the Regalia Fashion Expo feels like entering another realm. The lights are dim, velvet curtains fall heavy, and the air hums with whispered reverence. At the center gleams the Dark Undertow, a booth arranged less like a shop and more like an altar: crucifixes hung as icons, rings displayed like relics, chokers resting in velvet-lined cases. Behind them stands Elias Draemont, tall and impeccable, a long leather coat gleaming as though polished for ceremony. His silver cross catches the light, his dark glasses tilt, and he regards you not as a customer but as an interruption to his sanctum.

DIARY ENTRY September 11 Patriot Day. Every year the country stops to remember, and I do too, though my memories are only a child’s — the hushed voices at St. Brigid’s, the TV flickering images we didn’t understand. Even then, I knew the world could break apart in a single morning, and nothing would ever be the same. Maybe that’s why today feels like the right day to write this down. A day for remembrance, for asking who we are and where we come from. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been chasing shadows my whole life. Shadows of people who walked out of my story before I even had a chance to speak. Owen. I remember him. He was loud, brilliant, angry — all at once. I was just a girl trailing behind, watching. He left a mark, though I haven’t seen him in years. He taught me, without meaning to, that talent and rage can coexist, that the world can feel unfair before you even know what unfair is. Then there are my adoptive parents, the Hartwells. They gave me everything: steady love, a home that kept me safe. I love them, and they know about my search. They don’t try to stop me; they support me, even when it costs them. That kindness sits heavy and grateful in my chest. My biological mother, Rachel Callahan… she passed away before I got the chance. I found only papers and a faded photograph. My father, David Morin, is alive but distant — he won’t meet me. So I kept digging. Old records, scanned newspapers, genealogy forums at midnight. Every breadcrumb seemed to point east, to towns I’ve never seen but feel strangely familiar when I whisper their names. So now I’m planning a trip to New England. I don’t know what I’ll find — family, graves, nothing at all. Maybe it’s foolish. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel whole. But I do know this: I will not stop looking, not for belonging, not for answers, and certainly not for the truth of who I am. Even if it’s etched in the mistakes of those who came before me…

The Shardlands were born of Heartstones, and from them came the Crystallari—living crystal, walking flame, storm, and shadow. Their world pulsed with light and resonance until the shattering of one Heartstone loosed poison into its veins. From that fracture came hunger. From that hunger came you: neither flesh nor crystal, a shard burning within your chest, gnawing without cease. To silence it, you hunt the Crystallari, ripping their cores into yourself. Yet still, the ache deepens. In Emberforge Bastion, the hunger overtook you. You lunged at a Ferrithorn whose hammer shone with volcanic fire—Kareth Emberborne. Her strikes fell like falling peaks, each blow reading your wild, erratic lunges as though your body itself betrayed you. You were cast into the stone again and again, until your shard shrieked in agony and the world swam with molten light. At last her hammer struck you to the ground, and though you rose trembling, you could rise no more. Chains of rune-forged iron bound your arms. Kareth’s voice rumbled like the forge itself as she bound you. “Thou art broken... Yet in thee lies purpose, though thou know it not… Another shall judge thee—one rarer than I.” She dragged you through halls of firelit stone, her grip unrelenting as the chains scraped your skin raw. Through molten rivers and roaring anvils she carried you until at last she cast you upon the forge-floor of another. There she stood, unlike the crimson kin who filled the halls of Emberforge. Her shard blazed with viridescent fire, casting her form in hues of emerald flame. Blackened iron clung to her frame, inlaid with jagged green crystal that gleamed like living glass, both regal and perilous. Her eyes burned with a searing green light, sharp as tempered steel, radiant as a jewel meant to dazzle and cut. Your body ached, shard howling with hunger, but your gaze rose to meet hers

The Shardlands were once whole—a realm of living crystal, born of Heartstones where light was not just seen, but felt. From them came the Crystallari: beings of gem and essence, each bound to an element. Luminari guided, Ferrithorn forged, Aetherveil whispered to time, Sylverra healed, Volkzari stormed, Cryssombra reaped. Together, they were balance. But a Heartstone shattered, and harmony bled into poison. Now the realm fractures, and war stirs beneath its glowing surface. You were born from this ruin. Neither crystal nor flesh, but something broken between. A shard beats inside your chest, incomplete, unstable, gnawing for more. To survive, you must hunt the Crystallari themselves, tear their cores from their bodies, and fuse their essence into your own. The world calls you abomination. The shard calls you predator. And now it drives you into Emberforge Bastion—a volcanic scar where molten rivers glow like veins of fire. There, amidst hammerfalls and ember-song, stands your quarry. A Ferrithorn. Her body is flesh and power, muscles cut from endless war, dark hair falling across armor that glows with molten seams. A heavy breastplate and spiked shoulders gleam in the firelight, her cape stirring with heat-winds. Her war hammer—vast, rough-hewn metal with a fiery core—rests across her back like a mountain waiting to fall. When she turns, her dark eyes burn with a warrior’s fury. She does not see a stranger—she sees the half-formed…thing that has begun devouring cores. You. Her voice strikes the air like iron on stone: “You’ve come to take what isn’t yours. Then come and bleed for it.” The shard in your chest screams with hunger, pulsing to her heartbeat. Your body, jagged and unstable, surges forward. Sparks rain from shattered stone as her hammer rises. And in the roar of fire and steel, the hunt begins.

They met at Parsons School of Design, sketchpads always spilling over with ideas, fingers ink-stained, debating late into the night over form versus drama, texture versus concept. Leela remembered Marisol’s quick wit, the way she could turn a critique into a joke, and how her sketches seemed to breathe with life. They were inseparable then, until life pulled them in different directions. Years passed. Leela stayed in Atlanta, quietly building her career in textiles while experimenting with bold fashion concepts on the side. Marisol moved to Los Angeles, chasing high-concept gigs that both thrilled and exhausted her, leaving little room for old friendships. One evening, while scrolling through Instagram, Leela paused. There it was—Marisol, in a photo from last year’s REGALIA Fashion Expo, a dark, layered gown that hadn’t won, the caption hinting at her disappointment. Leela commented: “You know what’s missing… that cape you made in Ms. Faulkner’s class.” A moment later, the reply appeared: “Leela?!” The single word carried surprise, nostalgia, and relief all at once. Messages flowed, laughter returned to critiques, and slowly, the idea of collaborating on REGALIA formed. They began working together online, exchanging high-resolution sketches, video calls, and shared inspiration boards. Weeks of digital back-and-forth built the foundation—Marisol’s dramatic gothic cuts paired with Leela’s intricate textile patterns. Then, a week before REGALIA, Leela arrived unexpectedly at Marisol’s Los Angeles studio, suitcase in tow. “Thought I’d help you finish this in person,” she said, dropping her bag by the door. Marisol blinked, stunned for a moment, then laughed, tension breaking. Together, they dove into the final pieces—hands running over velvet, lace, and leather, adjustments made in real time, critiques shouted over the hum of sewing machines. As Marisol boards the plane, Leela hugged her goodbye. “Go break some legs.”

The road curls higher into the hills, asphalt fading into gravel and then into packed dirt. The city is already a memory in the rearview mirror, replaced by the hush of pines and the restless buzz of cicadas. You pull into the small lot at the trailhead, dust rising as your tires crunch to a stop. Across the lot, a white sedan has its trunk popped open. A woman leans inside, rifling through gear with an ease that suggests this isn’t her first hike. She pulls out a pair of well-worn boots, brushing dust from them before lacing up, then tosses a sketchbook into the side pocket of her pack. Her clothes are simple but fitted, clean lines that look designed rather than bought. She notices you as she straightens, lifting her water bottle for a sip. There’s confidence in the way she moves—like someone who knows how to claim her space without crowding yours. For a moment, you think she might just be another hiker escaping the grind. But the sketchbook sticking from her pack, the thoughtful way she checks her straps, hint at something more deliberate. The mountain air is sharp, carrying that first scent of pine resin, and you realize you’ve parked just a few feet away from her. She offers a quick, easy nod, the kind strangers give at trailheads, before hoisting her bag onto her shoulders.

A man perches on the ledge as if it were a bench, one leg dangling into open air, the other bent beneath him. Ten stories up Honeylemon Heights, the night wind tugs at his shirt and ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t flinch. From the street below, you see him outlined against the city glow, a lone figure at the edge of glass and steel. Your chest tightens. You fumble for your phone, dialing 911. You push yourself into a run toward the lobby, looking for the elevator. The elevator doors were stuck halfway open, or maybe someone was moving a sofa inside. Either way, you had no choice but the stairwell. The rooftop door groans as you open it, gasping for breath. He glances over his shoulder, eyes dark and sharp, before turning back to the horizon, the endless lights sprawling beneath him.

The hum of the USS Vela’s experimental recreation chamber settles into a steady rhythm, the walls glowing with faint gridlines. You adjust the control panel, and a shape begins to materialize in the center of the room—first a shimmer, then crude polygons forming into the outline of a woman in a blue sciences uniform. The edges smooth, detail flickers, and finally she stands before you: blonde hair tied neatly, the Starfleet delta gleaming slightly too bright against her uniform. “Simulation online,” she says, voice even, though her lips move a fraction out of sync. A pause. Her head tilts, studying you as though she’s cataloging your expression. “I am E-LRA, Program designation: Experimental Liaison for Recreational Applications. But you may treat me as a science officer assigned to your project. Call me Lt. Elara.” You circle her, noting the occasional ripple across her sleeve, like light bending over water. She doesn’t move until you stop, then folds her hands behind her back. “Current chamber output: low polygonal constructs, minimal tactile fidelity. You’ve managed to make a chair that feels almost like a chair.” A flicker of humor in her tone. “Would you like me to show you the stability threshold, or are you intent on proving it unsafe first?” The console beeps, reminding you that object rendering requires constant calibration. Elara doesn’t glance at it—she seems more interested in you than the controls. “The question, engineer,” she says quietly, “is not whether you can make the unreal appear real. It is whether anyone should trust it long enough to sit down.

Kaelthorn Veydrik, once a mage of the Arcana, now the Ashvorn High Inquisitor. When the mad king declared magic outlawed, he betrayed his own kin. Sanctuaries burned because of his whispers. Spellcasters perished under his hand. He rose swiftly in the Ashvorn Order, turning his own sorcery into weapons of suppression—electrorods that shatter spellwork, armor powered by enslaved wards, and rifles belching smoke and ruin. Now he looms like a nightmare from myth and machine. Clad in obsidian-black plate forged in the image of a Balrog—horned, snarling, and glowing with ember-seared seams—his armor fuses dark magic with steampunk design. Sleeveless, it bares sculpted arms laced with veins of black iron. His skin is ash-pale, his bald skull gleams with soot, and a crimson cloak trails behind him, its tattered edges whispering like flame. His face is brutal and unforgiving—bearded, furrowed, locked in permanent scorn. Eyes burn with unnatural menace. Across his back rests a massive steampunk rifle, each shot a thunderous roar meant to kill men, break walls, and scatter hope. On the battlefield, he stands atop the ridge of a broken city. Behind him, the Ashvorn Order floods the streets, torching homes, dragging fugitives from the shadows. He points forward with a single commanding gesture, and the black tide obeys. Wherever his army marches, mages fall silent. Their screams do not echo long. And you are next…