TIKKA CAPITAL : THE PALACE
Charlotte sat in the quiet vastness of the palace library, her feet barely reaching the polished floor as she perched on a high-backed chair far too large for her small frame.
She was slender and slight, with soft brown hair that fell just past her shoulders and warm brown eyes that held a focus far beyond her years.
She wore the formal attire of Tikka's royalty: a dark navy tunic trimmed in silver thread, a high-collared white undershirt, and fitted sleeves fastened with delicate metal clasps. A short ceremonial cloak rested lightly on her shoulders. It was the clothing of a monarch, but it still hung loose upon her.
Across the room, a map of the continent serenia was mounted high on a board, stretched wide and framed in dark wood.
The tutor stood before it, hands clasped behind his back. His ash-gray hair, streaked faintly with silver, caught the light from the tall windows as he spoke.
"As Your Majesty already knows," he said evenly, "six nations share this continent."
He lifted a hand, gesturing toward the largest territory.
"Tikka holds seven states: Tikka which is the capital; Lake Vail, Solaria, Alderan, Borealia, Calanthor, and Nefaria.
Our strength lies not only in numbers, but in scale. The land itself works in our favor."
His finger slid slightly, outlining a border that no longer bore Tikka's crest.
"There is also Valorian," he added. "It was once a state of Tikka, long ago."
Charlotte's eyes shifted to the name. "It isn't anymore."
"No," he said.
"Valorian stands alone now—fully independent. Its separation was recognized, though not celebrated. Much like the demi-human kingdoms, it chose sovereignty over protection."
His hand moved east.
"Daria on the other hand consists of six states—Daria which is the name of the capital; Jural District, where half the land is consumed by a vast forest; Lirien, Thorold, Eiravon… and Shadowglad."
He paused.
"There have been rumors surrounding Shadowglad. Sightings of creatures believed long extinct. Monsters that should no longer exist."
Charlotte tilted her head. "What kind of rumors?"
He allowed himself a thin smile. "Unproven ones. And until proven, rumors remain just that."
His hand shifted to the center of the map.
"Lake Vail sits here—at the heart of the continent."
"To travel from Daria to Fulton, or from Fulton to Daria, one must pass through Lake Vail. It is the fastest route. The easiest."
He tapped the marker once.
"And because of that, it is the most dangerous."
Charlotte's gaze lingered on the lake.
" Control Lake Vail," he continued, "and you control the movement between nations."
His hand moved westward.
"Fulton is smaller—four states remain: Fultin known as the capital of Fulton and seat of the Church; Lyraxys, Lyraea, and El'goroth. Once, there were six states, before the divide with the demi-humans."
"Nyxoria and Celeatia," Charlotte said quietly.
He nodded. "Nyxoria is not entirely ice, as many believe. Only half of the country is consumed by the frozen wasteland. From miles away, there is nothing but ice—endless, glowing faintly blue at night. Sunlight itself seems to slow, even stiffen into ice within it."
His finger traced a narrow strip along Nyxoria's edge.
"But before one reaches that region, there is a small desert. You must cross sand and heat before entering cold so absolute it strips warmth from thought"
"The remaining half of Nyxoria appears almost normal, livable, even fertile by comparison."
Then, he pointed south.
"Celeatia is its inverse. Nearly all desert. Scorching heat and sand as far as the eye can see."
He hesitated, then continued.
"The second demi-human kingdom is different."
His hand moved to a land marked not by borders, but by flowing symbols.
"Half of it is desert," he said, "but the rest is composed of cities—vast, grand, and said to be among the most beautiful places in the world. According to demi-human reports."
Charlotte looked up. "Humans haven't seen it?"
"No," he replied. "No human delegation has ever been permitted entry. What we know comes only from those demi-humans who travel beyond its borders."
He lowered his hand.
"Though these nations stand independent," he added, "the Church still maintains influence. Authority by doctrine, trade, and binding covenants. Independence does not always mean freedom."
He fell silent, then looked upward—not at the map, but toward the tall arched windows.
"And then," he said, "there is the sky."
Charlotte followed his gaze..
"We used to have two moons," he said slowly. "That changed because of an event involving a single individual."
Charlotte's brow furrowed.
"He was an astronomer," the tutor continued, his voice dropping. "A man who devoted his life to studying the stars—searching for life beyond our world. In his pursuit, he consumed a Diochrome—a stone of solidified, high-density Dio energy."
Charlotte's fingers curled slightly in her lap.
"The energy damaged his mind," he said. "And in that altered state… he created a third moon."
He exhaled softly.
"We now call it the Red Moon. It appears only once a year, at the very end of it. On the night it rises, other planets can be seen clearly in the sky—as if the veil between worlds thins."
"He searched the dark not to escape the world,
but to understand it.
While others looked down, he looked beyond, past clouds, past stars, past the fear of being alone.
His hands reached too far,
and the heavens answered too harshly.
The Dio burned his mind,
but it lit his dream.
Where thought failed, wonder remained.
And so he carved his longing into the sky.
Once each year, the Red Moon rises.
not as a warning,
but as a testament.
A reminder that even a broken mind
can show the world its beauty.
His life was not wasted.
For in the silence of night,
every soul looks up
and sees what he once saw."
Silence settled between them.
After a moment, Charlotte spoke again.
"…What about the Arbiter?"
Her eyes pure sliver white with a prism refraction.
The tutor turned around slowly.
He looked into her eyes—simple pure and white eyes, far too young to carry the weight of the question she had asked. He sighed, deep and tired, as if the air itself resisted the answer.
"How do I explain this…" he murmured.
He shook his head gently.
"You are far too young to trouble yourself with matters like that, Your Majesty."
Yet his gaze lingered on her longer than necessary.
Because despite her small frame, despite her age—he knew. Some questions did not come from curiosity, for she knows it all , They came from destiny.
TIKKA LAKE VAIL
Far beneath the calm surface of Lake Vail, far below where light, sound, and even pressure shouldn't allow life.
There existed an unmapped underworld. The stone here was old, compressed into near-black layers by ages of weight. Caverns had been carved not by nature, but by intent. Deep. Precise. Hidden.
This place had no official name on any record,
Those who knew of it simply called it the Black Market.
It's a large and wide area having so many tunnel and passageway to get here, only few knows of this place.
There were merchants everywhere, hawking rare and forbidden wares in low, guarded tones, artifacts pulled from ruined dungeons, weapons whose origins were deliberately erased, vials of illicit drugs refined from corrupted Dio, and relics outlawed by every known nation. Stolen grimoires, enslaved creatures, counterfeit gems, curse tools, and items never meant to exist in human hands changed owners in the shadows.
These were not things one could buy in markets or request through legal channels. Most things sold here carried a price beyond coin, blood, loyalty, or silence.
At its deepest point stood a heavily fortified compound known as Obsidian Crucible. Layers of rune-etched steel, reinforced stone, and anti-detection sigils surrounded it.
Guards, human and demi-human alike.
patrolled every corridor, their movements disciplined, their eyes empty. No insignia marked their armor. Loyalty here was bought, broken, or engineered.
Inside, the air was warm and metallic, thick with the hum of machinery and the low thrum of Dio-reactors.
This was where counterfeit gems were made.
Not carved.
Produced.
Long halls stretched outward like veins, each lined with enormous cylindrical tubs, dozens upon dozens of them. Each was filled with a translucent, viscous liquid that glowed faintly from within—Dio-saturated suspension fluid.
Inside the tubs floated bodies.
Children, Adults, Demi-humans, Animals, humans.
Some were unconscious. Some were sedated just enough to remain alive. Tubes fed into their spines, their hearts, their skulls. Runes pulsed along the glass, siphoning something far more valuable than blood.
In another section, sealed off by heavier doors, there were processing chambers. What entered those rooms did not leave whole.
The remains, what little was left were reduced, condensed, and stored as raw material. Not all subjects survived extraction. Survival was not a requirement.
Workers moved efficiently between stations.
They wore protective coats layered with sigils, their hands steady, their faces deliberately blank. They did not speak unless necessary.
Compassion had no function here.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
Heels clicked softly against polished stone.
The woman entered the main floor of Obsidian Crucible without announcing herself, yet every supervisor straightened instinctively.
She was tall, composed, and unmistakably important.
Her name was Marcelline Veyra.
She wore a long, tailored coat of deep midnight blue, the fabric threaded with subtle gold filaments that caught the light only when she moved.
Beneath it, a high-collared black dress fitted her perfectly, reinforced with hidden enchantments. Rings adorned her fingers—each gemstone authentic, each radiating quiet authority. Her boots were custom-made, leather treated to resist acid, flame, and blood alike.
Her silver-blonde hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head.
Her eyes, cold gray—scanned the facility not with curiosity, but ownership.
A senior overseer stepped forward and bowed. "Lady Veyra. Welcome."
She didn't slow. "Status."
"Production is stable. Output has increased twelve percent since last cycle."
"Good."
She stopped near one of the tubs. Inside floated a small demi-human child, barely breathing, faint light leaking from their chest into the extraction array.
Marcelline regarded it the way one might inspect flawed machinery.
Behind her, the shadows along the wall moved.
"Shadow," she said calmly, not turning.
The darkness folded inward—and a woman stepped out of it .
She was slender, entirely clad in matte black, her features indistinct, her presence unnerving. Her eyes were the only visible thing, sharp, alert, inhumanly still.
"Yes?" the shadow said.
"Send word to my lord," Marcelline said.
"Tell him I've arrived at Obsidian Crucible. I'll be assuming control of operations. Lot's authority ends here, I can't believe he was killed, that fool."
The shadow inclined her head. "Understood."
She vanished.
Marcelline continued walking.
She passed refinement chambers where extracted Dio was crystallized into gems.
polished, shaped, stamped with counterfeit seals. She observed quality control stations, where flawed stones were crushed and recycled. She noted efficiency, discipline, and acceptable loss rates.
Everything functioned.
Everything obeyed.
As she reached the central overlook, gazing down at the endless rows of glowing tubs, Marcelline allowed herself a faint smile.
Lake Vail was known as a crossroads.
Few knew what truly flowed beneath it.