A small woman stood, and the crowd all turned to watch her; she wore an elegant golden dress that appeared to gracefully shimmer around her – as if the light itself were holding it into place. Her golden hair fell softly to her shoulders, and her eyes burned a sparkling purple.

Syril was sure he’d never seen a woman so beautiful. He was ready to abandon everything to be next to her, to see her smile; he felt a joy he’d never experienced; it was one of pure ecstasy and bliss.

“Syril, focus!” the voice whispered indignantly into his head, “don’t look at the pretty woman; she’s dangerous.”

Syril slapped himself; what the hell just happened to him?

Almost in response to his question, the boy called from the stage, “Rivira, please stop that; you are not helping.”

Sure enough, as Syril gazed at the crowd, men and women drooled up at the beautiful woman. One very unlucky man had tried to climb over his seat to be closer to her; he instead smashed his face into the ground.

“Oh, whoops, yep, sorry.” The woman snickered from the stands, her voice like velvet on Syril’s ears. She waved a perfect hand, and he felt a weight fall from him, like a force he had previously not noticed being separated from his body.

Syril blinked and looked at the crowd as they regained composure, most casting their eyes towards the ground in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. The unlucky man who had faceplanted awkwardly got off the floor and sat beside a very upset-looking lady.

“Did you have a question, Rivira, or did you just want to upstage me?” the boy angrily demanded.

“Oh, I do have a question, brother. How long will the emissaries be gone? And as the ruler of Ethirius, don’t you think you should have an emissary of your own?” Rivira smiled sweetly at her brother, but it was a smile that did not meet her eyes.

For the most part, her brother maintained an impressive level of composure; however, as the boy stared at his sister, Syril could sense the cold hostility between the two.

“A valid question, Rivira.” The boy again paused, seeming to consider his following words carefully, “the emissaries will not return…”

In what had become an annoying trend, the audience erupted into another round of uproar and pandemonium. Insults were again hurled, and the air was electrified with anger so powerful that it felt like the ground would open from the pressure.

“How does anything get done in this place?” Syril bitterly thought.

Minutes went by, and like clockwork, the voices died, and the boy spoke, “I will also be sending an Emissary of my clan to oversee the project.”

“And who will you send, brother? Yourself perhaps? So you can lord over the mortals as you do us?” Rivira asked, smiling devilishly as she looked down upon her younger brother.

“I will be sending you Rivira.”

She looked like a deer in headlights as she shakily slid down into her seat, “you… you can’t! I’m a… a”

“You are in my clan, to which I lead. You will do as I say, Rivira, and that is final.”

She looked at her brother, and Syril watched as the shock worked its way to anger, then sadness, and then finally settling on a begrudging bitter acceptance.

“I am sorry, sister; we can speak after this.” The boy looked sympathetically at his sister, who, in turn, looked miserable.

A sharp silence fell over the crowd as none dared interfere in what was happening. Even Elder Taras looked down at the stage, terrified and bemused.

The boy took a breath and continued speaking, “In return for the peace, the mortals have promised us an invaluable service.”

He looked down at the chained figure. Syril had almost forgotten the sorrowful man kneeling at the centre of the stage, which was odd considering his prominence.

“The five clans, in conjunction with the mortals, will provide guardship over Serith the traitor.”

The crowd remained bitterly quiet.

A loud pop sounded as the boy pulled a scroll from the air, unfurling it and holding it up to read, “Serith of clan Elkford for the crimes of murder and treason, I, as ruler of these lands, strip you of your clan, its name, and all possessions you may hold. I also remand you to the custody of the unspeakable lands, where you will stay for as long as there are stars in the sky and rock on our ground.”

The scroll dissolved into the air with a whip of the boy’s wrist, and the guards surrounding the pitiful chained figure closed in. Serith did not speak or resist as they unlatched the chains from the ground; he simply stood and walked with the guards towards the exit in the side of the stadium.

The boy pulled another scroll from the air.

“Rivira, please come to the stage,” the boy phrased it like a request, but Syril sensed it was more of an order.

He watched as the beautiful woman begrudgingly walked down the stairs; he felt a mighty sorrow overcome him, infecting him with a wish to see this goddess liberated. Syril felt that he alone could save her from this punishment, this flagrant abuse of power.

Even her dress, now a dull grey, wanted Rivira to be rescued; it pulled against her every step, giving the impression someone was straining against it. Her previously golden elegant hair had turned dull white, hanging messily around her shoulders.

Syril quickly noticed that he was not alone in his emotions; men and women cried in agony as she walked by – one man sobbing so hard that he passed out.

“Rivira!” the boy called from the stage.

“I’m sorry!” She responded and waved her hand. Syril watched as her dress and hair returned to their previous golden shade; he felt a weight vanish again.

She continued walking to the stage, the audience quiet as her heels echoed off the stone stairs. As she entered the stage, the sand beneath her feet turned to stone, creating an easy pathway for her to traverse to the stage. She slowly walked to the line of emissaries, quietly joining her place as the fifth member.

The boy looked at the five emissaries standing before him, then up towards the audience.

“These five clans will embark on a previously unheard-of journey. They will guide the mortals, teaching them the ways of magic and beyond – strengthening them so we may all live in peace. Do not imagine this will be an easy journey; there will be unknown challenges, you will assimilate into their society, and you will befriend them. They will be equals to you and you to them.”

The boy looked at the parchment in his hand, then back towards the five, “A promise will bind you, an oath so powerful it will destroy you if you veer from it, do you understand?”

“Yes”, all five responded.

“Ok, good. When I have completed the oath reading, please, in turn, respond with your full name and clan.” He cleared his throat,

“You swear to hold to this promise. To the first Oath. To teach and guide the mortals, to defend them from threats they cannot face or fix. To uphold a peace that will last generations, to treat them as equals and not lessers.

You vow to train them to defend their world and ours from the traitor known as Serith. You vow as Oath Keepers to right the wrongs we in Ethirius have upheld for too long. Please speak your names to be bound by this Oath.”

He turned to the Oath Keepers, and they responded in turn,

“Deyras Elviska of clan Esther,” the raven-haired girl heartedly said, her muscles bristling against her uniform and her skin glowing a faint blue aura. She bowed to the boy, placing one hand over her heart.

“Parious Sear of clan Almael,” replied the red-haired boy, his skin a deep green that glowed under the bright sun. He, too, bowed to the boy.

“Melora Navara of clan Runina,” Melora answered enthusiastically, their voice carried through the stadium like an eruption. Their skin was layered in marking and tattoos that glowed brightly.

“Pariel Allasan or clan Bryoth,” squeaked the shortest of the group, with dark braided hair tied into a large ponytail. They were the only ones in the group carrying a weapon, with a much too large sword strapped to their back.

Finally, he turned to Rivira, who glared back at her brother, her dress now settling on a fiery red to match her hair,

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Rivira Dey,” she sighed, “of house Oloran.”