Veylan, one of the Aethelgard Empire’s border towns, was Arin’s hometown. Its mudbrick houses coated in sand, roads thick with dust stirred by the wind, and the unsettling nightly howls marked it as a place far removed from the Empire’s order and law.

In Veylan, jinn rumors were a mundane part of life, and no one asked too many questions when someone came to deal with them. Everyone knew better than to interfere. A jinn hunter’s work wasn’t glamorous; most of the time, it was simply about putting an end to the misery of someone whose wretched life had already been ruined by misfortune.
The pay was poor, and few among the victims’ families ever offered thanks, given how things usually ended. Most people preferred to ignore him altogether. They kept their distance as if she carried some disease, because after all, who would feel comfortable around someone who might one day become their executioner?
Out on the borders, everyone minded their own business. Taking care of jinn was Arin’s.

Jinn were the source of magic; sometimes used in combat, sometimes in prophecy, and sometimes in healing. Anyone who claimed a jinn had to pay a price each time they used it. This price was sometimes just a few drops of blood; sometimes a life; and sometimes something so forbidden that even mentioning its name was prohibited.
In the past, the Empire was tested many times because of these prices and came close to destruction repeatedly. Eventually, they had to put a stop to it. Now, everyone who possessed a jinn or used magic within the borders of Aethelgard was required to register. Authorities tried to keep track of them as thoroughly as possible, but it was never a perfect system.
Now, Arin sat near the back of the autobiotic train heading to Aethelgard. Outside the window, the rails twisted over dry, sun-baked hills.
The seat next to him stayed empty. It was a quiet reminder that his grandfather, the last of his family, was far behind waiting patiently for news.
Arin knew his grandfather hated this trip. Hated what it meant. The old man had never trusted the Empire. He didn’t believe its promises or its laws. And he especially didn’t trust the officials in their polished uniforms and shining towers.
To him, Ardalis was a place where people disappeared, not where answers were found. He’d told Arin as much before he left. “They call it the heart of progress, but there’s no heart left in it. Only iron, glass, and lies.”
And yet, Arin was here. For duty. For answers. Maybe for something he couldn’t even name.
At his side, the worn leather bag held what little he had brought with him: a few sealed documents, two vials of sacred incense, and a letter. The letter had come from the imperial capital. He hadn’t opened the seal, but he recognized the insignia: Magical Oversight Council.
The address on the envelope was clear:
17 Solstice Avenue, Ardalis, Aethelgard Empire.

***
Aethelgard was an empire that, after the bloody civil war that ended nearly 20 years ago, utilized its resources not through magic but through engineering and technology.
Ardalis’s skyline now pierced the sky with bronze-plated towers and smoke stacks. The crystal spires that once resembled skyscrapers had been replaced with clock towers driven by brass gears, and streets intertwined with rail systems.
Magic still existed, but it was controlled.
Its presence in daily life had been reduced, permitted only through limited licenses, and mostly remembered for its eerie legends of the past. Energy was now transmitted not through spell circuits, but through vacuum-tube resonance engines. Streetlights were powered by virellum reactors.
Imperial forces no longer wore black robes, but simple gold and purple uniforms.
On their backs, they carried short-range steam-powered pressure rifles, not lethal but certainly persuasive.
The city no longer pulsed like a heart filled with magic.
It ticked like a machine, precise and relentless.
When Arin first stepped into the capital, the air burned his lungs. It was orderly, but artificial. Bright, but cold.
It bore no resemblance to the land of his birth.
Here, everything was registered. And anything unregistered was illegal.
He stepped out of the station and into the dense crowd, on his way to deliver the letter to the Magical Oversight Council.
Hundreds of people moved slowly, their faces stern. Most wore dark-toned clothing, styled almost like military uniforms. Women had pulled their long coat collars tightly around their necks and bowed their heads slightly. Many stared at the ground, but some, as Arin passed by, stole glances at his ring. A dull silver band, engraved with a closed eye stitched shut: the Sealed Eye. In the eyes of older people, there was fear. In younger ones, a timid curiosity. The memories of old tragedies still clung to the city.
A group of mechatronics students turned the corner nearby. They carried tools and spare parts, their brown overalls smudged with oil. Their faces looked tired, but focused.
This place had once belonged to magic. Now, machines were taking over.
As Arin walked, the air smelled of steam and metal.
Now and then, uniformed imperial officers watched the crowd. Their eyes followed every passerby.
Somewhere ahead, industrial machines groaned in the distance. The sound echoed through narrow alleys, steady and relentless.
Arin reached a large, crumbling building: the old Magical Oversight Council.
Elegant carvings still marked the stone walls, but cracks ran deep. The plaster peeled in places. Time had worn away the grandeur.
Two guards stood at the entrance. Their armor was painted in gold and purple, the Empire’s colors, but chipped and dulled by age. Still, their posture was firm. Their stares, sharp.
As Arin approached, one of them studied him closely.
The fading light caught his pale blond hair. His face looked too soft for a city like this.
He wore a loose, travel-worn cloak, different from the clean lines of city fashion. He didn’t belong.
The guard narrowed his eyes. He didn’t ask anything, but Arin knew the question: What are you doing here?
Arin stopped a few steps away. He gave a small nod, then reached into his bag. He pulled out the sealed letter and extended it with steady hands. Then, without hesitation, Arin showed his identification.
The guard blinked, caught off guard, but took the letter with a short nod. After checking his documents, they stepped aside and let him through the double doors.
Inside, the hallway shimmered faintly with magical symbols. Each step felt like it was being watched. Even Azimushan stirred, uneasy.
Arin looked around, curious... and accidentally brushed into someone.
He turned. A man stood there in a simple uniform, no armor, but wearing the Empire’s colors: gold and purple. The man didn’t react.
“Follow me,” he said.
They walked a long time without speaking.
At the corridor’s end, the man paused.
He knocked once, opened the door, and stepped aside.
“Go in.”
Arin hesitated for a breath, then obeyed.
An older man sat behind a desk, robed in deep purple. His silver hair caught the low light. His lined face was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
“You must be Arin Ravenscar,” he said with a faint smile. “The jinn hunter from Veylan. Welcome.”
“Yes,” Arin said.
The man studied him in silence, as if measuring something beneath the surface. Then his voice turned stern.
“You’ve been practicing magic within Aethelgard’s borders for years, and yet you still have no license,” the man said sternly. “Now that you’ve turned eighteen, Imperial law makes it mandatory for you to obtain a license. People like you weaken our control. In the borderlands, some things escape our attention, but this ends here.”
Arin looked down at the ring on his finger and spoke quietly but firmly.
“I’ve been busy doing the work no one else wanted to touch. Borderlands don’t have the luxury of waiting for bureaucracy to catch up.”
Despite the subtle criticism in his words, the old man remained silent for a moment.
Then, slowly, he drew a document from his drawer and placed it on the desk.
“Sign this. Temporary permit.”
Arin eyed the paper with suspicion.
The Empire never helped without helping itself.
“What’s the catch?” he asked.
“You’ll operate only under our supervision, with oversight in place, for one year. And… there’s one more rule—”
“I knew it,” Arin said, taking a deep breath.
The man adjusted his robe sleeves and, for the first time, smiled faintly.
“You can no longer summon your jinn alone.”
Deep in his mind, Arin felt Azimushan tremble.
He narrowed his eyes. “And how exactly do you plan to enforce that?”
“If you fail to obey this regulation, you will be declared an enemy of the Empire and sooner or later, you will be neutralized,” the man said, still smiling.
He gently slid the document toward Arin, producing a pen from his sleeve.
Arin clenched his jaw.
His hand reached for the ring, the sealed eye as if waiting for him. But what would he do? Attack? Even if he struck the old man down, he knew he wouldn’t make it out alive.
They said this place was paved with stones that led straight to hell.
Even Azimushan might disobey him here.
He reached for the paper and the pen.
Locking eyes with the old man, he said:
“If I sign this… that means someone will be watching me.”
“Yes. As it always should have been,” said the man, leaning back. “The eyes of the Empire will be on you at all times.”
“They’re chaining us, master. Chaining us.”
Arin swallowed hard and ignored the voice.
But in a city where even the jinn trembled, he now knew his every step would be watched.