Decree 772-A

People crowded nearly the entire length of Imperial Avenue, the widest and longest street in Teak-An, the proud capital of the Confederation of Allied Regions Naitheren.

The festively dressed crowd laughed, chattered, danced, and celebrated with abandon.

A young boy, perched on his father’s shoulders could see far into the distance, taking in the full splendor of the parade.

His father’s firm hands held him securely by the knees, so he wasn’t afraid of falling.

Beside them walked his mother, cheerful and radiant in a flowing sky-blue dress.

To the boy, this felt like the best moment in his long, six-year-old life.

He wore a neat crimson jacket with beaded epaulets and a stylized wolf’s face stitched on the back — a miniature version of a Protectorium officer’s formal uniform — and felt like an essential part of the celebration.

A few passersby pointed and cheered him. “There’s a future Protector!” someone shouted, grinning. The voices came from every side, bright with laughter and admiration.

The boy nearly burst with pride for the hero he was surely destined to become. The praise and the moment’s importance filled him to the brim.

At the head of the slow, gleaming snake of celebration, the prologue platform drifted steadily down the avenue. Its engines rumbled under the weight of the Great Tree’s ceremonial banner, which billowed above a flower-draped pedestal.

Golden filigree glittered in the sunlight, petals filled the air with fragrance, and the garlands rustled softly.

Marching in neat formation behind the banner came the students of the capital’s schools and lyceums — boots polished to a squeak, hands holding floral wreaths and symbolic ribbons adorned with grandiose slogans about progress and mankind’s triumph over the chaos of the Fracture.

Following them came the color-coded platforms of all six Branches of the Tree, each moving at a stately pace to the rhythm of its own music.

At the front of every float sat elders, falconets, and officers — honored to bask in the crowd’s adoration.

Each Branch aimed to impress.

The Branch of Fertility, draped in bright green, paraded a flower-laden platform bearing enormous prize vegetables — champions of agricultural competitions.

Behind them trotted prizewinning stallions in embroidered blankets and bright green plumes, their shining coats catching the sun - symbols of wealth and prestige.

The Branch of Creation, draped in purple, dazzled the eye with sigilic displays: glyphs and diagrams burst into the air as fireworks, transforming into shimmering beasts and birds.

These circled the control pulpit before vanishing with bright flashes and a crackling bang.

“Look, look!” the boy’s father said, stepping up onto a raised flowerbed to give his son an even better view. The heads of passersby bobbed anxiously below the boy’s dangling legs as the crowd parted. He was now so high above the street it seemed he could almost reach the firebirds flaring just overhead.

Bringing up the rear of the column was the crimson platform of the Protectorium.

Decorated officers stood tall on its high dais, epaulets gleaming, polished bandoliers catching the sun. They didn’t feel the need to entertain or impress — their deeds spoke for them.

Directly behind their platform floated an enormous cage, drifting forward on a slow, controlled hover. Its bars, each as thick as a man’s arm, held a massive, armored beast.

A mudhorn — a swamp-dwelling monster, captured alive and brought to the capital.

The creature rivaled the city’s civitram transports in size, and if you counted the jagged, triangular horn crowning its head — a head armored like a bone-plated battering ram — it stood even taller. Nearly four meters, at least.

Its broad chest and front limbs, each equipped with wide, flat claws for tearing through bog soil and tangled roots, barely fit inside the cage. Unlike the other floats, this one hovered visibly lower — the beast’s sheer weight had forced it down.

Its small, black eyes spun wildly, tracking the shimmering shapes and whistling sigilic lights flaring above. Used to the quiet isolation of the deep marshes, the mudhorn was clearly terrified — its breath huffed in heavy, grunting blasts from wide nostrils.

Handlers in red uniforms flanked the cage, periodically clicking command-slates to monitor the four sigil-nodes embedded at each corner.

Now and then, one would pull a crystal from a socket, replacing it with a fresh, glowing charge. From above, the boy could see a complex sigil faintly glowing beneath the creature’s belly, etched into the floor of the cage.

“Papa, what is that?” the boy asked, tugging at his father’s collar. “Can we get closer? Pleeeease? I want to see it up close!”

“Vil, no — what if it charges?” his mother said, worried, trying to hold her husband back by the sleeve. But he only chuckled and pressed forward through the crowd with confidence.

“Relax, he’s dosed with suppressants. Look at that sealing rune under his belly — he’s not going anywhere.”

The mudhorn’s mottled, knobby hide gleamed dully in the sunlight, its rough hairs patchy and coarse. Up close, the beast looked almost sculpted from living stone.

Other fathers were also lifting their children up high, letting them marvel at the strange creature. Handlers in crimson uniforms barked sharp warnings at the more overeager parents — but amid the celebration, it was nearly impossible to restrain human curiosity.

At that moment, the procession was passing through a narrow choke point in the street — where multiple side lanes converged into one. It had already grown loud and cramped, and now the air itself seemed to vibrate.

A shrill whistle split the sky, answered by cheers — the artificers had just unleashed one of their most dazzling birds yet.

It hissed and crackled, looping above the crowd in flaming arcs. The noise bounced off the stone walls of the buildings on either side, echoing and amplifying until it roared. The firebird swooped low… and exploded in a deafening flash right above the mudhorn’s cage.

Startled by the blast — sharper than even the festival’s chaos — the enormous beast let out a thunderous bellow and lunged sideways, slamming its armored flank against the cage’s bars. The jolt was powerful enough to tilt the floating platform — its engines howled, straining to rebalance the load.

The already-packed crowd grew frantic. Shouts turned shrill. A child’s scream cut through the confusion. The sky above the boy swayed — because his father, brave, tall, unshakable — suddenly stumbled, knocked sideways by the crush of bodies.

The blaring horns of the marching band slipped into a panicked discord.

And before the boy could even cry out, he was lifted again — higher than ever — scooped up by someone else’s arms, strong and steady. One hand alone covered the whole bandolier on his little jacket, like it was nothing. Before fear could settle in, he stood on the Protectorium’s officer platform — lined in red velvet.

“Hey, look — a new recruit!” someone joked in a booming voice, and laughter rippled across the officer platform.

The boy spun around, wide-eyed, trying to take it all in at once. These were the Crimson Wolves — the legendary warriors from all the stories.

Even at six, you knew exactly who the Wolves were. They stood guard at the Fractures, protecting civilians from the creeping corruption of the Schizis.

They fought swamp monsters and clawed chaos back into the ground so that people could live in peace. Every boy in the capital dreamed of becoming a Crimson Wolf one day.

At the front of the platform, elevated above the others in a flower-adorned chair of state, sat a stern, black-haired man robed in scarlet. Even a six-year-old recognized him at once — Supreme Commander of the Protectorium, the highest authority. The child had seen his image before — on transmitters, in headlines, on official seals.

It was him. Menno Lyutich, Supreme Commander of the Protectorium, now watching the boy with a faint look of approval.

A handsome young man in black stood just behind him, his cool, detached gaze scanning the crowd. In front of him was a tall control console, which he tapped from time to time, adjusting the platform’s pace.

His gaze brushed over the young passenger — then paused, frowning slightly for reasons the boy couldn’t understand. Something about him — the sharpness of his eyes, maybe, or the way everyone else seemed to watch him — made the boy think: That must be the Falconet. The one grownups always called “that one”, trading those loaded looks — though he never quite understood which “that one” they meant.

Right next to the boy, steadying him with a firm hand so he wouldn't topple off the edge, stood a tall officer in a richly decorated crimson coat, the red Hero’s Ribbon pinned to his chest.

Other officers crowded the platform, offering the boy warm congratulations on his “early enlistment.”

“Look at this sharp little fellow!” someone said, laughing. “Straight to the top. He’ll go far!”

That joke made the young man in black shoot a glare at the speaker. Then, turning to the tall officer, he said sharply:

“Commander Eltheorn, please set the boy on the riser so he can spot his parents. We can’t let them lose track of each other in this chaos — they must be frantic by now.”

The officer nodded once, then effortlessly lifted the boy — light as a feather — and placed him on a raised platform.

The boy didn’t like that the young man seemed angry. And standing so close to the Supreme Commander and “that” Falconet was, for some reason, scary.

But he thought of his parents, and reminded himself that a future Crimson Wolf shouldn’t be afraid of silly things.

Little soldier twisted around, scanning the crowd — and there they were! His mother and father, waving wildly, trying to reach him.

“Mama! Papa! I’m here!” he shouted, arms flailing with joy.

They had seen him too, and were already pushing forward through the sea of people, hands outstretched toward the Protectorium’s hovering bastion, gliding solemnly above the street. The Falconet tapped a quick sequence on the keys, and the platform gave a soft jolt, slowing its pace.

“We can’t stop completely. Pass him down — otherwise we’ll break the parade flow,” he said, addressing the Сommander.

The boy was surprised at how casually he spoke to someone so tall, strong, and serious — the kind of man you usually only saw in official portraits.

And even more surprising was the respectful tone with which the man replied:

“As you command, Your Excellency.”

His voice was loud and strong, yet sounded strangely muted — as if some invisible wall stood between him and the world.

Only now, at eye level, did the boy get a proper look at the officer’s face.

High, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, hair the color of straw and eyebrows to match. His skin looked golden in the sunlight. The eyes were the brightest blue the boy had ever seen — like pieces of sky. Commander looked like someone from a storybook, a real hero. But something about him felt odd. A face seemed… strangely still.

The boy, in his bright little soldier’s jacket, stared up at that face in awe.

The face of a battle-hardened officer who had fought monsters beyond imagining longer than the boy had even been alive.

His father was close now, arms outstretched, smiling — but it was a strange sort of smile. Half relief, half hidden worry.

“Can you keep a secret?” the Commander asked.

The boy nodded, hypnotized — mostly because the man’s lips hadn’t moved.

And that’s when he realized — the lower half of Commander Eltheorn’s face was covered by a mask.

A masterfully sculpted mask, designed to mimic his features perfectly. So perfectly, in fact, that when he stayed silent, you’d never know it wasn’t his real face.

Then, with a quick motion, the officer unclasped a latch behind his ear. He turned his back to the crowd — making sure only the child could see — and slid the mask aside…

***

That child had looked so much like this little boy.

Tiny hands — still soft and round with baby fat — had clung tightly to his mother’s skirt.

Only… she lay twisted in a strange arch, too many joints bending the wrong way.

Not far off sprawled the corpse of a man, all but turned inside out — a misshapen, matted mess.

The parents hadn’t fled. Whether out of fear or stubbornness, they’d stayed behind.

If not for the final sweep — the last patrol combing through buildings before the seal went up — the child would have been left behind too.

The officer had checked the boy’s pupils, pressed a field scanner to the child’s round forehead.

All readings were within normal limits.

Could it be… he was clean?

When a Fracture opens near a settlement, everyone knows the drill.

First: evacuate civilians.

Then: extract any valuables or remaining supplies.

Only after that is the area sealed off and quarantined — until the Schized mist clears.

It always clears. That’s its nature.

Heavy and thick as it spills from the Fracture, it always tries to retreat back to the Other Side. The world, in its strange way, seeks balance.

The danger is, while it’s here, anything it touches becomes infected.

Animals, people, insects — they warp. They lose their shape, their minds.

They die, or worse.

That’s why every evacuation includes a medical check — to decide who gets quarantined.

Some succumb within seconds. Others take longer.

But once in a great while — rarely, mercifully — the gods look away.

And the Schizis leaves no trace.

Maybe this was one of those miracles, clinging now to his coat, peering past him with hazy eyes — back toward the ruined house, where two dim figures still lay stretched across the floor.

Greenish mist already blanketed the village. The perimeter would seal any second now.

The officer shifted the boy in his arms and ran.

Then — blinding pain tore through his cheek and nose.

A blur. A gurgle.

Blood hit his face like fire.

He dropped to his knees, still holding the small warm body by instinct, shielding it from the fall. But that little body — soft, round, still baby-fat tender —hissed.

Then twisted, like a centipede, and launched itself from his grip.

Back into the shadows of the house.

Back to where the twisted, unnatural shapes of two corpses still sprawled across the floor.

As if it didn’t want to leave them.

As if he — the one who’d come to take it away — were the villain.

Sometimes, by some cruel twist of fate, changes from the Schizis prove… stable.

Functional.

That’s why you follow the protocol.

That’s why the schized perimeter must be sealed.

But the boy…

The boy had looked so…

Eltheorn, fading fast, clawed at the emergency latch on his shoulder, slamming the distress beacon. The coppery reek of blood rose in a wave, thick and nauseating, flooding man’s throat.

He couldn’t breathe. His one good eye swam with haze.

And through that blur — the child’s pale face still shone from the darkened doorway.

It hadn’t run.

It just watched him fall, studying him in silence.

And the blood-smeared, inhuman grin — bright and grotesque against the small, pale face — gleamed like a target.

***

The boy was sobbing uncontrollably, sucking in ragged breaths, salty bubbles forming at his nose. Not even his father’s strong arms — nor, later, his mother’s warm embrace — could calm him.

“There now, sweetheart, what’s the matter?” his mother crooned, gently cradling his curly little head against her soft chest.

“Don’t cry, you had such a good time riding the platform with the nice Protector, didn’t you?”

“Don’t cry, little one,” his father said, giving his hair a rough pat.

“One day you’ll grow up to be a soldier of the Protectorium yourself, — and be just like him…”

But the boy only wailed louder, the cry climbing toward a shrill, panicked pitch.

What he’d seen — the mangled cheek, the half-gone nose that had once belonged to a proud, striking face — had burned too deep into his memory.

Far above the crowd, the ornate platform sailed onward, its heavy trim catching the sun.

The piercing blue eyes of the Commander — and the calm, understanding gaze of the beautiful young man in black at the controls — faded into the distance.

The youth flipped a switch, and the platform shuddered softly, its engines whining as it picked up speed, gliding forward to rejoin the line of marching musicians in their bright uniforms.

Gradually, the gap in the parade closed — that bright, pulsing serpent of color, winding its way through the city, as seen from the sky.

From that day on, the bright red jacket with its little epaulets — once his favorite thing in the world — remained untouched in the back of his closet, never worn again.

The boy never dreamed of the Protectorium after that.

***

Three years earlier, the Left Falconet of the Protectorium had pushed a controversial amendment through the High Council — a revision to evacuation protocol.

Under the new law, Protectorium officers and soldiers were strictly forbidden from entering settlements contaminated by Schizis. Evacuation camps were to be set up no closer than one kilometer from the infected zone. Once the civilians were removed, the area would be sealed without further inspection.

The law sparked public outrage and yet another wave of resentment toward “that” Falconet — the one always mentioned in a lowered voice.

People called it cowardice. Abandonment. To them, it meant giving up on those who might still be alive behind the mist.

Among officers, however, the amendment was met with overwhelming approval.

In time, it came to be known as Eltheorn’s Rule — the rule that saved countless Crimson Wolves from dying in the dark.

It would be years later, in a gymnasium safety class, that the boy first heard about Eltheorn’s Rule. And at once, that sun-drenched day would return to him — and the ruined face of the man who had once been handsome. The face many called a hero’s face.

That half-mask. That look in his eyes.

And when his classmates argued fiercely over the moral cost of Eltheorn’s Rule, he always stayed quiet.