Cosmet was thick with peasantry, brimming with slag—everywhere he looked, those lifeless gray heaps met his eye. Serfs scampered with every step he took, every direction this way and that, no different than a huddle of chittering vermin, slinking around his grand presence. Nothing, however, compared to the stench that enshrouded the town like a cursed odor. The only thing that seemed to give Cosmet a pinch of life was the tiny looming castle in the sky, obscured by the hazy clouds of deep violet. The infamous Black Palace, belonging to the noble named Evarelius; a man with great power and the worst intentions. The same man who caused the Purple Storm.

For such a pretty name, it was a dark town.

Nonetheless, it was also the only way to cross the Eldritch, a slim strip of water that stretched from one end of the peasant villages to the other. The river was said to home the nefarious phantoms that sapped the life of any man brave enough to venture it. Crossing the river would be equally as dangerous as this, if not more.

In accompaniment with the man called Jean-Andre were a dozen soldiers from the High Guard of Helm and five servants, all of whom were classified mages, to protect him as he traversed Cosmet. In his satchel, a letter carrying perhaps the most important message in all the lands. Or at least that's what he'd been told...

To Jean's relief, he needn't made use of his royal aides thus far, and he'd progressed an ample amount through Cosmet thus far. Even so, there was always the increasing chance that an entourage of knights from the Dark Palace could materialize out of nothing and ambush them. He drove the notion from his head, concluding it would be an undisturbed passage so long as they kept their heads down and feet quick.

He muttered this tiny reassurance to himself as they continued to trek through the town's long-abandoned streets. The hefty sword at his side grew only heavier as they did, but it also put him at ease. He had bulwarks for humans. Magic-bearers on the High King's request. There was well-nigh nothing in the Five Lands that could go amiss as they made their way through Cosmet...

That little reassurance lasted no longer than a swine's hide.

"Uncle?"

Jean whipped around to find Evarelius's progeny and rightful heir to the Black Throne, a charming bloke they called Prince Hans. The heir flit his eyes twice over the man he had addressed and gave way to a small smile that crept along his pale lips.

"'Tis not to my shock that you'd be here," he continued, the smile morphing into something grander—a sunlit grin that dared to oppose the town's bleakness. "Wor' gets aroun' quite rapidly here in Cosmet. My, it's been years since I've seen you! All grimy and ol' now, you are."

Jean-Andre couldn't help but notice his nephew's accent—Faldian, they called it. A common name for the "Banished Nobles" and their respective offspring. It was unfamiliar to his ears, though instantly recognizable when he did hear it. Everybody knew that Faldians didn't enunciate their d's, as a sort of insult to the High King.

Nonetheless, he played the part and chuckled at his nephew's jest, a gentle laugh that was somewhere between relief and impatience. "Leave it to the Black Throne's successor to bring your spirits to the ground."

"Ah, you know me well," said Hans, wagging a finger. Then his face shifted into something different—more solemn and mature, though clearly an act. "Crossing the El'ritch, Uncle? What for, might I ask?"

"High King's duties," Joan answered curtly, shuffling his feet so that he stood taller, though he was a stub compared to the height of his nephew. "Confidential."

"High King..." The prince's voice sifted through the air. "That's quite an honor now, Uncle. How'd a man like you come about working for the Harks again?"

Joan drifted awkwardly to the side, like a raft without reason. "I, erm... I began serving them after the Purple Storm. Started off as a reconstructor for the kingdom's demise, then... became a personal chef to their heir, young Princess Emma. Then, I—"

"Oh, right. You betrayed my father for those sordid royals, abandoned me for that slob of an heiress, and

Recovering from the sudden trample of the retort, Cosmo continued taunting and teasing Jackson, to which he received ignorance and eventually got himself a blast of magic and a face full of blinding light, which caused him to slip and fall, hitting his head on a piece of hardwood.

"Oi!" the boy grunted stormily. "I amn't through with you, Jackson! How dare you treat the son of a royal as such! You shall be punished for such a crime! I'll make sure your execution under the pillory is in order! You are to regret this, you barbaric—"

Prince Cosmo's voice drifted in the silent wind as Scorch and his band of soldiers had almost reached the end of the city deftly. Since Jackson had entered through the gates—well, slipped past the slumbering guards—he felt entirely free of rigidity.

No troubles nor dangers had gotten in their path besides the King's fleshy son and his tawdry remarks. The grey gates with a big sign that indicated it was the exit were just ahead. They were out of peril.

Well, that was until they happened to verily reach the Leaving Gates. That's when everything changed.

"Name?" Asked the Gatekeeper.

"Erm..." Jackson hesitated. "Johnson. Johnson Cinder."

"Johnson Cinder, eh?" The Keeper shuffled through a bunch of different cards and papers. "I don't believe you were registered at the Entering Gates. How did you get into Cosmet City?"

A deadly silence passed between the Keeper, Jackson, and his team. Nobody spoke a word, and the Gatekeeper continued to eye Jackson, awaiting an answer that never got the chance to come.

"I..." Jackson was just about to confess when a rumble of clapping came from behind him.

He and his shielders turned around and noticed the King and his shielders.

"Well, well..." they were all clapping but Evarelius was applauding the loudest. "If it isn't Jackson Scorch, the king of losing. Now then, what would the magic failure be doing in my city with... Oh? An entire team of protection? Was mine too much for you?"

"Never!" Yelled Scorch. "I'm not afraid of you, Evar. I never have been and I never will be."

"Then," smirked the King, "like I always say, bring it on."

The Magicks from Jackson's side had already began conjuring spells and sending them at the King's side. He and his band dodged them, but barely, and it caused a delay in their offense against Scorch.

Jackson began to cast sorcery of his own, sending them right at Evarelius, who managed to block each of his opponent's spells with his irksome Shadow Shield.

"Just like the old days, huh, Jack?" The King was shouting through heavy breaths and waves of magic, rivulets of sweat dying the purple on his robe a deep violet. "I remember the little battles we had as kids. Do you?"

Jackson hadn't noticed that half of his team had been beaten to a pulp. They were all scattered across the wooden floors, screeching and squealing for help. The rest of them were huddled behind him, fearful of ending up like the rest.

Jackson was breathing heavily as well, and he was sweating like mad. His once pretty armor became torn and damaged with every hit of magic that came his way.

"How could I ever forget?" Said Scorch as he conjured a Blaze spell and sent it flying at King Evarelius. "All those times I beat you and here I am, beating you again."

The spell hit the shoulders of the King's black and purple silk robe. He dusted it off with a bit of Darkness and shot a Shade Jackson's way.

Scorch had managed to dodge it, but, regretfully, ended up letting the black spirit hit what was left of his protection team, who were just beginning to cast Final Blows. It was merely him left, the solo stander against the King.

Evarelius began to let out roars of laughter and taunts. He took his time conjuring a Final Blow of his own, the least concerned with the fact that Scorch was doing the same, but much quicker.

And just as Jackson was about to be defeated once more, like he was every time he passed through Cosmet City, a light appeared.

It was the most bright and powerful light, hovering over both the King and Jackson Scorch, the both of them down on their bottoms, shocked by the sudden blare.

"It's the Seal!" Yelled a merchant from one of the stands.

The other villagers of Cosmet had began to circle around the illumination in awe and shock, amazed by the radiance of its beam.

Finally, just before the light flashed away, it carried Jackson and brought him over the Leaving Gates, throwing him like it was catapult on to the other side of Cosmet City.

Then, as though it had never been there, as though it was just as invisible as the air or any Phantom, the illumination vanished.

But not before it dropped something that would change Jackson's life forever.