Flames raged across the room—flames and smoke. The wooden floorboards creaked and cracked under the intense heat, and the ceiling snapped and caved in, showering down fiery debris and ash. It was a fiery hell––an orange inferno.

Amidst it all was Daimen. He lay sprawled across the burning floor, his eyes glued to the two lifeless bodies resting a mere arm's reach before him. They lay within fresh crimson pools—their familiar faces faded, greyed with ash—their eyes locked in an empty stare. His heart ached at the harrowing sight. It was something he never thought he'd come to witness. His parents. Dead.

As he tried to grapple with the grave reality of his situation, a man stepped forward from the midst of the smoke—the one responsible for turning his world upside down. Aelon.

Aelon wore a mechanized combat suit, a former masterpiece of engineering that was now tattered and broken, mirroring the chaos surrounding them. Streaks of white electricity erupted from exposed circuitry, and gasses hissed from its ruptured surface. 

Just like his suit, Aelon was battered, his face and exposed skin riddled with fresh wounds and deep burns. Yet, he remained tall, taking slow and deliberate breaths, his eyes—a death stare—locked on Daimen while his right hand gripped a bloodied Oxsyn blade.

Daimen could feel the bloodlust emanating from Aelon. He tried to crawl back away from the monster before him, but his body betrayed him, refusing to budge. He was petrified—helpless: a prey frozen before a predator.

Aelon slowly made his way to Daimen and dragged him from the scorched floor by the neck with ease.

Daimen clawed at Aelon's exposed arm, his nails piercing skin. All the while, his vision slowly began to blur and fade to black. There was no escape. No mercy. Only death.

The seconds stretched into minutes, the minutes into hours. The sound drained from the room just as his body slowly went numb. 

Aelon drew back his black blade, aligning it with Daimen's heart. And with one last-ditch effort, Daimen screamed out, "No!" 

As the tip of the blade neared his heart, the hellscape around them quickly broke apart, deteriorating into a potent darkness. His scream broke through the black and pierced reality as he bolted up from his mattress in a cold sweat.

Once again, he'd found himself trapped in a harrowing nightmare, one that had been haunting him since that fateful night a mere month ago. He clasped his chest, the rushing beat of his heart rippling through his palm. His breathing was a mess, ragged and fast, and his head spun along with his vision. Every ounce of his being was on high alert. 

No matter how many times he experienced the nightmare, it was always too real. There was no escape. And the small orange flames dancing across his mattress behind him reinforced that truth. 

He immediately jumped into action, patting the flames. He sighed with relief but was tinged with sadness as he realized that he was too late. The fire had already claimed a small portion of its surface, leaving it singed. And even though it was merely a mattress, a musty and tattered one at that, he was extremely grateful to have something to sleep on while Byron worked on getting something better.

"Again?" A voice came from his left.

He turned to find Raynor sitting on the side of his slightly elevated bed, his face etched with concern. Daimen said nothing, only nodded before returning his focus to steadying his breathing and racing thoughts. Aelon's cold silver gaze lingered, burned in his psyche, haunting him. 

Raynor reached down and rested his hand on Daimen's shoulder, opting not to say anything further. He wasn't much of a talker to begin with, but it wasn't the time for words. Besides, there was little he could have said that Daimen hadn't already heard before.

"Come on," Raynor said, "Byron's waiting downstairs."

Raynor helped Daimen to his feet, and with a brief, understanding stare, they both walked out of their small shared bedroom and headed down to the kitchen.

A minute later, as they made their way down the stairs, they were greeted with the fragrant aroma of eggs and bacon that wafted throughout the entire room. From the kitchen echoed the clanging of a frying pan where Byron was lost in the delicious art of pancakes—his focus iron and sharp. With a perfect flip of an equally perfect golden pancake, Byron noticed their presence and turned to greet them with a smile that was warmer than the heat circulating within the kitchen.

"Morning, boys! Take a seat. Breakfast is almost ready."

Daimen and Raynor made their way to the small wooden table in the middle of the room. It was slightly worn, with scratches and deep stains, but otherwise, it was spotless, a small reflection of the rest of the room. This came as a shock to them both, for when they first arrived the day prior, the place was, quite frankly, a mess. But no longer were there dozens of empty liquor bottles scattered across the floor, stacked within every corner, or tucked between the dusty cushions of the couch. The floor almost sparkled, the walls were grime-free, and the overbearing musk of alcohol and dust was no more. It was as though they had woken up in a completely different house.

"Looks cleaner in here," Raynor said.

Daimen's eyes almost popped out of their sockets. It was one thing to think it, but actually saying it was insane. But this was nothing new. Raynor was never one to sugarcoat his words.

Byron laughed as he walked over to the table with the last plate of pancakes. "I intended to do it sooner, but time has always eluded me," he said, setting the plate down. "Besides, I'm rarely home and seldom host guests."

Daimen's stomach rumbled, shifting their attention to him. He gave an awkward smile before saying, "Sorry. It just smells so good in here."

Byron laughed once again and gave Daimen a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "By all means. Dig in! "

Daimen smiled and grabbed a plate, stacking it full of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. One bite turned into two, then six, then twelve. Soon, his mouth was so packed that he almost choked, but that didn't stop him. The flavors were too savory. Too rich. Each hurried bite was an explosion within his mouth, and he simply couldn't get enough.

"Easy, Daimen. Remember to chew," Byron said, half amused and half concerned. "The food's not going anywhere."

"You've turned feral on us, D," Raynor teased.

Daimen tried to retort, but about three layers of stuffed pancakes muted his words. So, he slumped slightly forward—defeated.

"I didn't take you for a cook, Byron," Raynor continued. "I'm sure I speak for both Daimen and myself when I say that the food is amazing."

Byron's grin stretched from ear to ear. "I've always valued a good meal, and with no one else around to cook, I thought I'd give it a shot myself. Turns out, I'm quite the natural in the kitchen."

"A man of many talents," Raynor said, nibbling on a strip of bacon.

The room fell silent, with only the sounds of their forks and knives clunking and scraping against the plates. A few minutes went by uninterrupted—minutes that felt like an eternity. Daimen and Byron would catch each other's glance for a brief moment, prompting Daimen to give a pinched smile before looking elsewhere. Eventually, the stacks of pancakes vanished, followed by the bacon and, lastly, the eggs. 

After his last bite, Byron cleared his throat and broke the silence. "Alright, listen up," he started, his voice carrying weight. "Today's the day that it all begins. Raynor––" He turned, meeting Raynor's gaze. "You'll be joining my Elite Squad, Stormfront." Then, shifting his focus to Daimen, he sighed heavily through a brief pause before continuing reluctantly, "And you, Daimen, have been placed in a new Seeker squad I've put together myself."

Daimen and Raynor exchanged a glance, the excitement glistening in their eyes. 

"Thank you! I won't let you down," Daimen said, his voice filled with determination. 

"Don't get too excited," Byron continued. "I will not hesitate to pull the plug if anything goes wrong." His face took on a more serious tone. "Now, remember. You're both in unfamiliar territory. Stay alert and maintain a low profile. We can't afford to attract unwanted attention. Understood?"

A chill ran down Daimen's spine. It was a good thing that Byron waited until after he'd finished eating because his appetite quickly vanished. The gravity of Byron's words weighed heavily on him, turning the warm meal in his stomach to stone.

—x—

About an hour after breakfast, the trio made their way through the bustling streets of the city. Daimen and Raynor took the time to let the beauty of the Holy Land truly sink in. This was their second day in Ceiala, and its sheer vastness and elegance were proving to be a little too much for them.

Everywhere they looked, there was movement. All around them, crowds of people hurried along the cobblestone sidewalks and pathways, a handful stopping briefly in their tracks to seemingly admire them. In the sky above, massive airships adorned with yellow crystals glided through the air with grace and ease.

The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the sounds of horse-pulled carriages and crystal-powered vehicles traversing the streets. A towering statue of an ancient warrior stood proudly, his arm stretched above the masses, holding a giant Irei Crystal beautifully carved in the shape of a flame. 

Ceiala was a city rich with history and life. There was so much to see and admire, but so little time, for their walk had come to an end at the massive golden gates of the Seraph Military Compound.

The two Fal-Can warriors guarding the gates were dressed in the Seraphim's iconic, striking white and gold combat armor. As the trio approached them, the guards stiffened their already straight postures and slammed their balled fists firmly onto their chest plates. There, they remained until Byron answered their gesture with a curt nod. 

Soon after, the gates rumbled to life, slowly revealing a vast yard with hundreds of warriors, many lined in disciplined rows, their chants echoing towards the heavens—while others were locked in heated spars, showcasing their mastery over the elements and the supernatural. Spiraling water, surging chunks of earth, howling gales—giant fists, shimmering force fields, and vibrant beams—it was a mosaic of abilities and powers.

The trio did not stop there. They continued to venture deep within the compound, traversing its maze-like layout of white and gold hallways. Daimen had remained locked in a chokehold of awe since he stepped out of the house, and he continued to be suffocated by its grasp. Everything had a sacred feel to it—an air of divinity. He couldn't help but feel a little out of place. He kept his arms to himself and took care to step lightly, not wanting to risk tainting the sanctity of even the floor tiles.

After a short while, they arrived at a door. It was like the hundreds they'd walked past, yet this one felt different. It was almost as though it was separating them from some immense presence. The air was thick and palpable—so thick, in fact, that when Daimen moved to scratch an itch on his chest, it felt as though his hand was moving through some sort of airy liquid. It was a sensation he had felt only a few times before, and it excited him.

Byron opened the door, and the sensation washed over Daimen like a wave, almost forcing him back a step. Within the room sat a woman, her short amber hair styled in a curly mohawk with the sides faded. Beside her stood a man—or, more accurately—a beast resembling the likes of a man. He was tall and muscular—maybe a bit too much so, as his muscles bulged with the slightest movement. His dark brown dreadlocks were pulled back and hung below his shoulders. The overwhelming sensation seemed to be emanating from their direction, and it actively pushed down on Daimen as though trying to make him bend the knee. This sensation—this aura—was immense.

"Jaric. Korra. Meet Raynor and Daimen," Byron said.

Jaric and Korra stopped conversing and settled their attention upon Daimen and Raynor. Their expressions diverged: Korra's face lit up with a smile that could easily sway the heart of any man, while Jaric's eyes sharpened as he examined them, his demeanor more reserved and analytical.

"Raynor! Daimen!" Korra squealed as she made her way over. "I'm so happy to finally be able to meet you. Byron could not stop talking about you both."

Daimen blushed—a reasonable response, for Korra's beauty was comparable to that of an angel. Her chocolate skin shined against the glow of the crystals that lit the room. Her eyes, a deep golden yellow, conveyed a sense of comfort and trust that drew Daimen in. She moved with a grace that made the room feel brighter, her presence warm and welcoming. Jaric, on the other hand, stood tall and imposing, his muscles taut and his stance that of a seasoned warrior.

"This is the prodigy?" Jaric said with a smirk as he sauntered over to Raynor. "I'm not impressed."

"Funny," Raynor smirked. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

Jaric's brows rose, his smirk growing at the retort. A spark of amusement flashed in his hazel eyes. 

Korra nudged Jaric in the side of his stomach, effectively reining him in. "Ignore him. He's completely harmless," she said.

Jaric scrunched his face at the remark and was about to give his rebuttal, but with a single look from Korra, he thought it best to keep it to himself. 

Korra's face softened as she turned back to Daimen and Raynor. "I'm truly sorry for both of your losses. No one deserves to experience such tragedies, especially at such a young age."

Daimen was lost in her sincere words—the empathy in her eyes was soothing. But Raynor—he wasn't fazed. 

"Thanks, but your apology isn't necessary," Raynor said. "We'll manage."

Jaric exploded in a hearty laugh. "You're a tough one, aren't you?" He turned to Daimen. "What about this one? Doesn't he talk?" He leaned in close. "Don't just stand there. Say something."

Daimen instinctively stepped back. He could feel Jaric's aura from outside the room, which was already absurd, but now, with him standing a mere foot in front of Daimen, it was too much to bear. But Daimen wasn't about to let Jaric intimidate him.

"What..." Daimen started but was interrupted by Korra, who came to his rescue. 

"Enough, Jaric," she said, pulling at Jaric's arm. "Give the boy some space."

"What? I'm just trying to get to know him."

"It looks more like you're scaring him."

"Me? Scare him?" Jaric laughed. "Please, don't insult me. I'm great with kids."

Korra ignored Jaric's protest. "Are you excited to meet your squad, Daimen?"

"Yes," Daimen said, his voice steady despite the tension.

"He speaks!" Jaric shouted, laughing.

Korra shot him a damning glare, her patience wearing thin. 

"Alright. Alright," Jaric said before taking a few steps back, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"I had the chance to meet them myself. They're incredibly skilled and capable. You'll fit right in," Korra said.

"Raynor, stay here," Byron said. "I'll be back."

As Byron and Daimen stepped into the hallway, Jaric called out, "Oh, kid. Do me a favor. My nephew, Rhys—tell him, I said to take this seriously."

Daimen wasn't quite sure what Jaric meant by that, but he nodded anyway, the grip of anticipation stiffening his steps as he followed behind Byron's confident strides.