Since the Rashanir can remember, the opposition between magic and common man has always been there, driving an impossible rift between them.
As the years passed, the abyss only grew wider. Every bridge ever built collapsed into ruins, leaving behind nothing but pitiful remnants—silent witnesses of a futile struggle against the inevitable.
War after war, conflict after conflict, magic has served only to oppress the weak or plunge entire worlds into chaos… or both.
But none of the recent conflicts had been as bloody and ominous as the rise of the Tribunal of Hierarchs.
The brutal path carved by this group of summoners was steeped in blood from its very inception, a stain that would forever mark their actions and fate.
It all traced back to a dawn at least a decade ago—the start of a day that would change the course of a war already ten years in the making.
That morning, under the veil of secrecy, a group of diverse magic practitioners gathered to become the greatest madmen in contemporary history. Though, in their eyes, they were nothing short of visionaries.
And indeed, they had a vision.
“Pathetic,” muttered one of them. “It’s pathetic that we must gather in this disgusting ruin.”
“Where else would you prefer? The Valley of Summoners is not an option,” snapped a woman, her tone sharp. “Stop whining over nonsense—or better yet, leave. We need people with conviction, not crying children.”
“Care to say that again? Go on, I dare you.”
“Gentlemen! Enough.”
“I apologize, Barkran. But I truly detest being forced to have this conversation here.”
“And you’re right, my friend. I feel the same way,” replied the man called Barkran. “But look at the bright side—when we triumph, all of this will be ours.” He gestured toward the city beyond the shattered window, its frail frame held together by rotting beams and creeping vegetation trying to reclaim the building for nature. “Our cause is just, our determination unyielding. If they wish to stop us, they will have to destroy us.”
“Must blood be spilled?” asked a fourth voice. At this, Barkran frowned in disapproval.
To his displeasure, others nodded in agreement, murmuring among themselves.
“Innul, why am I not surprised by your lack of resolve?” Barkran mocked.
“This is not about resolve. I am just as committed to our cause as any of you. But if our goal is to bring order—if we want to prove that Summoners can and must hold seats in the ruling councils of kingdoms and empires—is direct violence truly our best tool?” Innul argued.
“It is,” Barkran answered bluntly. “How many of us have been persecuted simply for practicing magic? We are spat on and reviled, while we are the ones wielding true power! We alone are fit to lead and rule!”
This time, the approving gestures turned to Barkran instead of Innul. Yet the man remained unconvinced.
“We never spoke of ruling. Our goal—”
“Has just changed,” Barkran interrupted. “We have a divine right. We will gain nothing by approaching as mere advisors. You, more than anyone, know that the time for negotiation is over. Were the insults you endured in Ulterian not enough? Was it not enough when the Actubrion Protectorate threw you out like a beggar the moment you proposed a council entirely composed of Summoners?”
Barkran gestured out the window once more. Innul gazed at the city beneath the night’s mantle.
For generations, Actubrion had tolerated a single magic practitioner in its ruling council, yet it refused to allow Summoners full control. Ancient traditions, an incomprehensible and archaic status quo—one they sought to change.
“I… I don’t know, Barkran. Perhaps Innul is right,” a timid voice finally spoke, hesitant and afraid. “I don’t think they will look kindly upon us if we act with aggression.”
“We do not need them to look kindly upon us. We need them to bow before us.”
“And how do you propose we achieve such a feat? In case you haven’t noticed, they outnumber us,” Innul challenged.
“The answer is simple. We will seek an ally—one that already has Summoners in its government. One that immediately understands our goals. One that is already at war with Actubrion and would greatly benefit from our aid.”
“The Norduri? Have you lost your mind?” Innul exclaimed, his composure slipping.
Barkran smiled with a hint of malice.
“You wanted change, Innul. This is that change.”
“No, you are twisting every single principle we have fought for! The Norduri expand from Jarferun, ravaging and conquering everything in their path. If we wish to gain favor with Actubrion and the rest of the Summoners, we must help end Jarferun’s expansion once and for all, not fuel it!”
“I disagree. The Norduri represent a new power, a new chapter in our world’s history. The perfect opportunity to purge Kharia and start anew. They support and promote the rule of magic. Why resist and fight those who already share our vision?”
“Because just as you reminded us that we have all been persecuted for being Summoners, it is also true that we have all lost someone to the Norduri. Stop proposing madness and let’s go back to discussing real alternatives.”
“Do not give me orders,” Barkran’s voice turned icy.
“Excuse me? By the Ancestors… I think we need to call this meeting off,” Innul sighed, rubbing his forehead. “This is leading nowhere. When we are certain we can discuss matters without sounding like rabid beasts, we may continue.”
Those who had attended the secret meeting nodded silently and slowly began to rise, murmuring among themselves. Until someone let out a choked scream, and all turned to see the commotion. A body fell lifeless to the ground, bleeding out rapidly. One of the summoners illuminated the dilapidated chamber, and then everyone understood the scene. Innul lay motionless, soaking in his own blood, while Barkran wiped a dagger clean on the corpse’s garments.
“Traitor!” some voices exclaimed, but Barkran responded with a grimace of disapproval and frustration.
“Can you, for one second, stop being a bundle of useless fools?” he asked, without anger in his voice; rather, he sounded tired of always having to deal with the same thing.
“No, Barkran, you’ve gone too far,” one of the summoners declared, taking a defensive stance.
Others followed suit, adopting various combat postures according to their respective schools of training. He was pleased to confirm that no other Ethereants stood against him; if his brothers in magic supported him, he had no reason to fear a couple of wizards and viridimancers.
Barkran assessed the situation before acting; some of his opponents had already begun preparing their spells, ready to strike him down. His face was illuminated by the glow of each invocation manifesting menacingly before him.
His enemies launched their attack, and Barkran assumed a defensive stance.
But defending himself proved unnecessary.
Behind him, a blinding light diverted the spells of his opponents and shielded Barkran.
It was still night, yet the radiance was so intense that it seemed the brightest of days. In that moment, he knew he must not turn around; as much as he wished to see the source of such a light, Barkran remained with his back to it, allowing a near-divine halo to form around him.
Finally, the radiance ceased, and immediately afterward, the first rays of sunlight could be seen. Dawn had arrived.
Barkran was incapable of wielding light magic; his Ethereant powers were tied to the element of air. No one present could claim that he had summoned such a resplendence to protect himself.
It was, indeed, a divine sign, and Barkran could feel it in the depths of his being. The light had spoken without words, a blessing for having slain Innul, the one who wished to keep them in the shadows.
“It… it is a sign,” one of the summoners muttered, falling to his knees in astonishment.
“Barkran is the light before the dawn!”
“The light before the dawn!” the others echoed.
This was his moment. He had longed for this moment, and at last, magic had granted it to him. The legendary Ethereal of Light, Anda himself, had manifested before them to give his approval and blessing.
“My brothers, the time has come. We must prepare, for a new power will descend upon all the realms of Kharia. A power wielded by an implacable and inexorable tribunal. A tribunal that will reorder the hierarchies of the natural order of the universe. Our tribunal, my brothers, which all shall witness and acclaim. All shall bow before the Tribunal of the Hierarchs.”
“The Tribunal of the Hierarchs!” his new followers echoed.
“From now on, I shall be the Supreme Hierarch, and you, each and every one of you, shall be my Hierarchs. We will hide no longer, we will no longer suffer at the hands of those who seek to enslave magic. Who among you will kneel before me to commemorate the beginning of our sacred duty?”
To Barkran’s dismay, not all responded to his call. Some exchanged nervous and hesitant glances.
Barkran walked among those who had kneeled, placing his hands on their shoulders, urging them to rise.
“You shall be the Hierarch of Fire. You, the Hierarch of Light. And you, the Hierarch of the Arcane.”
One by one, he assigned roles to those willing to follow him. He had envisioned the Hierarchs years ago, and at last, he had the chance to shape his dreams. Anda had granted him this gift, and he would not waste it.
“My brothers, my sisters, let us now move toward our first objective. We must establish a sacred and mighty seat of power, our principal stronghold, from which we shall defy Actubrion and negotiate with Jarferun.”
“And what do we do with those who did not kneel?” one of the Hierarchs asked.
“We must be understanding. I do not wish it to be said that the Tribunal is neither just nor merciful,” Barkran explained, gripping one of the hesitant ones gently yet firmly by the shoulder. “But neither do I want weaklings among us, nor anyone alerting Actubrion of our plans. Kill them all.”
At once, the ruins of the tower where they had gathered erupted into a magical battle that lasted only seconds.
Barkran had been right once more: those who had hesitated were no match for the power of the Hierarchs.
Before departing, he cast one last glance at the rooftops of Actubrion, illuminated by the first rays of dawn.
He smiled with conviction. It would not be long before the city, too, understood that it was no match for the Hierarchs.