Under a dark, cloudy sky, the echoes of a revolution filled the air. The streets of Argon were silent, but the true battle raged at the Parliament, where the fate of the nation was about to be decided. The revolution had reached its climax, and at the forefront stood Draven Valcarin—the man who had united the oppressed under a single banner. His voice, deep as the ocean and commanding as a storm, carried over the gathered masses.
Before them, the Parliament of Argon loomed—a massive red cylindrical structure, fortified by thousands of pillars, with walls thick from years of corruption and injustice. Guards lined the entrance, their cannons primed, their swords drawn. Inside, the nobility and council members clung desperately to their wealth and power, blind to the fury swelling beyond their walls.
Draven, a towering figure with a thick white beard despite only being in his mid-thirties, cut an imposing presence. His muscular frame, reminiscent of a warrior carved from stone, was clad in an elegant dark-blue Victorian coat adorned with golden embroidery. A crimson cape flowed behind him, pinned by a brooch bearing the insignia of his house—a symbol of his lineage, a remnant of a past he had long abandoned. But the most striking element of his attire was the massive golden gauntlet on his right hand—an ancient relic of immense power, an heirloom that had chosen him.
"My men! Our time has come!" Draven bellowed, his voice laced with both fury and conviction. "This land belongs to the people of Argon! No longer shall dreaming be a crime! No longer shall becoming a criminal be the only path to survival! We march forward—together!"
A deafening roar erupted from the revolutionaries. Their voices merged into a single, unified battle cry, a wave of emotion surging forward as they advanced toward the Parliament. Leading the charge at the front lines was Breydon Carse, a warrior as fearsome as he was strategic. With him were barbarian-built men, their raw strength and relentless aggression tearing through the first barricade, sending the defenders crashing to the ground.
The sight filled Draven with confidence, but beneath his hardened exterior, an unease festered. He knew the cost of this battle. He knew that many young men would die here today, that countless families would be left to mourn. And he knew, too, that this could be his last day. If so, he vowed, then it would also be the last day of misery for the people of Argon. No sacrifice would be in vain.
Draven advanced, flanked by two of his most trusted allies—Cecil Velcarian and Breydon Carse. Cecil, a lean young man with blonde hair tied in a ponytail, moved with unnatural grace, an expert wind magic user and an extension of the gauntlet's will. He was not merely a soldier; he was a shard of Draven's power, a spirit bound to his cause. Carse, in contrast, was tall and broad-shouldered, his jet-black hair slicked back with military precision. A brilliant strategist, he had long been Draven's right-hand man.
As the battle intensified, guards poured down from the upper floors of Parliament, forming a blockade. The air was thick with smoke, the scent of burning gunpowder and blood merging into a grim perfume of war. In the midst of it all, a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Draven, my friend, you always hog the best fights!" Grey Butler, Draven's fiercely loyal second-in-command, grinned wildly. His untamed, silver-streaked hair only added to his eccentric air, his sharp eyes gleaming with excitement.
Draven barely spared him a glance, knowing what was coming. "I trust you. Don't die."
Grey let out a hearty laugh. "Me? Die? That's a terrible joke! I'm the great Grey Butler! They should be worried about me!"
Without another word, Grey launched himself into the fray, summoning hordes of capsule-shaped mice that stacked upon each other, forming monstrous constructs that ripped through enemy lines. His oversized ruler-like weapon swung through the air, an instrument of both destruction and mischief.
Draven pressed forward, leading Cecil and Carse toward the heart of the Parliament. The gates of the Council's hall stood before them, their massive iron structure a testament to the ruling class's paranoia. With a mighty swing of his gauntleted fist, Draven sent the doors flying open.
Inside, twelve council members stood in defiance, a collection of individuals who had long feasted on the suffering of the people. But among them, one figure stood apart—Kaiser. Pale and disinterested, his hollow eyes surveyed the scene with an unsettling stillness. Unlike the others, he did not draw a weapon. He merely observed.
Draven took in the sight of the white-walled chamber, a lifeless space reflecting the state of the nation.
"I'll handle him," Carse declared, stepping forward before Draven could speak.
Draven hesitated. Carse was not one to act on his own. "Wait—"
But Carse had already charged. Kaiser barely lifted a hand before the floor erupted beneath them, massive stone pillars encasing Carse in an unbreakable prison. With a flick of his wrist, Kaiser sent him hurtling into the ceiling, where he crashed in a motionless heap.
Draven's eyes darkened. "Just you and me now."
Kaiser's gaze remained unfazed. "For now. Soon, it'll just be me."
Draven's gauntlet pulsed with power. From within, he summoned King—a monstrous, hooded entity with arms as thick as tree trunks. The summoned warrior stood, glaring aggressively at Kaiser. The councilman lifted a hand, pebbles appearing out of thin air, rapidly joining to form a massive rock. With a single, effortless motion, he sent it hurtling toward King.
The boulder crashed into the beast's skull—only to rebound harmlessly. Kaiser took an involuntary step back, his cold demeanor fracturing. "How am I supposed to deal with this thing? This beast?!"
King answered with a deafening roar, lunging at Kaiser with terrifying speed. The councilman's composure shattered as he tried to flee, only to meet Draven's fist, which struck him squarely in the face. Kaiser crumpled, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Meanwhile, Cecil fought against three council members, their movements eerily synchronized. They flipped and weaved around him like twisted reflections, their attacks relentless. But Cecil was faster. Wind magic surged around him as he ran along the walls, dodging effortlessly. With a burst of speed, he spun midair, delivering a devastating kick to the first opponent's face. As the second lunged, Cecil twisted his arm, sending him crashing into the third.
Draven took a breath, victory nearly within reach. But in the back of his mind, he expected one last challenge—the 13th councilman, Senefary, the true puppeteer behind Argon's corruption. A man whose aura was more dangerous than any soldier.
A sharp pain bloomed in Draven's back. He turned slowly, disbelief washing over him.
Carse stood behind him, his grip firm around a dagger lodged deep in Draven's flesh.
Draven's vision blurred. "Carse..."
Draven staggered, barely keeping himself upright. The weight of betrayal bore down heavier than the wound in his back. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision darkening at the edges as he struggled to process what had just happened.
"So you turned on me?" he growled, his voice raw with disbelief and simmering rage.
Carse stood unmoving, his grip tightening on the bloodied dagger. His face, usually so composed in battle, was lined with sorrow. But his eyes, those once-loyal eyes, no longer held the same fire of brotherhood.
"I lost my wife to this war," Carse murmured, his voice trembling yet firm. "My son disappeared. I fought for revolution, but you—you fought for your own ideals, your own vision of glory. I saw no victory in this, only more death. Senefary offered me a choice—to stop you and end the war, or let thousands die. I chose the only path that made sense."
Draven's knees buckled. He wanted to respond, to unleash his fury, to tell Carse he had no right to make that choice. But his body refused to obey. His strength seeped away, his limbs numb, his world fading into nothingness. The last thing he saw before collapsing was Carse's face—etched with regret but devoid of hesitation. Draven falls on the ground and king vanishes back into the gauntlet leaving behind Cecil alone as Draven's active servant on the battlefield.
"Draven!" Cecil's voice rang out, sharp with desperation.
A powerful gust of wind surged through the chamber, sending Carse skidding backward as Cecil rushed forward, barely catching Draven before he hit the cold stone floor. His commander was heavy in his arms, his normally commanding presence reduced to nothing more than a broken figure.
Cecil's heart pounded. He needed to get out. Now. But as he turned, council guards poured into the room, weapons drawn, their gazes set firmly on him. He cursed under his breath, his mind racing. There were too many—too many to fight while carrying Draven.
Then—
"WAHAHAHAHA!"
The entire ceiling burst apart in an explosion of dust and shattered stone. Cecil barely had time to react before something—or rather, someone—landed in the center of the chamber in a flurry of chaos.
Grey stood atop a massive, writhing wave of mice, striking an exaggerated pose as if he were the lead actor in a grand theatrical performance. His wild grin stretched across his face as he threw out his arms.
"Did someone say 'spotlight'? Because I'm taking center stage, baby!"
Cecil exhaled sharply in relief. Leave it to Grey to turn a dire situation into an absurd spectacle.
The undulating swarm of rodents coiled into the shape of a massive serpent, striking out at the stunned guards with relentless ferocity. They clambered up legs, darted into armor, and sent even the most hardened warriors into a frenzy of panicked flailing.
Grey cackled as he leaped from his perch, wielding his oversized wooden ruler like a war club. "Time for a lesson in pain, you corrupt sacks of garbage!" With a mighty swing, he sent one unfortunate council member flying into a marble pillar, knocking them unconscious on impact.
"Cecil!" Grey shouted over the chaos, dodging a sword strike with ease. "Take Draven and get out of here! I'll handle things from here."
Cecil hesitated. "Grey, you can't—"
"Can and will, my dude!" Grey cut him off with a wink, effortlessly ducking under another attack. "Now go! I'll meet you at the hideout!"
There was no time to argue. Clenching his jaw, Cecil hoisted Draven's unconscious body onto his back and summoned another burst of wind. With a forceful leap, he blasted through the remaining obstacles, weaving past the struggling council members and darting toward the exit.
Just as he reached the doorway, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. Grey was a blur of motion, his oversized ruler swinging wildly as he danced between enemies with unbridled enthusiasm. But then—
Cecil's stomach twisted.
Grey had swung his weapon with full force—only for it to connect with the face of a disguised council member. The real Carse had positioned himself behind Grey, his movements swift and precise. In one fluid motion, he struck.
A sharp crack echoed through the chamber as Carse's fist collided with the base of Grey's neck.
Grey's eyes widened in surprise. His grin faltered. And then, like a puppet with its strings cut, he crumpled to the ground.
Cecil nearly stopped, nearly turned back—but he knew it was futile. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward, disappearing into the darkened corridors with Draven in tow.
By the time he reached the outer streets, the sound of battle had dulled into an eerie silence. The revolution had failed. Draven was missing. Their forces were either dead or imprisoned. And above it all, the storm clouds wept, their heavy raindrops washing away the bloodstains from the cobblestone streets.
Cecil barely had time to catch his breath when he caught sight of something in the distance. His heart pounded as he recognized the approaching figures—an entire squadron of soldiers marching in his direction, their leader's expression cold and unreadable.
Kaiser had sent them.
They were coming for Draven.
Cecil tightened his grip, every muscle in his body screaming at him to keep moving. He had to disappear. He had to get Draven to safety.
The war wasn't over yet.
chapter note:-(cecil is the only shard of the gauntlet who doesn't require Draven's magic as fuel and he can absorb ambient magicules in the enviournment and can sustain himself for extended periods without draining from the gauntlet. This makes him a self-sustaining shard, unlike the others.)