They don't usually let warlocks into the Hexblades. Too many questions about divided loyalties—Guild needs versus patron demands. And honestly? Fair enough. There is a potential conflict there. My patron's an angel—never asked me for anything, not once—but that doesn't mean it'll stay that way forever. Angels don't operate on our timeline. They've got eternity. What would someone like me matter to a being like that?

Still, the power Pravuil gave me—God's own scribe, keeper of reality's records—it was good enough to get me through the door. Barely. They watch me like a hawk, judging every mission I take. One misstep, and they'll say it's my patron pulling the strings. Best-case scenario? I get discharged. Worst case? They end me. Not a lot of room for error. Doesn't exactly inspire trust. But they haven't kicked me out yet. So maybe, just maybe, I'll earn their confidence one day.

But let's start with the basics. I'm Dominic Corsetti. Warlock. Bound to Pravuil. That gives me the ability to tap into the undercurrent of fate itself—to pull the threads and read the echoes of lives long gone. I'm an initiate in Squad Seven, New York City's Hexblades division. My Spellguard is Marek Podolski—tough guy, doesn't smile much. I'm paired up with two other wardens: Catherine O'Haara and Gavier Constance. Together, we've been ordered by the Archwarden to track down and contain someone we've tagged only as the Unraveler.

Why the name? Because he turned twenty yakuza gangsters into a pile of bloody streamers. Skin, bone, muscle—ribbons. Seers across the city felt the backlash ripple through reality itself. It was that violent.

Our investigators were practically salivating over the scene. Me? I nearly threw up. Who the hell builds a power around unraveling people like they're some bad knitting job?

Seers and analysts agreed: we had a small window. The Domain—the space where magic like his comes from—was reeling from the outburst. He's cut off or weakened. This was the time to move. That's how I ended up here, kneeling in the dust and stringy remains of someone who, hours ago, was just trying to earn his keep in the mob.

"Pravuil," I whispered. "Show me the life."

I reached out—not with my hand, but with the power my patron placed inside me. A light shimmered down from the Ideworld, threading into the glow rising from my own soul. And just like that, I was him. I saw everything. Every decision. Every sin.

I hated most of what I saw. Cruelty without remorse. Violence like it was routine. But I forced myself to focus on the end—on the moment it all shifted.

The person that did all of this. He'd messed up. Disobeyed an order. And in their world, that meant cutting off your pinky at the bone. Ritual shame. Commitment to the gang. He did it, too—placed the severed finger on a ceremonial plate. Then, without warning, everything went white. A pulse of searing light swallowed the room, and when it faded, a man stood at the center of it, wrapped in a violet haze.

The elder—who ran the crew—stepped forward, calm, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Probably to ask if he was alright.

Wrong move.

The elder began to come apart—skin, muscle, bone peeling into soft, bloody threads that slumped to the floor. Panic erupted. Knives were drawn. Swords swung. But nothing worked. Everything that touched him disintegrated. Metal. Flesh. Will.

The Unraveler didn't hold back. He fought like a wrathful god. Kicking. Punching. Raging. And every time he landed a blow, someone dissolved. Just like that. Even the man whose memories I was holding now—gone in seconds.

"Warlock," came Spellguard Podolski's voice, cutting through the quiet, a warning and a sneer all wrapped in one. Just loud enough for the rest of the squad to hear, so they'd remember exactly what I was. "Did you get anything?"

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I stood up, wiping blood and dust off my glove. "Same as the last three. But this one… he knew the Unraveler. Knew him well."

I looked up and met their eyes.

"His name's Shiroi Akira. And I know where he lives."

--

Hexblades aren't just your everyday enforcers—we're the Guild's elite. We are like the magical equivalent of the FBI. There aren't many of us, which is why we're deployed nationwide. We are trained to wield pure Authority, to shape it, control it, make it ours. And yeah, we're expected—no, required—to develop our Domains too. We face the kind of threats that burn towns down or bend reality sideways, and we face them every damn week.

See, regular mages—even the ones who've just awakened their soulcore—are already borderline bulletproof. Guns? They only work if you're up close and personal. Real close. Blades and blunt force still have some effect, sure, but only if you hit hard enough. Unless, of course, the weapon itself is infused with Authority—then it's a different story entirely. We're trained to do just that.

Learning how to extend the shadowlight of your Authority from your body into a weapon takes time, but it's doable. Bullets, though? Infusing something that leaves your aura in a blink—that's a whole other beast. That's why most magical combat is still close-quarters. Blades, fists, staves—hence the name: Hexblades.

We rolled up to Akira's apartment dressed like a standard SWAT team—black armor, gear tight, nothing fancy. We could hear movement inside. Someone was definitely home. Spellguard Podolski took point. He came from a long line of Polish carpenters, until one of them developed a Wood Domain. Since then, every generation's carried that torch. Marek touched the door—it was solid oak—and in seconds, it started to twist and wrap around his arm, crawling along his armor. The whole door became part of him, part of his suit. Seamless.

Then he moved.

Gun raised, eyes locked ahead, Podolski charged through what used to be the door. The rest of us filed in behind. The apartment was spacious and quiet, styled in that clean Japanese minimalism. Not a lot of furniture. Just a few ornate pieces scattered around. What caught my eye, though, was all the fabric—piles of it, scattered across the room. And in the corner? A sewing machine. For a supposed Yakuza butcher, that was… unexpected.

We'd made no noise going in. The transformation of the door was silent, our steps even quieter. So when the man walked in and saw us, the surprise on his face was genuine.

Long black hair flowed behind him. A short, neat goatee. He was built—solid, strong—and unmistakably the man we were hunting.

"I confirm—this is the target," I said into comms.

Podolski didn't wait. One shot—thunder in a metal box—and the bullet hit Akira square in the chest. He slammed to the floor, knocked out cold from the impact. He didn't die—his Authority must've absorbed the worst of it—but he wasn't getting up anytime soon.

Catherine moved in fast. She didn't wait for orders; none of us needed them at this point. We all knew the rhythm. She knelt beside Akira and extended a hand toward his forehead, careful not to touch him. She knew better—thanks to my warning. But she didn't need contact. Her Authority could reach inside a person without ever laying a finger.

Before she was a Hexblade, Catherine was a psychologist. A damn good one. Her Domain didn't come from trauma or magic passed down—it came from passion. Obsession, even. The kind that burns into something real. Sourcerers like her don't need Patrons. They are the source of their own power.

She tapped into his mind, bent his will gently, made him stand and place his hands behind his back. She cuffed him—carefully, reverently—and when the cuffs held, when they didn't melt or unravel, we knew the backlash from his Domain outburst was still suppressing him.

We moved fast. Catherine had him under her control, and we escorted him to the armored transport parked out front. Standard police issue. Me and Catherine sat in the back with the prisoner, eyes sharp, nerves tighter than guitar strings. She kept him calm. Kept him quiet.

We were crossing the bridge out of the borough when I heard it. That voice. The one I hadn't heard since the day I signed my soul away.

[Kill her. Let him loose.]

No. No, not now. Why now?

But that was the deal, wasn't it? You don't question your Patron. Not when they call on you. Not when they command you. That's the price of power—their will overrides your own.

Catherine was still focused on Akira, calm as ever. She didn't see me move. I stood up, pulled the Authority-coated knife from my belt, and drove it into her left eye. Quick. Clean. She dropped instantly, her body hitting the metal floor with a sickening thud.

Gavier, driving up front, hit the brakes hard. He knew something was wrong.

I scrambled to Catherine's body, fingers shaking as I searched for the cuff keys. Found them. Unlocked Akira before I could even think.

He stirred—eyes fluttered open—and reached out.

His hand touched my chest.

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