Friday, 10th of January, 2155

There was a time not so long ago, when the earth reached its breaking point. Collectively, we stood at the brink. Our resources were nearly depleted, and with the inevitable collapse of civilization, any dwindling hope of long term survival had been snuffed out. There was no law to speak of, no order, the few governments still in power were weeks from falling—to say that the human race very nearly vanished is not an exaggeration.

Destruction saved us.

The emergence of the portals and the subsequent invasions, the battles, famines and tribulations faced by our species, made us stronger as a whole.

Less than twenty four hours after the appearance of the first portal, we became players in a war that had been raging for millennia. I would call it intergalactic, but it is far more complex than that. The portals linked us into a kind of network. A web of worlds, the likes of which we could never have imagined.

The manifestation of these gateways seems entirely random, but as with every unexplained phenomenon, there are many theories, some believe that there is something greater at play. Perhaps they are right, these are things that I cannot speak to. What I do know is that all it takes is one. One portal, no matter the size, for the planet to become a living part of this network, feeding it, maintaining it. There is a transfer of energy at work that can be felt, seen even whenever one enters a portal. That same energy is present in every world. And although many have tried, none have been able to trace its source.

The Angels were the ones to save us, and yes, the irony is not lost on me. These are not your biblical angels mind you, although their existence does make one wonder. No, they are very much like us. First and foremost they are survivors, only they have thrived where we would have perished. Their king, Belial, is a formidable being of seemingly infinite power, it was he who repelled the hordes at the battle of Paris. Had he not found our world and interfered, we would have been enslaved and what precious little resources we had left, plundered.

The Angelic regent is a warrior through and through, but he is just and fair. He is not, however, a benevolent being and his protection has a cost, one we will pay for a thousand years to come. We must fight. That is the price of our freedom, of our deliverance from the horde. We must fight with him, for him.

He spoke to me of their history once, as we were discussing battle strategy late one night. The angels themselves, many centuries ago were also indentured into service, by a king, now long dead, whose name however, still carries weight to this day. The leader of the elves, hailing from the realm of Tiriathell before it was torn apart by civil war, was one of the greatest military leaders of his kind. It was he who forged the bond between the realms, he who founded the alliance we are now sworn to.

King Belial recounted to me how the elven ruler, seeing no end to the conflict and weary after so many years of war, had taken it upon himself to negotiate accords between his people and their allies of circumstance. Accords, to help them fight against the invaders, to protect their worlds and their resources.

It was he who gave the alliance its name.

The realms of Aganoch.

Excerpt from the journal of Victor L. Amaya, 79th President of the United States of America and 1st representative of Earth at the Council of Luméne.

Ainsley slammed the book shut with a sigh. This was useless—in all of the works she’d pored through over the last few months, she’d yet to find the answer she was seeking. And everything boiled down to this—an answer to a not so simple question. The correct answer would buy her a choice, she would be the one to decide where she would be posted and Ainsley knew exactly what she wanted.

Across the room, Fletcher had been wasting his afternoon watching her, his thick arms crossed over his muscular chest, leaning against one of the sixteen ornate cast iron pillars that supported the lavish room’s breathtaking architectural display. The ceiling, an intricate array of cupolas, like so many white parasols blowing away in the breeze, their concentric lines mesmerizing. Each with its own eye peering down at them like a brood of watchful guardians—cleverly illuminating the three hundred chairs and tables that surrounded her. It was a room created for its readers—a room of comforts.

Fletcher knew the pressure she was under, he’d already been through it. At the top of his class, he’d set most of the long standing records at the academy and had gone on to become one of the best instructors she’d ever had, something she would never admit aloud of course. His ego didn’t need further boosting. He’d recognized something in her from the get-go, something she hadn’t even been able to see in herself, and he’d coaxed and pushed and pushed some more, until she could barely stand the sight of him. It wasn’t until a few days ago, when the first results had been posted that she’d realized the magnitude of what he’d done.

Ainsley had pulverized his records. Every-last-one.Smirking back at him, she buried herself in another tome, all the while knowing that the answer she needed wouldn’t be found within. She understood the point of this exercise, they were pushing them to learn, to become as familiar with the history of the other worlds as they were with their own. Which was all well and good, but she was running out of time.

Settling herself more comfortably in one of the many high backed chairs of the french national library, she delved back into the fascinating history of the Augurs. What she was, what Fletch was—him and so many others—perhaps not quite as human as they should be.

A heavy hand on her shoulder roused her.

“You’re drooling on volumes that are both priceless and irreplaceable. I think it’s time to call it a day.”

Rubbing her face, Ainsley glanced up at the man she’d spent the better part of the last year wanting to throttle. It was a shame he was so handsome, it made it that much harder to hate him. Even she, envied the thickness of his dark brown hair, and had, on occasion, caught herself wondering what it would feel like to run her hands through it.

The heavy muscles of his biceps flexed as he braced himself on the table next to her, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Two weeks left Chapman, you need to step up your game.”

“I’m well aware, Townsend. Now buzz off and go bother someone else.”

“Is that really how you’re going to speak to the man who just spent a year ensuring your astounding success?”

Rolling her eyes, Ainsley picked up her books and went to drop them off on a cart, not bothering to answer his obvious taunt. He fell into step next to her, keeping pace as they made their way along the floor to ceiling bookshelves that lined the room. “I’m serious Ainsley, you need to figure this out, and I can’t help you this time.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d helped me before,” she grumbled, irritated. The pressure was high enough—she didn’t need him adding to it. Stepping under a massive arch, covered in period typical moldings, adding that necessary touch of luxury to a place that lacked none, she made her way towards the exit. The heavy glass and cast iron door stood at least twice as tall as Fletcher, flanked by two stone women holding the weight of knowledge atop their heads—Ainsley swung it open with difficulty.

Fletcher was still there, right on her heels, pulling on his thick leather jacket. “Don’t be a brat, you and I both know that if I hadn’t pushed you as hard as I did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

She stopped suddenly, causing him to move past her, he turned to face her, his eyes—those eyes that reminded her of age-worn copper coins, darkened, glinting with barely concealed displeasure.

“I still have dreams of strangling you in your sleep, so I’d be more careful about how you speak to me if I were you,” the instant the words left her lips, she knew she’d made a mistake. He excelled at making her feel the fool and the delighted smile that split his face told her that she’d just left the door wide open for him to stomp all over her with those academy issued military boots he was so fond of.

“Dreaming about me in bed are you?”

Fighting the urge to look away, she put up a shield, masking the truth behind mock anger, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

He grinned and her heart skipped a beat, “Nope. Your success is my sole reason for living.”

“Go home Fletch,” she answered tiredly, halfheartedly trying to hide the smile that was tugging at her lips. He could be so charming when he wanted to be, but she knew what he was—too selfish, too green—she’d seen it the moment they met. He’d never really loved, whereas she’d already been burned by it. No, he wasn’t for her—her heart would inevitably end up crushed beneath his size twelve shit kickers.

“Fine, but tomorrow 8 a.m. sharp at the training center, we’re going to Himladhel, to Luméne. Don’t be late.”

Her heart beating a little faster, Ainsley asked softly, “Why are we going to Luméne?”

Fletcher grinned at her, the smile amplifying his dimples, “There’s an open session, I’m taking you to sit in on a council meeting.”

Ainsley’s excitement waned, a council meeting meant seeing her father. Still, it was Himladhel, the angelic realm, and despite herself, Ainsley couldn’t stop the thrum of anticipation that nearly gave her goosebumps. She’d never been to the Luminous Court, in fact most recruits didn’t, not until after graduation, so he’d undoubtedly pulled some strings to get her there. She felt oddly touched.

“All right, 8 a.m.” she agreed walking to where she’d left her bike. Turning back to her mentor slash whatever he was, she flashed him a smile, “Thanks, Fletch.” He simply winked at her before disappearing into the night.

Turning back to her bike, she breathed it in—it was a thing of beauty—curved, sleek lines of glossy paint and glinting chrome—a devil in the night. It was the one possession she’d been unable to give up when she’d signed her life over to the academy. The price to keep it had been steep—Ainsley scowled thinking back to the concessions she’d made—her father had been relentless, making her give up just enough so that she’d felt cheated. That was his modus operandi, he never gave freely, everything had a cost with him. It was probably why he wielded as much power as he did—head of the council, chairman of the academy, and other prestigious titles she hadn’t bothered to learn. Ludovic de Lusignan, Ludo to those who knew him intimately—not that Ainsley thought there were many nowadays, was omnipresent, his name familiar to all. It was why she used her mother’s maiden name, she didn’t need him, she made her own way.

A pang of sadness hit her as she threw her leather clad leg over the seat of her bike, her mother had been a soft, kind woman, a ray of light that had illuminated everything it touched—none more so than her father. The man he’d been had all but vanished after her death, leaving Ainsley to more or less fend for herself. She’d been glad though, boarding school had suited her well, and in the months before she’d left, life with him had become intolerable anyway. They’d never mended that rift, he didn’t seem interested and Ainsley had spent enough time agonizing over it. When it had become clear that she’d been gifted with the power of the Augurs, her only real regret had been that she’d had to leave her best friend behind when she’d been forced into the academy.

Pressing the small, nondescript button in front of her, she hummed in pleasure as the motor purred to life, and with the same sense of thrill she always felt, Ainsley took off, navigating the deserted streets of what had once been a thriving metropolis at break neck speed.