Chapter 1 Guard Duty Fawkes yawned and stretched, unfurling his raven wings. The hot desert sun beat down on the small, ragtag group, but they were used to it by now. They were sheltered in a large cave where ripples of red, yellow, and brown made the desert landscape somewhat vibrant. It was early morning, and Fawkes had a shift for guard duty. A few others were awake, so he sneaked around the sleeping figures. “Have fun with your shift,” a weary sigh came from a gold-orange, fox-like creature named Citrine, Fawkes’s close friend. Fawkes opened his mouth to thank her, but Citrine had already drifted back to sleep. He flicked his tail and padded out of the cave. Fawkes was much smaller than most of the other creatures in the Chaos Monarchy; he was a catraven—a cat with the wings of a raven. Raising his large wings, he lifted himself into the air, hovering for a moment to scan the Chaos camp for anything unusual. As far as he could tell, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The leader of the Chaos group, Anarchy, lounged on a nearby pillar. Anarchy had always confused Fawkes. No one, aside from her second-in-command, Crescent Moon, knew where she was from or what her intentions were. The Chaos group consisted of powerless creatures and outcasts, so they were widely mistrusted. However, the other clans rarely made any moves to attack due to the scorching desert heat. Fawkes landed on the edge of a plateau, his blue eyes scanning the outer edges of the territory. The only things moving were small shrubs swaying in the wind. “Hey, Fawkes! Come look at this!” someone called from another structure. Fawkes couldn’t see who it was; they were merely a silhouette. He tilted his head in a silent question: “Me?” The figure nodded quickly, and Fawkes turned to fly toward them but then hesitated. Should he leave his post? After a moment's thought, he leaped off the stone, trusting his wings to slow his descent. As he steadied his flight, he was able to make out the figure. It was Trout, one of the group's newest members, with silver-blue feathers that seemed to glow. Fawkes landed, scattering a few loose rocks. “What?” he asked. “Do you see that?” Trout muttered, pointing with a claw at a small tree. “I don’t see anything,” Fawkes squinted at the ground. “Unless—never mind. I think it’s just a tree…?” “It’s in the tree, I’m pretty sure,” Trout said, her eyes trained on the scraggly tree. “You sure?” “Pretty sure. But you should go check it out. I’ve got to stay at my post, or Anarchy’s goin’ to kick me out.” Fawkes sighed. Although he wouldn’t put it past Anarchy, he figured Trout just didn’t want to work. It wasn’t that she was lazy; she was a former Ice-Water element, and the arid heat was not suited for her. He felt a bit sorry for her. Trout was a hybrid, distrusted by both Ice and Water. Her parents had been killed on the spot when they were discovered, but she had escaped to Chaos. Another movement from the tree caught Fawkes’s eye. The leaves shook, and then—was that something running across the desert sand? Fawkes and Trout quickly realized it was not leaves that had stirred, as the tree was bare. “Okay, you should definitely check that out,” Trout whispered. “Yeah,” Fawkes mumbled, spreading his wings and diving toward the green object. The creature didn’t notice him until his shadow fell over them. “Hey there?” he asked, hovering before the creature. She was olive green with sharp claws and a raptor-like build. She mumbled something incoherent. “Do you need to speak with Anarchy?” Fawkes asked. She mumbled something else, then snapped to attention as if waking from a trance, “No… she’ll kill me. Wait—yes. Are you from Chaos?” “Yes.” “Good, good. We need—” “We?” “Yes, me and Mangrove. My son. I am Cypress.” Cypress moved aside to reveal a smaller, lighter version of herself. He squeaked, making small repetitive noises that caused Fawkes’s ears to hurt. “...Okay. Why do you need to see Anarchy?” Fawkes questioned. “I was… accused of loving someone from a different group,” Cypress hesitated. “Well, did you?” “N-n-no! No!” She stuttered quickly, “Chaos is for the outcasts, yes?” “That is correct,” Fawkes responded, knowing where this conversation was heading. “Could you take me to the camp? I have nowhere else to go,” Cypress pleaded, closing her beak and looking up at something behind Fawkes. “Of course. It’s really not that far. It’s—” “What is going on?” a growling voice came from behind Fawkes. He turned to see the source of the voice: standing there with golden and green scales glinting in the sun was Anarchy—ruler of Chaos.
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