Of Blood, Bones, and Truth

Hundreds of years ago, there was a great battle.

You must think this is in reference to the Starfallen Rebellion. It is not. This was a battle between the gods, the new and the old, the native and the trespassers. A battle so fierce that the gods themselves were slain.

And now only Sol and his family remain.

But the Old God was not lost. He lingers still, reduced to an impossible state, slowly gathering his strength until the day he can once again challenge Sol for dominion over what once was his. 

He waits. He watches. He pushes. But he cannot speak…for now.

SECTION 1

MAGIC ISN’T FOR EVERYONE

Although the world of Ileron seems rife with magic, it’s more uncommon than one would expect. Elves and seraphs are the most inclined to having natural, innate magic, although it isn’t impossible for other races to have this sort of wild magic. This type of magic has no restraints, no specific set of rules by which it can be used, other than intuition of the user and practice. Many scholars with magical abilities dedicate their lives to practicing and understanding their magic. Beyond this wild magic, there are some wielders who must meet specific requirements to harness their talents, like imbuing their magic into objects, channeling their magic through sigils or emblems, or using verbal spells to focus their power.

Other types of magic exist as well. Before the Conjunction, many humans were blessed with specific magical talents, often one-trick sorts of abilities. These could include reading the future, conjuring fire, levitation, minor healing, and seeing magic. This type of magic is not nearly as prolific as the wild magic of the elves, but can be just as powerful if the user knows how to hone their abilities.

Elementals can use magic depending on their heritage. Fire elementals can create fire or variations of it. This could mean lava, lightning, smoke, or steam. Water elementals might create tidal waves, conjure rain clouds, or harness the moisture in the air.

Even with the wide variety of magic present in the world, it is still a relatively rare talent, one that each bearer wields a little differently. The amount of power available to a magic user is consistent and steady throughout their lifetime; and means to increase one’s power have been researched, but nothing is conclusive.

The only exception is through demonic pacts. By summoning a demon, one can increase their innate well of power to vast depths. Of course, this is an uncouth way to gain power, and is strictly forbidden by world governments. Demons, as is well known, cannot be trusted. However, a pact will take more from the bearer than just a bit of blood.

1

SHADOW

Unknown

The man pushed his long black hair back from his eyes, focusing on the ritual chant on the sheet of paper before him. He’d practiced the words many times before, but he would be an idiot to do this without them before him.

They were simple, as far as summoning spells went, but the power required to harness them wasn’t. He sliced a thin line into his palm, letting the blood drip onto the floor inside the circle.

Guene hosth maalp, guene hosth zaalp, guene hosth senjit.

Of my blood, of my bones, of my truth. The beginning of the chant was meant to open the pact on his end, to prove he was willing to risk life and limb for this accord.

Mate hihyant meask, Alvemach, zuzagane gune ir oack guene zatoc gire mahoakk ec senjit.

I summon thee, Alvemach, to this plane to become a partner in truth. To bind the chosen demon to him.

Tunt tarth, hosth maalp, hosth zaalp, hosth senjit.

Come and be my blood, my bones, my truth. To seal the pact if the named demon accepted.

Alvemach had been his choice—the demon prince of the second layer of Hell. Who else would serve in the role he needed as well as a prince? A lesser demon wouldn’t provide the powers he needed to carry out his plan. Yes, only a prince of Hell would do.

The enneagram before him glowed a pale gray, the bounding edges of the circle dull in comparison. Minutes passed in silence, but the man did not move. He knew this was a waiting game, a test to see who would break first.

He would not yield.

Finally, smoke rolled from the center of the nine-pointed star, billowing out as if a fire had begun. But it did not pass the boundary edge; it curled up against it as if contained in a glass jar.

From the center of the circle rose a seven-foot tall monster. Its skin was black, crackled with veins of fire that snaked over its entire body. It had no legs, rather, it was suspended upon a twisting tentacle of smoke that pulsated with lava. Its head was that of a tusked boar, its eyes filled with blackness and flames.

It turned to the man, its bulging arms crossed before its bare chest. It looked at him with contempt.

The devil named Alvemach did not speak.

The man smiled, if you could even call it that. The edges of his mouth curled dangerously upwards, revealing sharply pointed canines that were most definitely not natural. He stepped up to the bounding circle, but not beyond. Their pact must be sealed first.

I’ve called you to form a pact, he began, staring unblinkingly into the demon’s unnatural, fiery eyes.

The demon snorted. Obviously. What are the terms?

The man laughed, a harsh sound that would have grated on other ears. But the demon didn’t seem to notice. This world is dirty—fire cleanses. I shall remake the world, with your help.

The demon regarded him again with narrowed eyes. What is your name, human?

The man laughed again. You may call me The Shadow.

The demon closed its eyes, obviously deep in thought. It didn't move, considering his offer in silence. The man knew not to press—even within the confines of the circle, a demon this powerful could easily find a way out if he so desired. So he waited.

Finally, the demon prince opened his eyes. He nodded once, then drove a long sharp tooth into the flesh of his hand, letting the blood well in his palm.

With that, the man entered the circle. This was the most dangerous part of the ritual, but he was not afraid. He clasped the demon’s hand with his own, their black and red blood mixing and dripping onto the floor.

The instant their wounds touched, a flash of power threatened to drive the man to his knees. But he would not yield—he would not bow to the power that should bow to him. He stood firm, his grasp upon the demon’s hand unforgiving and tight. He would make this power flowing into him his own.

Eventually it settled, coiling behind his navel like a snake waiting to strike. The feeling was incredible, indescribable. He thought he quite liked it.

They released their hands, the enneagram below them returning to a dull chalk picture on the floor as the pact sealed itself once and for all. Alvemach was here to stay—tied to the man with a blood pact that would not break easily.

Tell me more of this plan of yours, Shadow, Alvemach said.

All in due time, my friend, the man said. I first need you to do something about your appearance. It’s dreadful.

Alvemach’s nostrils flared, but he obliged. The man had taken the first of the many steps in his plan. Uniting worlds was not a task to be done quickly. It was something that one had to work at for many years. He’d overcome the first and most difficult hurdle—acquiring power.

Now he must overcome the second. The smile that was not a smile reappeared. It was time to begin.

2

KELLAN

1st of Blossom Moon

The sky stretched out before him—cloudless, endless, blue. The spring air was cold through his wings, but he didn’t care. The wind in his face was a welcome reprieve after four months of dreary winter.

Kellan loved this feeling. Like he was alone, above it all. Like whenever he let his wings free and soared through the skies, all his problems stayed firmly on the ground.

That was mostly why he was avoiding landing, despite the two winged legionnaires behind him blaring sirens and commanding him to halt.

He circled lazily above one of the Grand Gardens, debating landing in a thicket of trees and throwing them off his trail. But that would never work—they already knew who he was if they knew he was flying without a permit.

Kellan sighed and made his way down to a patch of grass within the garden, his combat boots tearing up the soil as he landed heavily. He pouted and turned to the officers landing behind him.

Private Kellan Manchester, one of the black-suited figures said from beneath their visor. It covered most of the legionnaire’s face, hiding their eyes behind mirrored black glass. You are flying without a permit. This is grounds for punishment under Spiral City jurisdictional law section seven, subsection—

Thirty-seven, I know, Kellan said, cutting the legionnaire off. I’m aware.

The legionnaire sighed. Then you knowingly broke the permit law?

Kellan shrugged. I guess?

The other Legionnaire, who’d been standing to the side watching this exchange happen, chimed in. Since you’re Legion yourself, we reserve the right to take you before your commanding officer.

This time, Kellan laughed. By all means, please do.

The first legionnaire began turning a dial over their temple, presumably looking up his ranking structure. Kellan could see the exact moment they found his direct report—their mouth went slack, shoulders tensing.

You’re—

A Fallen, yes. Nineteenth division. Indentured servitude and all that. Take me to see the commissioner, then. He held out his arms in annoyance, daring them to chain him. Not that it was worth it to do so.

The second legionnaire stammered, C-come with us then, Private Manchester. Regardless of your status within the Legion, someone must reprimand you for your flagrant disregard of permit laws.

Kellan smirked. Take me away, boys.

The legionnaires who’d tried to arrest him had insisted on escorting him all the way to the commissioner’s office. The elevator ride up had been incredibly uncomfortable. One had shifted on his feet the entire time while wringing his hands; the other had stood stock still and asked Kellan hundreds of questions about the commissioner without taking a single breath.

They now stood before the massive oak door that led into his commander’s office. Both legionnaires stood still, staring up at the top of the doors in slack-jawed wonder.

Well? Kellan said, gesturing to the door. Aren’t you going to knock?

The legionnaire to his left swallowed hard as they stared up at the doors. Are you sure we can just—

We must report this disobedience, the legionnaire on his right insisted, but made no move to knock the door themselves.

Kellan sighed. Bunch of wussies. He doesn’t bite. He lifted his hand and knocked.

The answer was almost immediate. Come in, a voice said through the door.

They pushed the doors open to reveal a massive office and a man sitting at a glass desk in the center, tapping away at a holographic display. He lifted his face to the door, expression never changing as Kellan entered, flanked by his two captors.

Commissioner, Kellan said, bowing his head.

The legionnaires flanking him mumbled the same, bowing their heads as well.

The commissioner was not an imposing man, but he had an air about him that betrayed his years as a leader. His salt-and-pepper beard masked his age, and the delicate points of his elven ears poked out from behind a well-coiffed head of fiery hair.

His gray eyes shifted between Kellan and the legionnaires, the question on his lips obvious, but he refused to speak. They’d interrupted him, after all.

Kellan spoke first. Sir, I was caught flying. Just thought you should know.

The commissioner sighed. Private Manchester, we’ve discussed this before. Until you’re provided with a flier’s permit, you cannot fly over Spiral City.

Kellan bowed his head. Yes, sir.

The commissioner cocked an eyebrow, then turned his attention to the legionnaires flanking him. I have this under control. You are dismissed.

They didn’t hesitate before turning on their heels and exiting the office without a single glance backwards. Kellan bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

Private Manchester, the commissioner said, I know you want to stretch your wings, but the rules are in place for a reason; and, as a member of this organization, I expect you to adhere to them.

I know, sir. It was only going to be for a few minutes, but I—

The commissioner held up a hand. I don’t want excuses, Private. I’m letting you off the hook this time, but don’t expect my generosity again. He sighed, rubbing his temples. I have a job for you anyway, so this was good timing. He gestured to one of the black leather armchairs before his desk.

Kellan sat. What’s the job?

The commissioner swiped a finger across the holographic display before him, bringing up a short file with a name in bold letters at the top—Levi van Alder.

He squinted at the file, reading the details below the target’s name. Van Alder was apparently a medical researcher, but there was no reason listed for his elimination.

What did he do, sir? Kellan asked.

The governor is displeased with his activities lately and has requested his immediate disposal. You’ll be carrying it out tomorrow evening.

He nodded, unable to argue. He wished, not for the first time, that he hadn’t been born a Fallen. He had no choice, no chance to refuse a request to eliminate someone the governor wanted dead. His fate was sealed at birth.

He simply nodded. Yes, sir. I won’t let you down.

2nd Of Blossom Moon

He took one look at the dark clouds rolling in over the East Gate and swore under his breath. Kellan hated getting wet in the skintight stealth suits he wore for missions—they became unbearably tight when soaked. But there was no avoiding the fat drops that fell from the sky.

He was riding his motorcycle through Lunadere, the glow from his wheels' decorative lights reflecting off the now rain-slicked pavement. He slowed; he’d be in trouble if he took a corner too fast in these conditions.

Lunadere was quiet this time of night, or at least here in the residential area. The evergreen trees gave off a pleasant scent, mixing with the smell of the wet pavement. He didn’t see many cars pass as he rode on—most people in this area were long asleep.

He took another corner at low speed, watching a street light flicker overhead as he turned. The rest of the city loomed to his west, a black outline against the night sky. A neon glow illuminated the brick and glass towers, signs for a variety of goods visible even from this far away.

The neon was probably his favorite part of the city. If he let himself stare long enough, he thought he could get lost in the glow. It made it feel alive, like the city was a sleeping, luminous beast ready to open its maw at any moment. Its roar was the sounds of horns honking and sirens blaring and music pumping loud enough to match the rhythm of his heart.

But not in this neighborhood. All was quiet here—serene. It was a small pocket of silence in the life that thrummed about him.

The rain was pouring now, soaking through his clothes and into his skin, making him shiver. Thanks to this gods-damned weather and the cold seeping into his bones, he knew he was going to have a challenging evening. Scaling the walls would be tough.

But the rain was also a blessing. It would cover any noise he might make; and if he was lucky, it would provide additional cover against security cameras or sensors. Nothing messed with magical security better than the weather.

He parked his bike on the side of the road, strapping the helmet to the saddlebags and praying it wouldn’t be too wet by the time he got back. Part of him knew it was empty hope, especially with how heavily the rain fell now.

After removing the helmet, he replaced it with a visor. It covered both his eyes and ears, and enhanced his senses. He patted his belt, checking for the canisters of poison and his thigh holsters with his daggers.

He was as ready as he’d ever be.

Kellan slipped through the alleyways in the southern portion of Upper Cloud, the skyscrapers making him feel small. He shook the rain from his hair as he rounded the corner before his destination.

Levi van Alder’s sprawling estate was, frankly, idiotic. The towering walls that surrounded the property weren’t necessarily a challenge on their own, but the security cameras and alarm spells that blazed in his visor might be.

But Kellan hadn’t come unprepared. The Legion had jammers, pieces of technology that could block alarm spell signals like the ones blazing around the manor. They could also temporarily disable cameras. He had a time limit, though, which meant as soon as he pressed the jammer’s button, he’d need to be swift.

He took a deep breath, trying to settle into the calm he needed to do this. His last jobs had been simpler than this—much, much simpler.

A large drop of rain splattered obnoxiously on his nose. The sooner he finished this poor sucker off, the faster he could get back to headquarters and out of the rain. Not that he was in any rush to get back to the Guard, but he really, really hated the rain.

Kellan’s finger hovered over the jammer on his hip. He took a breath in, let it out, then pressed the button swiftly.

The alarm spells glittering in his visor flickered and died. A mechanical beep confirmed the cameras were offline as well.

He retrieved a grappling hook from his belt, pressing the button to extend the clawed head up and over the wall. He clipped the cable to his belt, then let the pneumatic motor do the work to help him up the wall. The rain made the walls slick beneath his hands as he found the first handholds and pulled himself up.

He pursed his lips as he gripped the wall. This would be easier if he could fly, but he couldn’t risk it after yesterday’s escapade. Kellan rather liked the commissioner; getting on his bad side wouldn’t do him any favors. So he sighed and pulled himself up to the next handhold.

The climb was challenging, but not impossible. His gloved fingers found purchase in small gaps between the bricks where the mortar had eroded away. Small chunks of loose brick ground under the steel toes of his boots only to be quickly washed away by the rain, falling beneath him in a gritty shower.

He reached the top of the wall, removing the hook’s head from where it had landed in the gravel at the top.

The roof of the manor was one long leap away. Enough for a normal person to hesitate, but not for someone like Kellan. He backed up to the edge of the wall, another deep breath in steadying his footing as he prepared for the jump.

With cat-like grace, he swung himself across the gap and onto the southeastern portion of the manor’s roof, the rubber soles of his stealth suit gripping the tiles even at the precarious angle. The muscles in Kellan's abdomen flexed as he adjusted for the steep grade.

The timer in the corner of his visor had begun counting down when he’d jammed the camera’s signals. The time now read nine minutes and eight seconds. He was behind schedule.

The window he’d chosen as his point of entry led to a bathroom. It was small enough that most people wouldn’t think about it as a security risk, especially not high-class people like Van Alder. Their trust in their security spells was too deep. They forgot easily that magic was fallible. But Kellan couldn’t complain—their carelessness made his job easier.

He nudged the window, testing if it was locked. It shook but stayed locked against his test. He retrieved a set of lock picks from his belt, adjusting himself along the edge of the roof to get a better angle at the mechanized lock on the window. He’d picked locks upside down like this in practice, but this was the first time doing it on an actual assignment.

He breathed slowly through his nose to keep his fingers from shaking. He was freezing, but that wasn’t the only cause.

The lock popped open with a soft click after a few good jiggles of his pick, and the window tilted in from the top. His feet went in first, then his torso, and finally his head was through the gap. His feet made no sound as he landed on the tile in the bathroom, his ears focused on any sounds he could pick up in the house.

Kellan turned the knob over his temple to switch his visor to infrared. So far, so good. A figure was sleeping in a bedroom two doors away—Van Alder. Just where he’d expected him to be.

Another figure was moving through the second floor. His stomach dropped. Van Alder had guards, but they were stationed on the grounds, not inside the house. Who in the world was walking around down there? A mistress? A maid? Had he changed his security protocols in the last few days?

He stayed in the bathroom, unwilling to move until he observed the patterns of the person moving about on the floor below. They hadn’t moved much, standing in one spot and looking like they were rummaging through a desk or cabinet.

A nasty thought occurred to him—had the governor sent someone else because he didn’t trust a Fallen to do the job? He’d never heard of such a thing happening, but he didn’t know enough about the governor to guess.

If he didn’t succeed today... Well, he didn’t want to think about what might happen to him.

He continued observing the person on the second floor, but the timer was steadily clicking down. He had no choice. With less than seven minutes left, he needed to move, now.

He opened the bathroom door silently, then snuck across the hall to where Van Alder lay sleeping. In and out, leave no trace. That was what the poison was for.

Reaching back into his tool belt to grasp a canister, he shut the door behind him with a soft click. Kellan pulled the metal mask sitting around his neck up and over his mouth and nose, wincing as the sharp sides of the mask cut into his cheeks. Better a bit of a cut than death, he thought.

Through his visor, he watched the slow rise and fall of Van Alder’s chest. The canister of poisonous gas was heavy in his hand, but he tightened his grip upon it as he approached the sleeping figure. This was how he’d killed the others—this was no different.

He pressed the button on the canister, placing it gently on the floor and rolling it to a stop beside Van Alder’s bed.

Downstairs, the mysterious figure moved. He couldn’t risk them discovering what he was doing. His heart raced as they moved from the second floor up to the third, slowly approaching the bedroom.

He readied his dagger, gripping the handle tightly as he waited. It would be a problem if he had to confront the trespasser in the bedroom, but if they didn’t have a mask, the gas might take them out before he’d need to worry.

Kellan risked a glance, shuffling quietly to the doorway and peering out just as the figure rounded the top of the staircase.

He could see the mysterious trespasser’s features clearly in his visor—delicately pointed ears, silvery blond hair, a wide nose, and a mouth that was tilted down in a frown. He was tall, moving down the hallway with a casual grace that Kellan knew was born of years of combat training. If the daggers at his hips and the sword sheathed across his back were any sign of his intentions, he was bad news.

He wasn’t Legion. Kellan checked his chest for any sign of a divisional pin, but he couldn’t see one.

The man wasn’t wearing a Legion-issue battle suit, either. Although the elven man’s suit was similar, with hard, black plates over his chest, thighs, and arms, the style and color were entirely different from Kellan’s own all-black ensemble. The man had stripes of silver along his biceps, and the sheaths that held his daggers were a deep gray.

The man stopped, checking his watch and frowning. He hadn’t spotted Kellan yet, but it was only a matter of time before that would change.

He had mere moments to decide his next course of action. Fight here, or lure him somewhere else. Fighting inside the house would be troublesome, especially since Kellan needed to confirm Van Alder’s death before calling it in. But allowing this man to see what was happening in the bedroom was out of the question.

The sleeping Van Alder was now surrounded by a haze of poisonous belladonna gas, slowly suffocating him.

The other man was nearing the bedroom door on soft feet. Kellan shifted, his back to the wall just inside the bedroom. The mask was working to filter out the gas spreading through the room, and he hoped the man creeping down the hallway couldn’t hear his mask quietly filtering his breaths.

And when the elven man finally reached the bedroom, he stopped. Kellan’s heart pounded in his ears. Why was he stopping?

The man sniffed once just outside the door, then turned on a heel and retreated down the stairs.

3

CASSIAN

1st of Blossom Moon

Cassian’s mouth tilted down into a frown as he crossed his arms. Sir, if it’s being handled, why am I getting sent to babysit?

Ragnor waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. The council paid me, and I pay you. You follow my orders.

Cassian Evermore hated Ragnor LeRoche more than anyone. He was rude, brutish, and arrogant—and to make matters worse, he owned Cassian. Thanks to his father’s endless debt and poorly timed death, his young son had been forced to take up the mantle of hired hand. Cassian had started training under Ragnor over seventy years ago and had spent nearly thirty handling his dirty work. It wasn’t a job Cassian enjoyed, but it kept Ragnor’s collectors away from his mother, and that was enough for him.

Ragnor had been personally invested in him since he was young, overseeing much of Cassian’s training directly. Although Ragnor rarely dealt with the multitudes of assassins in his employ, he never allowed anyone else to give jobs to Cassian. Ragnor had kept him close his entire tenure, and it was suffocating.

Then clarify what I’m supposed to be doing once more. I’m not killing anyone this time. Why?

Ragnor sighed, rubbing his temples. You’re toeing the line of my patience, Cassian. You are to retrieve the files and ensure Van Alder’s assassination is completed. For once, this isn’t an elimination for you to handle. Is that clear enough?

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut to calm himself before he replied. Yes, sir.

Ragnor turned his chair away to face the expansive windows looking down onto the city of Ebenfell. It’s not the first time the council has requested one of my employees to back up the Legion or the Red Guard, you know. Ragnor stood, clasping his hands behind his back, observing the view from the window as if he owned it. And in some way, Cassian supposed he kind of did.

He was the type of man who had his fingers in everything—money laundering, prostitution, and more legitimate business ventures like personal security and investments. His connections to the Red Council were unsurprising; he was the most influential man in Ebenfell, even if he was a criminal. They couldn’t touch him, so instead, the council decided to work with him.

They allowed him free reign of his less-than-legitimate ventures as long as he wasn’t causing too much trouble. Ragnor had long since learned what the Red Council would allow and what they wouldn’t. As long as it benefited their goals, they didn’t care what Ragnor did. Or, by proxy, any of his employees.

Ragnor stayed silent for several moments. Cassian didn’t move; he’d found out the hard way what leaving before Ragnor dismissed you was like. It was not pleasant and usually involved more than one broken bone.

He was a violent man when he needed to be, and the multitude of times he’d broken Cassian’s arms and wrists for insolence, real or perceived, had proven that not asking questions and waiting for Ragnor to speak was better than the alternative.

The legionnaire assigned to the task is one of the indentured, Ragnor finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Cassian’s eyebrows rose. Is that why I’m being sent?

That’s part of it, he said, but continued on before Cassian could ask another question. You’re leaving tonight. Arrangements have been made for you in the city. You’re dismissed. He waved his hand, the light streaming in from the windows reflecting off the large gems embedded in the many rings on his fingers.

It had always been this way—Ragnor sending him away on a job, explaining hardly more than the bare minimum. Last week, it had been a business partner who’d failed to pay back money he owed Ragnor. The month before, a petty crime boss who’d encroached on Ragnor’s territory in the east district. He had years of blood on his hands, blood he could never wash off, no matter how hard he scrubbed.

Cassian bowed his head to Ragnor’s back and exited the opulent office into the hallway. He’d been sent to Spiral City before, but this would be his first time directly dealing with the Legion.

He had no idea what to expect, and that was enough to make him nervous.

That evening, Cassian tried his best to look stern as he handed his luggage to the girl behind the counter. This is fragile, please be gentle with it.

She nodded, grasping the top handle with both hands. Don’t worry, sir, we always treat passengers’ luggage with the utmost attention to detail. Your items will be safe with us.

He nodded once to her, grasping the small techpad in his hand that held his boarding pass. Techpads weren’t a new invention, but it seemed they got sleeker and stronger with each passing year. Originally, they’d been bulky, black plastic things that allowed one to communicate over long distances. In more recent years, they’d finally figured out holographic technology, and now most resembled small pieces of glass with rubber grips.

Cassian had two—one of the handheld versions, which fit in the palm of an average humanoid’s hand, and a larger version that he could use for more complex tasks like research and writing.

Ragnor had given him barely enough time to pack before he’d needed to catch the bullet train from Ebenfell to Spiral City. The ride was a relatively short one—about six hours. Cassian looked forward to sleeping in his own cabin.

Twenty minutes later, he settled into the first-class train car and stowed his backpack on the luggage shelf above his seat. He sighed, flicking the lock closed on the compartment door and pulling the privacy curtain over the glass. He opened the file Ragnor had sent him on his large techpad as he sat down.

The train shuddered to life beneath him, the file showing him a holograph of a young seraph boy smiling up at him. Blond hair sprouted from his head, shorn closely on the sides but left slightly longer up top. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, their rich, chocolate brown color still visible.

The file