As the Morningstar approached the gleaming world of Prion, the capital of a sprawling empire, it sparkled like a glistening diamond against the vast darkness of space. From the bridge, Sorath gazed down at the Ecumenopolis, a planetary jewel that seemed both alluring and daunting in its elegance. Here was the heart of the Empire of Prion, where people from the core regions and beyond came seeking fortune, ambition, and the promise of purpose—a promise as old as Prion’s seven-thousand-year reign.

  Prion was no ordinary world. It was the crown jewel of an empire spanning over a billion planets, a bastion of wealth and power unrivalled by any other union of systems. As one of the largest Ecumenopolises in existence, it housed a teeming population and an economy vast enough to sustain a hundred thousand worlds. From the Morningstar’s vantage point, the city-covered planet pulsed with a quiet authority, its sprawling networks of lights and skyscrapers testifying to an age-old dominion that no one dared challenge.

  But even amidst this splendour, Sorath could feel an undercurrent of tension. The recent death of Emperor Valarian had left a power vacuum, plunging Prion into a constitutional crisis unlike any in its history. Sorath, usually prepared for any mission, felt a faint chill as he approached the empire’s heart. He knew that his mother, Iphis, had orchestrated this meeting—her manoeuvring of allies, her whispered plans to place him on the throne. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was stepping into a game larger than himself, one where loyalty and betrayal wove together with a treacherous ease.

  From his vantage, Sorath admired the majestic beauty of Prion, but beneath his awe lingered an unease he couldn’t ignore.

  The Great Galactic Library of Knowledge, a monument to humanity’s vast curiosity and ambition, rose from the surface of Prion like a colossal beacon. It was one of the true wonders of the space age—a sprawling archive built to immortalise the history, knowledge, and culture of every civilization within the galaxy. Within its towering walls, the Lybrarius Order flourished. This proud society of scholars, scribes, philosophers, and sages had dedicated generations to the pursuit of wisdom, filling the temple’s grand halls with scrolls, relics, and manuscripts from every corner of human existence. For the people of Prion, the Library stood as both a symbol of intellectual power and a sanctuary of enlightenment.

  Prion had been a prized ally of the Order of the Ipsimus. Until recently, the Order’s influence on Prion had been unshakable—largely thanks to the friendship between Epsimus Torne and Emperor Valarian, a friendship that had kept both Prion and the Order aligned in purpose. But that unity had shattered. The emperor’s sudden assassination—an act unheard of in Prion’s long, storied history—had fractured the empire’s stability. With Valarian gone and no heirs to claim the throne, Prion plunged into a constitutional crisis that gripped its people with a tension as palpable as the silence before a storm.

  For Sorath, the implications were vast. His mother’s ambitions, Torne’s expectations, and the Order’s fractured alliance with Prion had led him here, thrusting him into a battle for succession that even he questioned.

  Iphis saw her chance to elevate her son, Sorath Velix, to the throne of Prion. For her, the emperor’s untimely death was less a tragedy than an opening—one she had long prepared for through a web of influence within Prion’s highest echelons. Yet, the government leaders who had once tolerated the Order’s presence now grew wary, seeing in Valarian’s assassination the spectre of a power-grab orchestrated by the Order itself. Trust in the clandestine organisation had splintered, with officials convinced that the emperor’s murder was a calculated move to seat one of the Order’s own upon the throne.

  But Iphis’s ambition clashed with Torne’s vision. The Epsimus had not endorsed her manoeuvring. If anything, Torne’s preference had always been clear: should Valarian leave no heir, Izzar would inherit the empire. Now, however, it was Sorath whom Iphis had positioned to meet the Supreme Minister and negotiate terms for the throne. The deception had been woven carefully; though the Minister anticipated Izzar, the pieces of the scheme were already in motion, leaving Sorath to shoulder the task of swaying Prion’s leadership.

  Sorath’s own reservations ran deep. Standing on the precipice of the meeting, he sensed the fragility of his position. This was no mere formality—it was a delicate gambit, one that would require every ounce of his skill to navigate. Yet, beneath it all, a subtle tension gnawed at him, a sense that the plan his mother had crafted so meticulously was bound to veer from its intended path.

  Sorath lingered on the bridge of the for hours, gazing down at Prion’s gleaming surface—a jewel of a world whose beauty and power masked its web of intrigue. The planet was everything the core regions aspired to, a place of vast wealth and boundless influence. As the Supreme Minister’s official shuttle drew closer, flanked by squadrons of sleek fighter ships, Sorath observed their approach with a mix of anticipation and unease. He decided to keep them waiting a while longer after they boarded, a deliberate delay to set the tone.

  When he finally made his way to the Audience room, he kept his pace measured, even if his heart felt anything but steady. Torne had designed this room to project dominance—a lavish display of pure gold, rare gemstones, and precious minerals gathered from across the galaxy. It was meant to awe, to subdue, but to Sorath, the room carried a strange irony. Built to embody the Ipsimus’s power, it was a reminder that he, too, was expected to wield influence under Torne’s shadow and his mother’s unyielding grip.

  Upon entering, he saw the Minister and his retinue gathered near the vast observation window, their gazes drawn upward in silent admiration of the room’s opulent design. They murmured and gestured toward the intricate carvings in the walls and the centrepiece—a massive table crafted from the ancient Waling Trees of Pavloton. Every line of the room spoke of conquest and dominion, a room built to send a message of uncompromising strength. Yet to Sorath, the room was a gilded cage, reminding him that he was as much a pawn in Iphis’s game as the Minister was in his own.

  Sorath approached the group with deliberate slowness, allowing the Minister and his aides a moment more to absorb the grandeur of the Audience room. But their awe faded quickly when the Supreme Minister spotted Sorath’s approach, his expression hardening.

  “I am confused.” The Supreme Minister’s words were clipped, carrying an edge of expected disappointment. “Where is Izzar?”

  He turned to his aides, dismissing them with a nod. They filed out, the grand doors closing behind them with a hollow thud.

  The Minister’s gaze pinned Sorath with a cold scepticism. “I was assured Izzar would be here. I agreed to meet with no one else but the Epsimus and his heir. Where are they?”

  Sorath had prepared for this reaction, but found his unease growing. He didn’t have answers for the Supreme Minister, nor did he fully understand Iphis’s endgame. He’d been told only what he needed to know: that he, not Izzar, was to inherit the throne, though even the thought unsettled him.

  “Your Excellency, I understand your confusion—truly, I share it.” Sorath held his tone steady, choosing his words with care. “I suggest contacting Iphis herself. Perhaps she can clarify the… adjustments to the original plan.”

  The Minister turned away from Sorath, his face a mask of simmering distrust. From within the deep pockets of his coat, he retrieved a small holographic communicator, placing it purposefully on the floor. With two sharp clicks, a glowing display illuminated the room, and Iphis’s form materialised almost instantly.

  “Your Excellency, Supreme Minister Ulri,” she greeted, her voice smooth but edged with an unsettling calm. “I was expecting a communication from you. I trust everything is proceeding as we discussed?”

  As Iphis spoke, four shadowed figures stood behind her in the hologram, their faces obscured. Ulri’s eyes narrowed; these were no ordinary council members, and he understood, with a sinking feeling, that he was stepping into something much darker than he’d anticipated.

  “I need a direct line to Epsimus Torne,” Ulri demanded, his voice hardening as he realised the full weight of what was unfolding.

  Iphis’s smile tightened, her voice laced with contempt. “Why? Surely my presence is sufficient, Ulri.”

  The Minister’s voice sharpened with anger. “Because this entire charade is about placing Izzar on the throne. He is the rightful heir. And unless you want Prion to retaliate, you’ll think twice before attempting to replace the emperor with a puppet.”

  A cold smile crossed Iphis’s lips. “Puppet, you say?” She tilted her head slightly, her tone silken. “Such strong words from one who owes his position to the Order’s goodwill. Tell me, Ulri, do you take pride in your office?”

  “Without my approval, no one will sit on that throne. And if you kill me here, you’ll face the full wrath of the Prion navy.”

  “I assure you, Minister,” Iphis replied, her voice dripping with disdain, “the Morningstar is more than capable of handling whatever feeble defence your fleet can muster.”

  From the corner of his eye, Ulri caught Sorath’s reaction—a barely perceptible widening of his eyes and a subtle shake of the head. Sorath’s disapproval was clear; he hadn’t known the full scope of Iphis’s scheme, nor did he want to be associated with it. Ulri realised in that moment that the man before him had nothing to do with the darker undercurrents of this plot.

  “I think this conversation is over,” Ulri said, his voice steady but edged with rising fury. “The throne belongs to Izzar, and no one else. Those are the wishes of Epsimus Torne himself. If you disagree, then put him on the line. Now.”

  A soft, mocking chuckle escaped Iphis’s lips, her gaze darkening with cold satisfaction. “I don’t think Epsimus Torne will be joining us anytime soon,” she replied, an unsettling amusement lacing her voice. “His time is nearly at an end, and, Minister, so is your standing with the Order if you don’t cooperate.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Your young emperor should have chosen his allies more carefully. Unfortunately, he was far too na?ve to understand the complexities of this galaxy.”

  Ulri’s eyes widened in horror. He took two unsteady steps back from Sorath, his gaze fixed on him with an expression of growing disgust. The hologram flickered, and with a final ominous glare from Iphis, it blinked out, leaving them in a chilling silence.

  Turning slowly, Ulri looked at Sorath, his expression a mixture of contempt and disbelief. “How could you follow such a monster?” His voice was low, laced with bitter disappointment. “The emperor was just a boy.”

  Sorath looked away, his jaw tight, but he didn’t respond. Deep in his heart, he knew Iphis’s plan was wrong—yet he was bound to the Order, tied to a loyalty that left him trapped.

  Sorath didn’t respond, though his silence spoke volumes. In his heart, he knew this entire plan was fundamentally wrong. The galaxy’s delicate balance hinged on the Order’s adherence to its own code, on Torne’s singular leadership—however cold and absolute it might be. If these laws, these ancient protocols, were disregarded, the galaxy itself would fall into chaos. Torne still held the authority of the Order, and as long as he did, his rule was binding—even if Sorath’s loyalty was being tested in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

  The Supreme Minister, seeming to sense Sorath’s struggle, took a step closer, his voice low and resolute. “If Epsimus Torne perishes and Izzar is denied his rightful place on the throne, inform Iphis that Prion will consider the Order an enemy. We will not bow to her whims or ambitions.” His gaze softened slightly. “You strike me as a man of sound judgment, a loyal heart. I urge you—use that loyalty to uphold the true Order.”

  But before Ulri could finish, an explosion rattled the ship, sharp enough to make the floor tremble and the lights flicker. Sorath’s gaze shot to the observation window just in time to glimpse a sleek black ship streak past, its markings unmistakable.

  “Is this your attempt to intimidate us, Supreme Minister?” Sorath’s voice was hard with anger, a rare edge that betrayed how personal this felt to him. The was his pride—his first command, entrusted to him by Torne himself a decade ago. An attack on this ship was an attack on his honour.

  “I swear, I know nothing of this,” Ulri replied, his voice strained with genuine surprise, his gaze darting to the window. The sincerity in his expression was undeniable, leaving Sorath only more unsettled.

  “That ship…” Sorath said, a grim realisation dawning as he pointed to the fading silhouette, “…it’s a Royal Guard vessel. They’re sworn to protect the emperor and his council. So why would they be attacking us? Surely you must know something.”

  Ulri’s face paled, the implications sinking in. “It’s worse than I feared,” he murmured, a flicker of dread shadowing his eyes.

  Ulri turned, visibly shaken, as his delegation rushed into the room. One of them, a slender man with urgency written across his face, hurried to the Minister’s side, leaning in to whisper quickly. Ulri’s eyes widened, his face paling as both hands began to tremble. He looked back at Sorath, his mouth opening and closing with barely a sound, words failing him under the weight of this new information.

  “For the Order’s sake, ” Sorath snapped, his frustration boiling over as another explosion rocked the floor beneath them.

  Ulri finally found his voice, though it was thin and laced with horror. “The commander of the Royal Guard… she’s broken rank. She’s ordered every ship in her command to attack They believe that whoever is aboard was responsible for the emperor’s assassination.”

  “Impossible,” Sorath muttered, his disbelief battling with the dread creeping into his chest. He swung around, gaze darting to the observation window, where the void outside was rapidly filling with the dark, ominous shapes of hundreds of incoming vessels, all closing in on them with hostile intent.

  “How could you even know this?” Sorath demanded, forcing himself to focus, though his eyes kept returning to the fleet beyond, bristling with the power to obliterate his ship in mere moments.

  The slender man, who had whispered to Ulri, stepped forward, his demeanour grave. “Our delegation has a direct communication line with the Royal Guard, maintained at all times in case of emergency.”

  Sorath absorbed this, his thoughts spiralling. This wasn’t just an unexpected assault—it was an outright declaration of mistrust, a response rooted in the conviction that someone aboard the

  had orchestrated the emperor’s murder.

  Sorath strode quickly to the window, his gaze fixed on the swarm of ships converging on the like a predatory pack. This ship was more than his command; it was a symbol of the trust Torne had placed in him, his first independent charge in a decade of service. Losing it was not an option. Resolute, he pulled the small communication device from his coat, the direct link to his captain.

  The line crackled as he raised it to his mouth. “Captain, we’re under attack. Prepare to initiate all defensive measures—”

  “” Ulri’s voice rang out from behind him, desperation lacing each word as he sprinted forward. “Please… ”

  Sorath gritted his teeth, caught between his instinct to defend and Ulri’s panicked plea. “Why not?” He motioned to the captain to hold off on the command, though his grip on the communicator remained tense.

  “If you retaliate, they’ll interpret it as an admission of guilt,” Ulri warned, his face pale and his breathing rapid. “A single shot from us could escalate this to an all-out war. Stand down and send a hail to their leader—she might come to negotiate.” He paused, his voice quieter but firm. “Please, Sorath. Trust me on this.”

  Sorath’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to the surrounding ships as another explosion reverberated through the hull. He felt the silent pressure of his crew, his captain waiting for an order, the weight of his responsibility for everyone aboard bearing down on him.

  “If she doesn’t stand down…” he murmured coldly, his voice edged with a threat aimed at Ulri, “I’ll personally see you off this ship in a body bag.”

  Sorath rushed to the bridge, striding past his bewildered captain, who looked as if he had something urgent to say. Sorath raised a hand sharply, silencing him without a word.

  “Patch me through to frequency 5-5-9-0,” he ordered. Ulri had provided him with the direct line to the Royal Guard’s commander—a narrow thread of diplomacy amid this chaos.

  A tense moment passed, and then the bridge filled with an echoing voice, sharp and venomous, as if the very air had turned to ice.

  “Murderer!” The commander’s voice slashed through the comm, raw with accusation and fury. She clearly had no intention of negotiating.

  Sorath steadied himself, his voice calm yet firm. “Stand down, Commander. Let us discuss this as rational minds. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  A crackle of static, then her voice, scathing and unforgiving. “A misunderstanding?” Her tone dripped with contempt. “You’ve murdered our emperor, and now you come to seize the remnants of his empire. This will never be forgiven—or forgotten. If you want to resolve this, meet me on the battlefield… if you have the spine to face me, coward.”

  Sorath clenched his jaw, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. Her grief and rage were blinding her, leaving no room for reason. Behind him, he heard Ulri’s laboured breaths as he finally staggered onto the bridge, his face a deep shade of purple from the hurried pace.

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  Ulri, still catching his breath, managed to gasp out, “Please… you must… stop this.”

  “Do not engage. Stand down, Commander Raven!” Ulri’s command hit Sorath like a punch to the gut, the name ringing in his ears, startlingly familiar. Raven. The name alone unlocked a flood of memories he hadn’t anticipated, pulling him momentarily away from the chaos around him. He looked out across the bridge at her ship as it circled, turning its guns on the dreadnought once more, preparing to strike.

  “Supreme Minister Ulri?!” Raven’s voice crackled over the comm, her tone laced with confusion. But the attack had stopped. This was the opening Sorath needed. Shaking himself free of his reverie, he focused.

  “Captain, what’s our status?” he barked, needing facts to ground himself in the present.

  The captain, though rattled, responded quickly, “A minor breach in sector B-twenty-two-dash-one. Engineers are already on it. Shields are holding steady, and structural integrity remains intact. It’ll take more than that to bring us down, sir.”

  Sorath steadied himself, his confidence returning as he exhaled a calming breath. He turned to Ulri, who, still catching his own breath, seemed visibly relieved to see the attack had ceased.

  From the comm came Raven’s sharp voice, cutting through the tension. “What are you doing on that murderer’s ship, Supreme Minister?” Her tone dripped with disdain, evidently caught off guard by Ulri’s presence. It was clear she hadn’t been informed of their meeting.

  Ulri, regaining his composure, replied, “I’m here on an urgent diplomatic mission. The designated heir was meant to be aboard, but… he is not.”

  A seething contempt bled into Raven’s voice. “Izzar Velix will never be emperor over Prion!” The depth of her animosity startled Sorath; he doubted she had ever even met Izzar, who had been kept isolated on Dessix.

  “Izzar is not on this ship…” Sorath interjected, carefully choosing his words. “I am Sorath Velix. We have no quarrel here, Commander. Perhaps you would consider coming aboard to discuss this diplomatically.”

  Ulri’s quiet voice interrupted from Sorath’s side. “I’m sorry, Sorath… there is nothing further to discuss.” His tone held a grim resignation that Sorath noted with unease.

  He turned back to the comm, speaking calmly yet urgently. “The Commander of the Royal Guard may disapprove of my brother’s ascension, but I ask you—would you risk a full civil war to uphold the dying wishes of an aging leader?”

  Ulri glanced back as his delegation finally caught up on the bridge, managing to regain their composure far more easily than he had. He sighed, processing Sorath’s words. Sorath was right; if the Royal Guard opposed the emperor they were tasked to protect, they would resort to any measure—even risking a civil war—to remove him from power.

  “You’re right…” Ulri said, voice heavy with reluctant understanding. Turning back to the comm, he addressed Raven. “Commander Raven, I request that you come aboard immediately.”

  A pause stretched over the channel, weighted with hesitation.

  “Right.” Her response was curt, and the line went dead.

  “Sir, H-G-5-5-9-0 is seeking permission to board,” announced an officer from across the bridge. The captain shot a quick look toward Sorath, awaiting his approval. Sorath hesitated, thinking of the delicate position they were in, then nodded.

  “Permission granted,” the captain confirmed, nodding to his officer.

  Sorath turned to Ulri and his delegation. “If I may suggest, we should return to the Audience Room. It’s best we meet her there.”

  As they began making their way through the vast corridors, Sorath’s mind raced. Raven’s response had been clipped, and her hostility was unmistakable. The meeting ahead would demand precision and control, and Sorath knew he had to present himself as more than just Iphis’s emissary if he were to secure Prion’s fragile allegiance.

  Sorath guided the delegation briskly through the labyrinthine halls of the Morningstar, his footsteps unwavering even as the corridors twisted in dizzying directions. Ulri began to falter, his breaths coming in shorter gasps, but Sorath paid him little mind, though he couldn’t resist a slight smirk. They reached the Audience Room to find Commander Raven already there, her stance rigid as she gazed out the wide observation window over Prion’s sprawling, glittering expanse below. The city’s lights glowed against the planet’s darkened horizon, a stark reminder of Prion’s enormity and legacy.

  Sorath’s eyes settled on her. Raven was just as he remembered: commanding, unyielding. In her crisp gold and white uniform, she looked every part the hardened guard, her short-cropped brown hair lending her an air of precision.

  “You’ve managed to scratch my ship,” Sorath remarked, his voice smooth but edged with irritation. His comment drew Raven’s attention, and she turned slowly to meet his gaze, catching sight of the delegation now filling the room.

  “Your ship is hard to miss,” she replied curtly.

  “Not many small fighters can breach her hull the way yours did,” Sorath continued, studying her reaction. “It’ll take us some time to repair what you’ve done.”

  “Good,” Raven shot back, her tone cold. “You and your Order have no place meddling with Prion.”

  Sorath let her words hang in the air, then gestured politely to a seat at the table crafted from ancient Waling Trees, a subtle nod to their shared Prionian heritage. “Please, Commander. Join us.”

  “No thanks,” she replied icily, ignoring the gesture. She remained standing, her gaze unflinching.

  Sorath gave a slight nod, conceding her resistance, and took his own seat. Raven, unyielding, continued, her tone formal but heavy with disdain. “His Majesty’s wishes cannot be ignored,” she began, her voice firm. “The Empire has endured for millennia, and the Royal Imperial Guard has protected every ruler with our lives since the first emperor. My family has upheld that duty for generations. I won’t allow a foreigner to insult our heritage by claiming the throne.”

  Sorath’s expression remained neutral, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable. “We are more alike than you think, Commander,” he said, his voice cool yet purposeful. “But you’re mistaken to see Izzar as an outsider. He is as much a part of Prion’s destiny as you or I.”

  Raven’s expression darkened, her voice cutting through the silence. “You may share our blood, Sorath, but you share none of what makes us Prionian. And Izzar? He is as far from Prion as the stars beyond. No foreign influence—no matter how well-dressed—will take this throne.”

  Sorath met her gaze squarely, sensing the fire in her words and recognising the depth of her loyalty. He leaned back, steeling himself for what he knew would be an unyielding battle.

  Sorath’s smile held a touch of satisfaction as he observed her reaction. “Raven Tanner, firstborn of Orion Tanner,” he began smoothly. “I know who you are. We were born in the same district—Malecora. Though my brother and I share the name Velix, we do not share the same father.”

  Raven’s composure faltered, a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she glanced toward Ulri, who seemed equally startled by the revelation.

  “Then you’ll know there’s only one way to resolve this.” Sorath’s tone was measured, but there was a challenge in his gaze. “We both attended the same training academy right here on Prion. I remember it well, though you seem to have forgotten.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “So I’ll go through the Guard’s Challenge—to prove to you that I am who I claim to be, a student of Master Duar Yalden.”

  Her expression hardened, offense flashing across her face. “Do not tarnish Master Yalden’s name with your lies.” She turned sharply, clearly intending to end the conversation.

  Sorath’s voice stopped her in her tracks, steady but carrying a hint of something deeper. “Raven, don’t you remember who I am?”

  She hesitated, a trace of confusion clouding her fierce gaze. His name was familiar, his voice unsettlingly so, but the memories remained elusive, blurred by time and distance.

  “I once went by the name Kaven Ional.” He watched as the realisation dawned, her guarded posture softening with surprise and a spark of memory. “Back then, they used to tease us about having such similar names. Do you remember what they called us?”

  For a moment, Raven’s expression wavered, a bittersweet smile breaking through her defences. “The Aven Pair.”

  “Yes,” Sorath said softly. “It may sound even more absurd now, but that bond was real.”

  Raven lowered her gaze briefly, the weight of old memories pressing down. When she looked up, there was a sadness in her eyes, tempered with defiance. “So, Kaven… What makes you think I’d change my mind about Izzar just because I know you?”

  “I’m not here on his behalf,” Sorath replied, his voice firm yet gentle. “I’m here on behalf of myself. For Prion.”

  The air between them thickened with unspoken history and lingering loyalty, both aware that the past they shared would soon be tested by the impossible choices ahead.

  Everyone’s attention fixed sharply on him, with Ulri’s surprise the most evident. The Supreme Minister had already declared Sorath would not take the throne; the matter was to be decided by Prion’s governing council, not by someone aligned with the Order.

  “We need to leave.” Ulri’s voice was tight, his gaze flicking between Sorath and Raven.

  Sorath’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I won’t force you to stay, Supreme Minister. But neither will I simply let you go—not yet.”

  Ulri’s relief was short-lived, his expression twisting with frustration. “Then I’ll leave of my own will,” he retorted, already half-turned toward the door.

  Sorath’s voice turned colder. “I’m afraid it won’t be that easy. I am bound by the laws of the Order.”

  Ulri’s eyes widened, realising Sorath wasn’t acting alone. He wasn’t merely stalling; he was under his mother’s orders. Iphis held the true power over him here, and Sorath, for all his personal integrity, couldn’t entirely break from it.

  “Even if you force me to stay on this ship,” Ulri said through gritted teeth, “you won’t secure the throne.”

  Sorath held his gaze, a trace of defiance flashing in his eyes. “And what makes you think anyone else will be permitted to hold it, Minister?”

  The silence in the room grew heavy, thick with unspoken tensions.

  Sorath let out a quiet sigh. He hadn’t come to strong-arm anyone; that wasn’t his way. Unlike his brother Izzar, Sorath lacked the drive to overpower or manipulate. He was aware of Izzar’s intensity, the ambition Torne had cultivated so ruthlessly in him. Sorath had only spoken to Izzar a few times, each encounter leaving him unsettled, sensing the cold resolve Torne had embedded in his younger brother. And though Sorath was years older, he felt like an outsider to the world of the Order’s harsh command.

  Ulri’s question cut through his thoughts, laced with accusation. “So it was your Order that ordered the hit on our emperor?”

  Sorath tensed. He hadn’t expected the question so directly and realised he’d walked into a trap of implication. He forced his voice to remain steady. “The Order is investigating that tragic event,” he replied carefully. “The emperor’s death was not ordered by anyone from our organisation—at least, not by any authority I am aware of.”

  He had barely finished speaking when the doors swung open, and six towering robots entered, weapons gleaming coldly in their hands. The figures in the room turned tense, eyes wide with shock and fear as the machines positioned themselves strategically, their silent presence a blatant threat.

  Ulri’s voice trembled as he spoke, barely concealing his fear. “If you think arresting us will force an agreement, you’re mistaken.”

  A flicker of frustration crossed Sorath’s face. This display of force wasn’t his choice. He was about to respond when a hologram flickered to life in the centre of the room. Iphis’s figure appeared, her form tall and composed, her expression unreadable but cold.

  “It has come to my attention,” she said smoothly, her gaze sharp, “that you are refusing our rightful choice for the throne.”

  Sorath’s jaw tightened, his unease growing as he stood silently, caught between his loyalty to Prion and the obligations forced on him by Iphis and the Order.

  “Respectfully, we must decline,” Ulri responded, his voice steely. “Izzar was chosen by the emperor, and the government of Prion has approved his investiture. If Izzar is not made emperor, then Prion will no longer have a monarch. We will declare ourselves a Federation.”

  Iphis’s expression shifted, her eyes narrowing as she cut in. “That would be a grave mistake, Supreme Minister. If Prion refuses to fall in line, you will find yourselves at war with the rest of the galaxy.”

  Ulri held his ground, voice unwavering. “Prion has the largest army in the galaxy; we do not bow to threats. We’ve fought without your Order before, and we are prepared to defend ourselves again.”

  “You have the largest army… that you know of,” Iphis replied, her lips curling into a faint smile that sent a chill through the room. “With us or against us, Ulri. There is no other choice.” She turned sharply to Sorath, her tone icy. “Sorath, take care of them. Our fleet is already on its way.”

  “Prion will not fall to a military coup!” Ulri shot back, his voice trembling with defiance.

  But Iphis’s image had already disappeared, leaving a profound silence in her wake. The air grew heavier, as if her presence still lingered, a dark shadow over the room. Raven’s gaze remained locked on the robots, each of them stationed as a silent enforcer, while Ulri kept his gaze fixed intently on Sorath, his expression a mixture of anger and desperation.

  Ulri finally broke the silence, his voice low, edged with trust and fear. “I know you, boy. You will not let her kill us.”

  Sorath’s shoulders sagged, the weight of his situation pressing down as he met Ulri’s stare. “If I defy her, I’ll be dead within days, Ulri.” His voice trembled with frustration, the strain of his loyalty clashing with his sense of morality. “And Prion… Prion will suffer far worse if I’m not here to keep her wrath in check.”

  He hadn’t anticipated it would escalate like this, and now the reality of his position sank in. He wasn’t merely representing the Order but acting as a shield, however thin, between Prion and Iphis’s ruthless ambitions.

  With his mother intent on seizing Prion and Torne indifferent to the plight of their most powerful ally, Sorath found himself trapped in the very situation he’d tried to avoid. None of his past missions had ever spiralled this badly; every option now felt like a betrayal—either of Prion or the Order. His glance flicked to Raven, her steely composure cracking as she backed into a corner, eyeing the two-armed robots that advanced on her. Ulri and his delegation retreated, their fear palpable. Stripped of their weapons upon boarding, the security detail was helpless, caught between Iphis’s mechanical enforcers and the impossibility of escape.

  Sorath felt his pulse quicken as he weighed his options. Under the table, his fingers found the hidden control panel, recalling the schematics Torne had shown him. With a single, practiced press, he disabled the security cameras, plunging the room into an uneasy hush as the red recording lights blinked off. Then, with a swift movement, he drew his Liminex Array weapon, its weight grounding him for the action he was about to take. Without hesitation, he fired four precise shots, each bullet finding its mark and dismantling the robots before him.

  Across the room, Raven’s gaze darted to Sorath, catching his unspoken invitation. Without missing a beat, she reacted, dismantling the two robots advancing on her with deadly efficiency. Sorath watched her move, seeing the familiar spark in her that he’d once known—calm, fierce, and every bit the warrior he remembered.

  “Seems you’ve bought us a moment,” Raven muttered, casting him a look of recognition that transcended their years apart. She didn’t need to thank him aloud; the look they shared was enough, a silent nod to the unspoken alliance that had once defined them.

  Sorath nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Just like old times, Raven. But this time, our escape won’t be as simple.”

  “Just like old times,” Raven murmured, a wry smile flickering across her face as the robots collapsed, trailing smoke into the air.

  “Not quite,” Sorath replied, a shadow of worry passing over his expression as he sighed, glancing toward the entrance. The situation weighed heavily on him, and the responsibility of his choice pressed down with each second.

  Ulri began to speak, hesitant but hopeful. “I thought you…”

  “Save it, Supreme Minister,” Sorath cut him off, his tone urgent. “Getting off this ship won’t be easy, and I can’t do more than buy you time here. From this point on, Captain Raven will lead you to the main hangar and—hopefully—to safety. Iphis will realise soon enough what I’ve done, and she’ll be demanding answers.”

  Ulri’s eyes held a flicker of bewildered gratitude as he asked, “Why are you doing this, Sorath?”

  Sorath’s jaw tightened, the faintest hint of conflict flashing in his gaze. “There’s no time for explanations,” he said. Moving swiftly, he crossed to the far wall where a grand landscape painting—a fortress perched atop the cliffs of Dessix, the very Citadel where Torne moulded Izzar into his protégé—dominated the room. With a decisive wave of his hand, the painting shimmered, fading to reveal a hidden doorway.

  Turning back to Raven and Ulri, he spoke quickly. “These passageways lead to the central hall. Follow the corridor marked ‘Alpha’ hangar, and it’ll take you to your ship. But don’t count on a clean escape. They’ll know you’re missing before long.” His gaze softened just a bit as he looked at Raven, a trace of warmth beneath his otherwise steely resolve.

  For Raven, it felt like a glimpse into the past, back to a time when things had been simpler, and Sorath had been her closest ally. She found comfort in his steady direction—a fleeting but familiar anchor in the chaos.

  “Let’s hope the old days have prepared us well enough for what’s ahead,” she said, a note of gratitude underlying her words.

  Sorath gave a curt nod, the weight of his decision pressing on him. “Go now. Before she realises the choice I’ve made.”

  Their sparring session had finally ended, leaving both Raven and Kaven gasping for breath, slumped on their knees in the middle of the training arena. A faint smile passed between them—exhausted but proud. At barely sixteen, they’d been fierce competitors and closer than they’d ever admit to anyone else.

  “Think you’re up for another round?” Raven asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement despite her tired grin.

  Kaven shook his head, looking away as he caught his breath, a shadow passing over his face. He’d wanted to tell her something important, but being here with her, laughing and fighting as they always had, made it harder. He wasn’t ready to let go of these moments.

  Raven, oblivious to the storm brewing within him, adjusted the grip around her waist, fingers brushing something hidden there—a token, perhaps, a reminder of what she’d wanted to tell him. But her heart sank as she watched him struggle with the words. She felt the shift in his demeanour, the weight of whatever he was keeping from her.

  “I meant to tell you, my love…” Kaven’s voice was low, carrying a heaviness that froze Raven in place, her shoulders stiffening as her pulse quickened.

  She barely whispered, “What is it?”

  He lifted his gaze, but the spark of their laughter had faded. “My training here—it’s complete.” He looked away, the words as heavy as the farewell they held. “I’m leaving. They’re waiting for me outside.”

  Her heart stopped for a beat, and the smile that had once held so much hope drained from her face. Raven’s hands, still resting over her waist, tightened, her fingers gripping the secret she’d meant to share. But now, it was too late.

  She wanted to tell him something that mattered, something she’d carried close to her heart since the day they met, but now the words felt hollow. He was leaving, and there would be no more training sessions, no shared laughter, no teasing smiles in the empty arena.

  The memory faded, her thoughts pulling her back into the present with a heaviness in her heart. Raven looked down at her waist, her fingers brushing the spot where she’d once hidden the token she had meant to give Kaven. He had never known what he had left behind that day, and that thought gnawed at her, leaving a hollow ache. But she had never forgotten him—never forgotten what they had meant to each other. How could she? Despite everything, the echoes of those long-lost days stayed with her.

  She raised her eyes to meet his, a sad smile touching her lips. “I hope I will see you again… for old times’ sake.” Her voice held a touch of vulnerability. The words whispered as though they might slip away with the memory if spoken too loudly.

  But before any response could come, a sudden, thunderous noise erupted from outside the main entrance of the room, rattling the walls and cutting off whatever unspoken emotions lingered between them. Sorath’s gaze snapped away from Raven, and a rush of urgency flooded the space.

  “Move!” he commanded, urgency pushing the group into action. They fled into the hidden hallway behind the portrait, Raven hesitating for only a brief second before following. Sorath’s eyes stayed on her until she disappeared through the concealed doorway, his expression shadowed with conflicting emotions. As soon as Raven and the others were safely behind the cover, Sorath waved his hand, the portrait sliding back into place just as the door to the Audience Room exploded open.

  The cacophony of shouting filled the chamber as security guards, flanked by the ship’s captain, rushed in. Sorath turned towards them, his face now composed, a mask that hid the inner storm raging beneath his calm demeanour.

  “What happened here?” the captain barked, his eyes scanning the room, suspicion sharp in his gaze. Dust and debris clouded the air, and the shattered door lay in splinters. The captain’s men looked ready for combat, their weapons drawn, but found nothing but the eerie emptiness of the room and the solitary figure of Sorath.

  “They escaped,” Sorath said, his voice firm and steady despite the chaos. “Twelve of them, heavily armed. They forced their way out before I could stop them.” His eyes bore into the captain’s with an intensity that dared him to question the truth.

  The captain frowned, his gaze flickering around the room before settling on the fallen robots. His expression was hard to read, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes, a question left unspoken.

  “Secure the exits!” the captain ordered, his voice sharp. “Lock down all hangars immediately. No one leaves this ship.”

  The guards sprang into action, but the captain lingered, his eyes narrowing as he studied Sorath. The silence between them stretched, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air.

  “You fly the ship; I decide what happens on it,” Sorath said, the authority in his voice leaving no room for defiance. His gaze was unwavering, a fire flickering behind his eyes that hinted at the man he had become.

  For a long moment, the captain seemed to hesitate, his eyes still filled with uncertainty. But finally, he saluted Sorath, turning to follow his men out of the room, his suspicions left unspoken. He paused at the door, glancing once more at the robots that lay shattered at Sorath’s feet. Something about it seemed off, but the captain said nothing, merely casting a long, questioning look at Sorath before exiting.

  As soon as they were gone, Sorath released the breath he had been holding. He knew he had only bought them time, and soon enough, Iphis would want answers. Answers he wasn’t sure he had.