The soil in the Lord's Quarters was loose and never became one solid plane. It meant when the winds blew, they took with them volumes of sand that formed a brownish opaque hue under the yellow sunlight. From above in the Citadel, it was beautiful, almost peaceful to watch. Araan doubted that the nobles who lived there felt the same about the phenomenon.

  He watched it for a while longer from the giant window in his chambers but returned to his oririk soon enough. His eldfather loved to watch the winds — he could do it for a whole cycle if life allowed — but Araan was yet to share that sentiment. The oririk, the largest structure in the room, stood beside the window. The entrance to the chamber was on the opposite end.

  Araan wondered why he had called it that in his mind just now. Oririk. As a youngling, he always argued it was a glorified name given to something so simple: a large, cube-shaped crystal chamber filled with hurson, the life gas they all breathed, cooled to the extent mere inhalation was restful and almost pleasurable.

  The older nobles would laugh and tell him it was named that and, as such, should be left the way it was. He remembered how his eldfather had a more serious response whenever he didn't shut him up about fussing over something so inconsequential. He'd say that the name represented the culture of the time of its invention and that culture was meant to be honored and not replaced; occasionally revised but never replaced.

  It had not been enough to convince a youngling that was barely forty-six cycles old. He still called it the Rejuvenator machine when the Lord Commander couldn't have heard, until he fled twenty-one cycles later. Only now, he was here because of culture, here to honour it. Perhaps his mind didn't find the oddities as odd.

  Oririk was fine.

  Araan stepped into the oririk. He closed the chamber and the machine whirred.

  Suddenly, there was a flow of gas in large volumes into the chambers from the openings in the floor to its roof. There was a steady increase in the force of the flow till it lifted Araan off his feet. When he rose to half the height of the chamber, it steadied.

  Araan closed his eyes, feeling the lines of his scars as he tried to enjoy the peace offered by the rhythmic push of the gas flow on his back. He opened his eyes a moment later with a groan. This wasn't working.

  There was too much going on to relax. His mind wandered back to the Fourth Sector, how oririks didn't exist in the Trigad, and the closest a soldier could get to such luxury was in the medical bay whilst unconscious. Then, he thought about Tomorann, about Gormah and his old unit. It already seemed so distant and so minute in comparison to what was in front of him. It had been sixty micro-seikans since his arrival at Kolvak; a period filled with important events.

  His eldfather's burial was set for the next seikan, twenty micro-seikans from now. There was also the nomination of the new Council, the arguments that followed upon their selection and then, forty-seven micro-seikans after Araan's arrival, Tisiryk came to Kolvak.

  His arrival put a pause on the motions of events. It wasn't a certainty that he would approve the decisions of the interim council once he became Lord Commander, and his silence wasn't helping matters.

  Tisiryk's mother, Miranna, wasn't so silent. Changes were being made to the district she stayed in, in the Lord's Quarters; the functions of purpose buildings, the patrols of guards and such. They weren't particularly drastic but were enough to remind everyone that they were here now.

  The changes they made didn't bother Araan in any. In approximately two seikans, he would be in Ordanq to assume his position as Trigad High Commander alongside Dirakh. That was his life, that was what concerned him. What he couldn't ignore, however, were the elders, the noble families and their stance on the matter. More importantly, what they would do in the meeting about to be held.

  Just moments ago, before his rest, House Milades and House Voraja sent their representatives to inquire when the renovation of the Oath Tower would begin and who would oversee it; either House unashamedly declaring how honored they would be to take on such noble duty. The Tower was to the Alpha-Redinan what the Citadel was to the Lord Commander, and while their inquiry was a gentle nudging as far as these charades usually went, it meant there was more to come.

  Sides.

  He could see everyone choosing, even amongst the guards that patrolled the halls. How they moved and talked; they didn't have the same grace as the nobles in hiding their motives. One could almost smell the tension.

  In his eyes, being Lord Commander mattered more than being Alpha-Redinan. A Lord Commander governed a whole sector, managed its resources, its people, and their survival.

  Being Alpha-Redinan mattered more culturally than anything else really; no one's life was depended on it. Other sectors didn't have Alpha-Redinans; it existed because of a prediction, a forecast of the massacre of all cyperan life. After six Lord Commanders doubling as Lord Redinans and one thousand and one cycles, the fear of the prediction died down, the role began to matter less.

  And there was the cost... The cost of being one, what it took from you; it wasn't worth it. Vorx Vinid knew that and refused it for himself and his son, Tisiryk. Araan wasn't so lucky; his father was dead by then.

  Still, the office of the Lord Redinan couldn't be ignored, not with the sway it held over the people. Whoever bore that title earned reverence immediately. It was the highest form of sacrifice as far as any indigenous citizen of the Thirteenth Sector was concerned. That was the reason for the factions forming against Araan: to keep Tisiryk on the throne and make him matter to the people as much as their eldfather and the four other Lords before him had.

  Araan adjusted as he floated. All of this was bad timing. It seemed to be more important who controlled what than finding who killed the Lord Commander. Could the enemies return? What if it happened again; were they ready? He seemed to be the only one searching for answers to these questions. Though it wasn't so much of a search on his part. In some ways, he didn't want it to begin until after he left. The houses would make demands and he didn't want to be involved in any of it.

  Still, the events of the next two seikans depended on the meeting that was moments from being held.

  There was a loud knock on the door, interrupting his thoughts. Araan sighed when it persisted. The oririk hadn't been very restful but it felt good being alone with his thoughts.

  He reached for the inwall of the chamber and tapped twice on the crystal. The gas began to recede.

  “Enter,” he said, landing on his feet.

  Pors entered, in armour and looking very duty-like. He saw Araan's Redinan markings and straightened even more. “The meeting begins shortly, Commander. And Burvan is here to see you. I can turn her away if you want, Commander.”

  “No, Pors. Let her in.”

  Better to get this over with.

  Pors nodded and left the room. What followed was a group of three, each carrying large stone cases. They all wore the utilitarian uniform of black full body Life Armour: a sleeveless torso piece and thin plated trousers. The workers attire at the Citadel.

  Behind them was Burvan. For as long as Araan had known her, she had been old but now time had clearly taken its toll on her; her tough face was wizened, her askoras short and shriveled, shoulders slightly hunched. She wore a dark purple Life Armour with a coat modification and plated armour fixed on the body fitted sleeves.

  Like Pors, he'd known her in the past, but unlike Pors, she wasn't so courteous when they were alone. She'd been like his mother as a youngling and she never forgot that capacity.

  Araan had gotten out of the oririk by then. Her expression flickered when she saw his bare chest and the minimal clothing his trousers were made of.

  “When you said you needed to rest, I did not realize it would be this lax.”

  Araan gave a tiny shrug. Ironic how he was the only one concerned about the city's security, yet he was the least ready for a battle.

  “What do you have for me?” he asked her. The workers dropped the cases and left.

  “Your attire for the meeting,” Burvan gestured to the cases.

  “How long till the meeting begins?”

  “It has begun,” she said, “the nobles have arrived at the compound.”

  Araan gave her a look. “So why come now?”

  “The lateness is deliberate,” Burvan replied, sounding incredulous. “Has the military, perhaps, dulled the Commander's sense for the game?”

  He grimaced and walked towards the cases. The old lady continued. “Since you resigned here, there have been countless representatives with messages for you and the heir-designate, most unimportant but some crucial. House Im'bah has arrived. They came themselves, you will have to meet them.”

  Araan grunted in response and opened the largest case. Inside was a red Life Armour with golden highlights at the shoulders that continued, in three spiral lines, down the elbow-length armoured sleeves. It was traditional in style with little material and more metal armour. It meant that the back panel of the armour was flatter than usual and perforated in the upper section for allowance of back askora. The trousers, still inside the case, were made in a similar style. He remembered this design. His eldfather wore it often.

  Whenever he functioned as the Alpha-Redinan.

  This was the opposite of what he wanted; it looked like he was going to remain in Kolvak, functioning in the office when he wasn't planning to. He couldn't exactly refuse it, however. Plots and games aside, there were the people. Seventy-three cities, eight million cyperans; all revered his title. One way or another, rumors of what happened in the meeting would get to the people. They needed reassurance that both offices were respected, now that they were separate. Just because he wasn't staying didn't mean he wanted the sector torn apart.

  He would wear it.

  Burvan opened the other cases while Araan donned the armour. One contained red metal forearm vambraces decorated with three bold streaks of white crystals running from a single origin down the length of the gear. Unlike the armour, he had to wear this, just like the House ring every noble wore or the helmet-crown Tisiryk would have to wear to this meeting.

  The other case didn't contain armour or any kind of clothing for that matter. It was a piece of haphazardly rectangular rock flooring with an unnatural footprint forcefully engraved into the surface by heat.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  As though the feet melted through it.

  Araan gave Burvan a look, expecting an explanation.

  “It was found in the old council hall in the sealed-off area of the Citadel,” Burvan said. She meant the eastwing storey with the charred hole he had seen from outside when he arrived. Where his eldfather had been murdered.

  “These are the killer's footprints?” Araan asked. This wasn't a cyperan's footprint, it was too small and the toes lacked claws. Besides it wasn't like cyperan could make their feet glow hot and melt things. Even amongst the Trigad, there wasn't any known creature that could make these prints; suffice to say, he hadn't seen them before.

  He thought back to the massacre in the Fourth Sector and the print his unit mentioned but soon dismissed the thought. This wasn't Tomorann repeating itself because even if there was a creature like this, the patterns were different; there were no indications that it came through anywhere in the dome. The prints would have been everywhere in the city. And if it was a weapon, people were still alive in Kolvak; someone would have seen it and reported the sighting by now.

  It didn't make sense why it was there in the meeting hall. He had been told plasma wounds marked the bodies they found there, including the Lord Commander's. Unless that was a lie. With what had happened with the summoning seal, he didn't think it was impossible.

  “They don't know whose it is—and neither do we—but it's definitely from someone who wasn't meant to be in the hall. The floor pieces having these prints are quite few, and they are being quietly removed as we speak. I have someone working for me among the renovators. He managed to get me just the one.”

  “And I assume no one knows where they're being taken?” Araan asked.

  Burvan shook her head, her askora shifting limply from side to side. “It's being done quietly and the interim council monitors the process. They're being careful; they're only watching the relocation of the floorings. Everything else is the typical renovation procedure.”

  Araan nodded, considering. “The council's direct involvement means Tisiryk's involvement or that of someone who is trying to win his favour with exclusive information. In both cases, the secrecy means I'm not supposed to know.”

  It also meant he was wrong about no one being interested in the Lord Commander's death. Surprisingly, knowing that didn't make him feel any better about the state of things in Kolvak. If anything, it irked him.

  They would rather keep this a secret from everyone than try to get as much help as possible to understand what it was. The need for secrecy among rulers was something he had come to hate after his time with the Trigad.

  Maybe he was looking at this all wrong; perhaps the council intended to announce it at the meeting. It was difficult to believe that, given the same council or at least one of them made his arrival at Kolvak seem like a coincidence, and the Vinid seal that summoned him was suddenly non-existent. Either way, whether they intended to reveal it or not, none of them acted trustworthy enough to leave the matter in their hands.

  A plan formed in his mind. If they wanted to be secretive about something so crucial, then he would take care of things himself.

  “I'll handle it.”

  Burvan perked up at that, as much as she tried to hide it. She was the only one who knew he was going to leave again, and despite understanding why, she wanted him to stay—to take action like his eldfather would. Now she was going to get what she wanted.

  “That means you stay out of it,” Araan stated. “You need to be careful; you need to be safe.”

  “Nonsense. No one would harm me,” she argued.

  “Maybe if things were right and normal, but they aren't. Take the case to the Oath Tower and keep it under lock and key in the safest room you can find. No one other than myself should be told about this.”

  She nodded and bent to pick up one of the vambraces and wear it on his forearm. He knew she wouldn't listen, but his order should be enough to make her act more covertly.

  Araan finished wearing his vambraces and Burvan turned to the door. “I'll wait outside, Lord Redinan.”

  Alone, he finished wearing the regalia. He looked around the chamber and then at the window where the wind still blew. He had a feeling this was the most peaceful he would feel in a while.

  He walked out of the chamber the next moment and stepped into a rock-hewn hallway with rough walls and a glistening flooring that reflected the white, incandescent lighting above. There were seven guards outside his door including Pors. At first the guards had lined either side of his door in equal number, while Pors stood at the entrance, but as he exited the room, Pors led the guards forward, forming a protective cordon around Burvan and he as they walked down the large hallway.

  The hallway was on the eighteenth floor in the Citadel in the east wing; the meeting was to be held in the west wing, seven floors down. He passed more guards, workers and a few nobles during their short walk from his chambers to the elevator north of the lobby.

  Everyone showed the proper respect, speaking his title in the old language. Burvan seemed to trust every one on this floor, believed they were on their side. With how easy it was to get an insider in Tisiryk's, Araan didn't trust them. He smiled broadly at every bow.

  The elevator ride was quick. Silent too. There was nothing to be said really, the meeting was here. That was all that mattered.

  Faces turned as he stepped into the eleventh floor, and murmurs followed. Araan was head and shoulders taller than the guards around Burvan and him, and most of the nobles. And then there was his armour; it drew the most attention.

  Various styles and colors of Life Armour filled the room. Araan noticed House Im'bah immediately from the crowd; the leader of the House and her retinues were wearing variations of body-fitting grey and red Life Armours that had smaller engines fixed on their backs. It was a marvel how they functioned since the very engine that powered Life Armours, and its supporting parts, were usually metalwork.

  The eleventh floor was all metal. It was wide with a single giant window opposite Araan's elevator and four doors, all guarded. Two of those four doors were elevators, with more nobles entering the busy room through the second one. The other doors were tall and thick, one leading to the rest of the east wing, and the last door—the one everyone was taking glances at—lead to the meeting hall.

  “I need to leave now,” Burvan said. She wouldn't be part of the meeting, many of the retinues wouldn't be.

  Araan looked at her and nodded. “Take the guards with you. Be sa—”

  “If you say it twice, it is no longer a Lord's order,” she interrupted. “Remember that in there.”

  He smiled. “I will.”

  As she left, he moved into the crowd. He exchanged pleasantries with those that approached and held a conversation with a few. He saw Varau, wearing a red, coat-modified Life Armour several tones too bright for his skin. He pointedly avoided looking at Araan and he obliged the younger noble.

  He spotted Dirakh next near the edge of the window where the nobles were sparse and headed for him; his brown skin standing out amongst the green. Dirakh had been busy with his drive through the Lord's Quarters in his Sand Drifter. He was surprised he didn't come here in his Mantle armour as he was wearing blue, jacket-modded Life Armour instead. Dirakh was staying in Nioa despite Araan's offer to stay in the Citadel. It wasn't totally out of spite for the matters of governance, it was just Dirakh.

  He'd found his place amongst guards who respected the Trigad military, practicing fighting with some, and even teaching a few others. He was here because Araan wanted to discuss Ordanq and a possible early departure after the meeting. He didn't know he would come here before. Convenient.

  Time to set the plans in motion.

  He spoke when Araan reached him. “Aren't oririks designed to make people relax and look relaxed?” he asked jokingly.

  “I would enjoy the taunt if I didn't have something important going on. Change of plans.”

  “You could have let me finish, you know. I had more.” Jest over, Dirakh eyed him. “What is it?”

  In quick words, Araan recounted what Burvan told him and filled him in on his plan. He was careful, speaking in low tones that the nobles couldn't hear. Dirakh was frowning when he finished.

  “You need someone who can blend in with the workers. In a city of green cyperans, that's not me.”

  “Above that, I need someone I can trust. Come on, Dirakh, you've hidden out of sight from creatures with better senses than our species.”

  That seemed to win the argument on that front, but Dirakh wasn't done just yet. “What about your army? The uh, Lord's Army?”

  “Redinan Army.”

  “It's exhausting how they keep naming everything after that one word — but yes, them. They're sworn to obey you.”

  “I just told you Burvan had an insider amongst the interim council's faction, and you are talking about people I have never even met. Who's easier to betray?”

  Dirakh folded his arms. “Are you still going to Ordanq? Because if you are, then I don't get the need for all of this.”

  Araan's eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “You were the last person I thought I'd have to explain this to. Do you think I want any of this? Dressed up and paraded around the Citadel to fit someone's plan? At least you like Nioa, I'd sooner be done with all of this.”

  “Then why?” Dirakh asked. He set his jaw as if uncertain about how to say his next words. “It can't be because of Dund.”

  “It is,” he replied flatly. He was surprised he was the one arguing this. “He may have failed me when it mattered most but he also gave me decades of cycles of a good life, and that's what I'm honoring. I am not staying, but I will not leave things as they are; the elders keep treating this like some sort of game. I didn't come here for my title, I came here for him; to find his murderer. I am not asking you to stay any longer than you have to, but I'm asking for your help. Will you do this or not?”

  Dirakh glared. “I just want you to know that two seikans isn't enough time to solve the murder of a sector's lord.”

  Finally.

  “I know that,” Araan agreed.

  “So, what will you do with what I find?”

  “The meeting will decide.” There was still a chance it was what the council had been waiting for to announce what they knew.

  Suddenly the pillars at the entrance of the meeting hall hummed loudly. A voice rang out shortly after. “The elders are seated. The dignitaries may step in.”

  “It's started,” Araan said. The doors pulled open. The was a faint smell of heat-burnished metal coming from inside the hall. There were some nobles seated inside already.

  The announcement of the representatives began. They walked in as they were called. “Baroness Vuikil Corpet, Head of House Corpet, Ruler of Corpet city. Commander Kini Asde, Representative of House Asde. Baron Ioran Waske, Head of House Waske, Ruler of Venavaine city. Commander Injara Milades, Representative of House Milades...”

  Araan had said what he needed to Dirakh, so he left him, moving towards the meeting hall. He remembered his time in the Trigad, on the battlefield, hunting creatures. In so many ways the meeting hall was a battlefield, he needed to be as resolved in there as he was on the battlefield.

  “High Commander Fuki'ra Im'bah, Head of House Im'bah. Baron Ahdo Fiarq, Head of House Fiarq, Ruler of Safe Pass. Baroness Miranna Karatini, Head of House Karatini, Ruler of Pomia city...”

  The Baroness, in grey and red Life Armour, walked into the meeting hall. She was Tisiryk's mother.

  He hadn't noticed her, perhaps because when Araan thought of a cyperan seventy cycles older than himself, he didn't expect someone as youthful-looking as she was, even after seeing her a couple times previously in the Lord's Quarters. She was also famous for the city she ruled. There was no Thirteenth Sector city larger or richer, but it was famously known as the city of outcasts. Every exiled noble or cyperan was welcome in Pomia and they were all fiercely loyal for it. She moved to the westward section of the hall, beyond the door's view.

  His name was called then.

  “Commander Araan Vinid of the Trigad, Alpha-Redinan of the Thirteenth Sector, Leader of the Redinan Army.” He noticed they didn't call him Lord which he was from the moment of his eldfather's death. That coronation had already been held when the marks were given. Whatever they meant by this, Araan chose to ignore it and acknowledge the call.

  The meeting hall was round in shape with a high ceiling. Sunlight from several fixed windows in the upper walls illuminated the room. Five columns of seats encircled a raised dias with steps where two fixed seats carved out of ash-colored stone were.

  Three members of the interim council sat in an unequal pair on either side of the dias at the end of the steps, one metal seat left empty. Araan noted the symbol on the backrest of the leftward throne, identical to the markings on his vambraces. That was his.

  The only noise inside was the shuffling of seated nobles and footsteps. Araan earned looks as he approached the dias, some were that of feigned awe, some genuine reverence and others indifference or pity. He took his seat and watched as the last nobles settled into theirs. It was a while before the room quieted fully.

  Then the room waited.

  “High Commander Tisiryk Vinid of the Sygad, Head of House Vinid, Heir-designate of the Thirteenth Sector.”

  He was as tall and broad as Araan, his skin much darker. He wore an ember-colored Life Armour, modern in every, way with an open jacket modification to the torso piece and a black philibeg with ember-colored accents attached to the right side of his waist. New as the design was, he didn't seem like Varau—loud, seeking respect or command. He already had it.

  There was a shift amongst the nobles, with stolen glances at Araan's regalia and Tisiryk's. They were all too aware of its meaning: traditional, modern. Old. New.

  And it wasn't just about the attire.

  In addition, Tisiryk didn't wear his helmet-crown, the counterpart to Araan's vambraces. Instead his askora rested freely, down to his shoulders and back. He approached with a deliberate pace and a disinterested look in his eyes.

  He reached the dias and sat in his throne beside Araan. Without looking at him, Tisiryk spoke, his voice sounding hoarse. “Between you and me, Araan, I like the look.”

  He waved his hand, and the door was shut. The meeting began.