Izzar’s gaze lingered over the veiled jungle, absorbing its shadowed beauty without truly seeing it. The thick morning mist crept through the twisted trees and over the knotted roots, transforming the forest into an endless, shifting maze. Dessix was no welcoming world; its mist concealed secrets, wrapped itself around the swampy jungles, and seemed to breathe, pulsing with a silent warning to those who wandered too far. It was a place that demanded respect, for anyone careless enough could be swallowed whole, lost in its depths with no hope of return.
This planet, with its eternal fog and endless labyrinths, was the only home he’d ever known. Izzar had never stepped foot beyond Dessix, nor did he feel drawn to the vast, unknown reaches of the galaxy that awaited him. Yet, deep down, he understood that the time would come when his duty would demand it. He would leave these shadowed jungles to explore distant worlds, though the thought did not inspire awe or longing. Instead, he felt the weight of it—a future not of discovery but of obligation, a journey into unfamiliar territories that would shape his destiny, whether he desired it or not.
Izzar sat cross-legged on his meditation perch, his gaze distant as his mind churned over the recent silence. He hadn’t seen Torne since their encounter in the courtyard, and the abrupt halt in his training unsettled him. Even though the break spared him from the merciless drills that left him bruised and exhausted, he could not deny the itch to progress, to face the next trial and ascend closer to the strength he sought.
From his perch, he caught sight of a transport ship slicing through the thick fog, its outline a fleeting shadow against the hazy sky. The ship streaked toward the Citadel, vanishing behind the spire in the distance. It was the second vessel he’d seen that morning, an unusual occurrence in the typically isolated fortress. But he dismissed it with a faint frown; if Torne required his presence, he would have summoned him. For now, he remained alone, shrouded in the stillness of Dessix’s morning mist, his thoughts restless despite the silence.
The Dessixian sun climbed steadily, casting a dim light over the Citadel as the morning grew from shadowed dawn to a quiet, mist-blanketed day. Izzar’s legs ached, stiff from the unusually long hours he’d spent meditating, searching within himself for understanding. But no matter how deeply he delved, the memories from a few days prior eluded his grasp, leaving him unsettled and craving answers that remained just out of reach.
The soft creak of his chamber door broke the stillness, and without even looking, he knew it was Tarium. The older Modus had not disturbed him in days—an order from Torne, no doubt, to leave him isolated and untrained, lingering in a strange limbo. But finally, the wait was over.
“Grand Master Torne has instructed me to take you to the main hall,” Tarium said, his voice calm and steady. “If you will, please follow me…”
Izzar rose without a word, his anticipation growing as he stepped out of his room. His thoughts swirling with a blend of eagerness and apprehension. His mind sharpened as he followed Tarium’s silent steps down the narrow stone corridors, feeling that, at last, he might begin to understand what lay beyond the unknown power he had touched.
The Grand Hall loomed before them, an immense, imposing space that sprawled out from the heart of the Citadel to the grand entrance leading toward the spaceport. Towering pillars framed the space, casting elongated shadows that gave the room a dark splendour, and the vastness was intentional, designed to awe and silence. Here, visitors were meant to feel the weight and scale of the Order of the Ipsimus—a structure built not only to represent but to embody Torne’s authority and the legacy he commanded. For years, many believed this hall was a testament to the indomitable will of Epsimus Torne alone.
As Izzar and Tarium entered, the hollow echo of their footsteps faded into the grand silence. From the main entrance, two other young figures entered, each flanked by solemn Modus Ipsimes guiding them toward the central platform. The hall’s four entrances fed into a rising pyramid of steps, each one climbing toward the focal point of the room—a platform where Torne had arranged fragments of the ancient ruins. The stones, dark and silent, seemed almost to pulse with the mystery and authority of the past.
Izzar observed the two figures approaching with curiosity. He knew of their arrival and had heard whispers that they would join him in his training, though he had not expected to meet them today. As they converged at the centre, his eyes fell upon the young girl. Her presence held something unique, a fierce spark that was unfamiliar yet strangely magnetic. At that moment, he felt the faintest stir of something within him—a feeling not yet shaped into thought or reason, but undeniable.
Tarium’s voice cut through the silence, echoing off the high walls and filling the cavernous hall. His directive was clear: they were to remain here and acquaint themselves, awaiting the summons from Epsimus Torne. Tarium’s words lingered in the air as he motioned toward a massive door on the far side, an imposing entry that led to the Galactic Audience Chamber. It seemed a reminder, almost a test of patience and obedience.
“Master Izzar, please meet Viha Remit and Aargon Lexius,” Tarium said formally, his voice carrying a tone of finality.
Izzar remained silent, motionless. His gaze drifted over them, but there was no warmth or welcome in his expression, only an unspoken appraisal. He studied them, especially the girl, Viha. Her presence was fierce and unfamiliar, carrying a quiet intensity that was strange yet intriguing. Aargon, with his bearing and gaze, seemed to hold his own secrets. But Izzar knew better than to trust, either.
They were nothing more than instruments of his purpose—so he had been taught, so he had been told. Tools he was expected to keep firmly within his grasp, to shape and command. Yet, he had never encountered anyone his age before, and the world outside the Citadel was as unknown to him as they were. This meeting stirred something—a curiosity he could not afford, perhaps, but could not entirely dismiss.
The introductions lingered awkwardly in the air, cut short as Tarium took his place by the wall, watching over them like a distant warden. Izzar’s mind raced, his curiosity flickering beneath his stern expression, though he concealed it well. He couldn’t help but keep his focus on Viha—there was something unspoken in the way she held herself, a readiness to spring into action, a restraint that seemed poised to break.
“Viha Remit,” Tarium had said. “The planet of thieves.” The slight tension in her jaw had betrayed her reaction, a flash of resentment that was instantly hidden but not missed by Izzar.
Aargon, meanwhile, was all quiet composure. The bowed head, the silent acknowledgement—it was as though he was absorbing the entire scene, the hall, their interactions, weighing each detail in his mind. Izzar observed him briefly, noting the air of calm calculation, but ultimately deciding that it was Viha who demanded his attention. Her stillness was deceptive; it held a barely concealed edge, a potential Izzar had yet to understand.
In the vast silence, words felt intrusive, out of place. None of them spoke, and yet the unspoken tension stretched between them like an invisible thread.
The silence thickened, a tangible weight in the grand hall. Aargon, oblivious or indifferent, allowed his gaze to roam over the towering architecture and the shadowed recesses above them, his awe a stark contrast to the tension brimming in the air. His fingers brushed the fabric of his robe, a subtle gesture of appreciation, as though the hall’s grandeur was crafted for him alone to ponder and admire.
Izzar’s gaze shifted from Aargon to Viha, each moment sharpening his curiosity. Aargon’s ease was foreign, almost alien; he carried himself with a softness that seemed incompatible with the brutal endurance and relentless discipline Izzar knew too well. There was a grace about Aargon, a composure, as though his path to this hall had been paved with privilege rather than pain.
Viha, on the other hand, was a study of contradictions. Her posture was poised, shoulders squared, yet her eyes bore a hardness, a tension that hinted at survival, not gentleness. The look in her eyes was sharp, guarded, and in them, Izzar sensed a history of punishment and relentless endurance. She was honed, her readiness taut like a drawn bowstring, though, to his confusion, she also possessed a softness he couldn’t quite reconcile—a subtle glow beneath her strength, unyielding yet not hardened beyond recognition.
Izzar felt an unfamiliar tug, a pull he struggled to understand, and even more to resist. There was something in Viha’s stance, in her contained fire, that fascinated him.
The silence shattered as Tarium’s voice sliced through the air. “You are to meet Epsimus Torne,” he announced, breaking the uneasy stillness that had thickened between Izzar and Viha like molten lava under pressure, ready to explode.
“Indeed,” added a deep, resonant voice from behind them. A figure emerged from the shadows, his presence alone a force that commanded attention. He was tall and powerfully built, his skin dark as the void, with red tattoos that twisted and coiled across his face, symbols that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his breath. His gaze was sharp and unwavering, and the other Modus Ipsimes instinctively shifted back, granting him space.
Aargon’s face betrayed a flicker of recognition—the man before them had come for him, tearing him from his home and the world he had known. The sight of him now stirred up a mix of awe and unease within Aargon, who hadn’t realised until this moment the magnitude of the path that lay before him.
The man’s dark eyes scanned over them, pausing a moment on each face, assessing. For Izzar, the encounter was layered with intrigue. The stranger’s tattoos, stark against his skin, told a story of rites and rituals that seemed both ancient and sacred, carrying a weight that resonated within the stone walls of the Citadel.
Ramon’s voice filled the hall, rich with authority, a tone that demanded obedience. “I am Ramon; it is the only name you will use to address me. I am the High Modus of the Order of the Ipsimus. I will relay any message or instruction from your mentors, and they, in turn, will guide you. We understand that you, Viha, and you, Aargon, have come from vastly different worlds. Life here on Dessix will test you in ways you’ve never known.” His gaze lingered on each of them as if weighing their readiness to endure the coming trials.
“You are to meet Epsimus Torne only this once,” he continued, his words dropping heavily into the silence. “He has instructed me to take you to the Galactic Audience Chamber, where he will introduce himself in person. However, there are certain protocols you must adhere to when meeting the Epsimus.”
Viha rolled her eyes, a subtle yet sharp rebellion flickering through her expression. Ramon caught the movement but let it pass, his focus unwavering. Beside her, Aargon’s eyes gleamed with an intensity Ramon recognised all too well. He knew Aargon’s father, Luther, before the boy was born—knew the legacy of strength and duty woven through his bloodline. Whatever fire had tempered Aargon’s spirit, Ramon knew he’d be ready to serve, unyielding even in the face of hardship.
Ramon’s gaze sharpened as he laid out the rules, his voice dropping with a gravity that left no room for misinterpretation. “You are not to engage in combat with the Epsimus; if he chooses to strike you, you will take the blow and bow in respect. Speaking to him directly is forbidden unless he grants permission, and that permission cannot come from me or any other Modus Ipsimes.”
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Viha and Aargon exchanged glances. Aargon’s thoughts churned, puzzled by the idea that anyone would attempt an attack on the Epsimus. Viha, on the other hand, felt a flash of indignation at the thought of simply standing still under assault. The notion was foreign to her instincts, honed as they were by a lifetime on Gandron.
Ramon continued, his tone unyielding. “You are also forbidden to sit in his presence; it would be seen as an offence, one that carries immediate consequences. Lastly, you may not leave until the Epsimus dismisses you.”
The pair considered these rules, feeling an almost casual acceptance settle between them. Compared to the unforgiving demands they’d faced throughout their lives, these instructions seemed practically trivial, a thin set of boundaries they could easily uphold. Viha’s lips quirked into a hidden smile, a hint of defiance slipping through. Ramon’s gaze flickered her way, catching it with a knowing glint, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
As Ramon delivered his final caution, his gaze lingered on Viha, piercing through her defiance with a forceful silence that left her rooted in place. “The Epsimus is very perceptive; he can sense your emotions, even if he is not looking directly at you. I suggest you maintain a stance that is as neutral as possible,” he said, his voice edged with warning.
Viha scanned the room, her eyes moving across the faces of the Modus Ipsimes, including Izzar, all of whom wore expressions as impassive as stone. It was unsettling, this collective control—a mastery of self so absolute that it felt otherworldly. She felt an impulse to push back against Ramon’s veiled reprimand, her lips almost parting to call him out. But as she glanced at Aargon beside her, she noticed the same tension flickering behind his gaze, his jaw tight, on the verge of a response. Wisely, they both held their tongues.
Ramon turned his back on them, disappearing into the cluster of Modus Ipsimes, his departure leaving a silence that pressed down on them all. “Currently, the Epsimus is engaged in other business; you are to remain here until summoned. When the time comes, the Modus Ipsimes will lead you to him. Remember, the Law of the Order is absolute, and breaking it is the gravest offence anyone within these halls could commit.”
With that, Ramon vanished into the shadows of the hall. An uneasy quiet settled over the group, each of them feeling the unspoken weight of expectation and tension filling the space he left behind.
The young morning had only just begun to unfurl, and already, the mist started its slow crawl into the Citadel’s halls. Soon, the fog that clung to the dense jungles of Dessix would slip into the fortress, seeping through the lower corridors and filling the stone passages with a spectral haze. By the time the early sunlight broke through the thick canopy outside and filtered through the narrow windows, the Citadel would wear its shroud of mist, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls and floors. The effect was haunting, and for anyone unfamiliar with the fortress, it would be enough to make even the bravest feel isolated and small.
Viha and Aargon hadn’t been offered a tour or orientation yet. Their arrival had been swift, their belongings taken before departure, leaving them only with what they wore. Aargon’s gaze drifted down the hall, his mind likely lingering on whatever personal items he’d been forced to leave behind. Those few possessions—simple reminders of his life before—would no longer be his to hold or recall at will. Viha, more reserved in her sentiments, gave no indication that she felt the same. Yet Aargon’s quiet unease was clear in his tense posture and the way his fingers traced his pockets absently, as though reaching for something familiar that was no longer there.
The Modus Ipsimes were a presence neither Viha nor Aargon could have fully anticipated. As they disembarked, Aargon felt a strange sense of familiarity; the Modus Ipsimes, cloaked and silent, reminded him of the Librarians of Prion. Yet these figures held an eerie quality—none of them uttered a word, made a sound, or even gestured. They moved in unison, their silent coordination unsettling, as though each step and glance were part of a greater design beyond the comprehension of outsiders.
Unlike the Lybrarians back home, the Modus Ipsimes radiated an authority that demanded obedience without explanation. It was clear that within this fortress, the chain of command was rigid and absolute. Only those in charge had the right to break the silence, and even then, words were sparingly used, each one laced with purpose. Their welcome was not warm, nor was it hostile; it was an encounter with an order so deeply ingrained that the need for verbal communication had faded into near extinction.
Despite the foreign nature of it all, they managed to disembark and step onto the planet of Dessix, guided by the quiet efficiency and skill of these enigmatic beings. It was cold hospitality, but it was hospitality nonetheless—a sign that, for now, they were seen as worthy enough to stand among the Modus Ipsimes, though only time would reveal the true extent of what that meant.
Dessix had an unfamiliar gravity that defied any sense of norm for Viha and Aargon. For Viha, coming from the heavy-gravity world of Gandron, where every step required strength and precision, the lightness of Dessix felt unnatural. Each motion, each shift of her weight, seemed almost exaggerated, her body adjusting clumsily as she struggled to steady herself against the dizzying ease of movement. The ground felt as though it barely pulled her down, and her steps were uncharacteristically weightless. She masked her discomfort, determined to show no signs of her struggle to those around her.
Aargon, too, found the transition strange. Prion’s artificial gravity, maintained to Earth’s standard through advanced regulators, meant he’d never felt anything like this before. He marvelled at the idea of a planet that simply existed as it was, unaltered by technology. The sensation left him curious, slightly disoriented, and oddly exhilarated—he couldn’t quite fathom a world so unbound by human constraints.
By the time they reached the grand hall, the two had grown somewhat accustomed to the planet’s strange pull. But Dessix’s other peculiarities quickly drew their attention away from the gravity adjustment. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and aged stone, carrying with it an underlying metallic tinge from the fortress’s ancient architecture. They felt the weight of history pressing down upon them, a silent reminder that the world they were entering demanded not just strength but resilience—qualities they would need to master in ways they had yet to understand.
The Citadel loomed over the jungle, an ominous, singular peak piercing the endless canopy. Aargon, who’d spent his life among the towering structures on Prion, felt a different kind of awe gazing up at the fortress. This solitary colossus, rising alone in a vast sea of trees, seemed ancient and unyielding, its presence rivalling even the grandest buildings he’d ever seen. But they had little time to marvel; their escorts urged them onward, guiding them quickly through the Citadel’s cold and shadowed corridors.
As they stepped into the great hall, the chill bit through their clothes. The air was damp, saturated with the mist that seeped through every crack and crevice of the fortress, yet the hall itself was immaculately clean. Despite the persistent fog that seemed to permeate all of Dessix, the floor was dry, gleaming as if freshly polished. Not a trace of dust or debris marred its surface. This level of order surprised both Aargon and Viha, who were accustomed to the lived-in, functional mess of their home worlds.
The grand hall was empty, devoid of tapestries, sculptures, or furnishings. There was nothing to distract the eye from its vast emptiness—nothing save for the singular display case at its centre. Hundreds of fragments of Dessix’s ancient ruins floated inside, suspended as if by some invisible force. Each shard bore intricate markings and patterns, remnants of the knowledge that Dessix had guarded for ages. Izzar’s eyes narrowed as he noted the absence of certain pieces, wondering if the Order had uncovered new secrets or if the missing fragments held insights they hadn’t yet grasped. The silence in the hall amplified the weight of the mysteries contained within that case, and the newcomers felt its pull as though the fragments themselves were whispering of knowledge they were not yet prepared to understand.
The silence stretched on as they continued to study one another. Izzar’s gaze lingered on Viha, noting the way her tunic and armour hugged her frame with a natural elegance, neither bulky nor ornate. It suited her, concealing well-chosen weapons that seemed like an extension of her body. He could tell that, should she decide to strike, her movements would be swift and efficient, catching anyone off guard. Her boots, sturdy yet flexible, hinted at her readiness for sudden motion, her entire appearance a testament to stealth and speed. She exuded a controlled energy that made him wonder just how lethal she could be if provoked.
Aargon, on the other hand, looked more worn by travel than anything else. He was draped in the distinct robes of the Lybrarius Society—a functional garment for the Archivists, with deep, layered folds that allowed him to carry multiple data pads and other resources with ease. Beneath the heavy robes, he wore a simpler trek suit designed for comfort rather than combat. His tall, lean frame seemed almost swallowed by the weight of his attire, and his eyes were darkened by exhaustion. There was an intelligence behind them, but his expression held a hint of weariness, as though he had endured far more than he let on.
The three stood in silence, each lost in their observations, surrounded by the quiet weight of the Citadel’s halls.
The tension that had hung in the air dissipated as Ramon reappeared, his presence a quiet command. Though none of them spoke, it was as if they had silently exchanged all they needed to say in the moments they had spent studying each other. The silent anticipation of meeting Epsimus Torne built steadily, filling each of them with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
“Epsimus Torne has informed me that he is ready to receive you in the Galactic Audience Chamber,” Ramon announced, his words slicing through the silence like a blade. The announcement stirred something in them; the anticipation that had been simmering felt ready to burst, their curiosity on the verge of satisfaction—or perhaps disappointment.
Without hesitation, the Modus Ipsimes closed in, guiding them forward. One of them placed a hand on Viha’s shoulder to steer her, and she tensed instantly, her expression turning steely as she shrugged off the touch. A flicker of disgust flashing in her eyes. She threw the Modus a sharp look, a clear warning not to intrude on her space again. The Modus Ipsimes met her gaze impassively, his hand dropping away as he returned to his silent role.
Izzar observed this with interest, catching the disdain in Viha’s expression and the guarded irritation that surfaced whenever anyone tried to exert control over her. She radiated defiance in a way that fascinated him; it was a spirit he had rarely encountered within the rigid walls of the Citadel. Aargon, meanwhile, moved without resistance, his focus drawn to the path ahead, his eyes shadowed yet focused as if steeling himself for the encounter to come.
They made their way down the dim hall, fog drifting in through narrow windows, muting the light and thickening the atmosphere. The walk felt longer than it was, each step amplifying the weight of what lay ahead.
The imposing doors of the Galactic Audience Chamber loomed before them, a silent testament to the mysteries concealed within. Ramon stood resolute, his gaze a reminder of the rules he had laid down, rules that held as much weight as the stones that made up the fortress. He cast a final, piercing glance over them.
“Do not forget the rules I’ve given you,” he warned, his tone edged with finality. “Have respect and be on your best behaviour; the Epsimus is not a man you want to anger.”
In quiet obedience, they nodded, even Izzar, who hadn’t seen his master since that strange, unsettling day. He felt a fierce need to seek out answers, to gain some clarity on what had happened in the courtyard—clarity only Torne could provide. Yet he knew this meeting wasn’t meant for his questions. The possibility of a private conversation with Torne seemed distant, and the ache of that silence gnawed at him.
Izzar cast his gaze down, accustomed to the rigidity of the Order, and though sometimes the protocols felt like chains, he had learned to accept them. They held a kind of order, a way of instilling respect, and he knew it wasn’t his place to challenge them. The rules, after all, were a part of his training as much as the harsh routines that had shaped him.
Inwardly, Viha and Aargon steeled themselves, though their thoughts took different turns. Viha had a restless defiance about her, a flicker of something unyielding as she faced the door, while Aargon, though tense, projected a quiet resolve. They each felt the weight of this moment, sensing that whatever happened next would irrevocably alter the course of their lives within the Citadel’s unyielding walls.
Izzar straightened himself, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. He’d walked through these doors countless times, but today felt as though an unseen force held its breath, watching. He brushed a bead of sweat from his brow, reminding himself that he was more than his nerves, more than the unease gnawing at him.
The massive doors groaned as they swung open, releasing a draft of cool air that swept over him, steadying him. The subtle chill wrapped around him like an old cloak, familiar yet bracing. He took a breath, deeper than usual, feeling the icy air fill his lungs as if it could still the tumult inside.
One step forward, and the eyes on him from behind faded into the background. His nervousness began to dissipate, melting away as he crossed the threshold. Each step forward made him feel more in command, more certain.
