Torne knelt before the crypts, their stark, black marble surfaces reflecting none of the dim light from the chamber. Each crypt was cold, silent, bearing no inscriptions or carvings to tell the world who rested within. They were silent monoliths, strong as steel, mined from the depths of Dessix’s crust. They loomed before him, immovable, resolute, refusing to give up their secrets.
His head bowed low, and his gaze traced the seamless stone with a reverence almost verging on despair. How many times had he come here, in this exact pose, bearing the weight of grief as tangible as the heavy robes that draped over his shoulders? His power was unrivalled—he could topple empires, command kings, reduce armies to ashes with a mere whisper of his will. And yet, here, in the quiet of this crypt, he was as powerless as the day he had first bowed before these tombs.
With each visit, he found himself consumed by a familiar ache, an emptiness that time had not softened. These were not merely crypts; they were altars of his failure. He had shaped the galaxy to his design, yet he could not shape fate or bend the hands of death. The power he sought, the fabled Oblivium, whispered promises of restoration, a reversal of loss so profound it seemed beyond even the laws of nature. It was rumoured to have once devoured a mountain in a single breath—its essence a force so potent it was believed to be eternal.
He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, feeling the coldness seep into his being, grounding him. In his mind, he called out to the ancient force that had guided him thus far, that unnamed, formless entity that had shown him glimpses of the Void and, by extension, of Oblivium itself. If only he could learn its secrets—if he could only wield the Oblivium, perhaps he could undo this loss, breathe life back into the ones sealed behind this unyielding stone.
“Guide me,” he murmured softly, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, his words dissipating into the heavy air of the chamber. “Show me the path.”
In the silence, he felt something stir, a presence brushing lightly against the edge of his mind. It was faint, elusive, yet unmistakably there, just as it had been in his darkest hours, feeding his ambition, nurturing his rage. But as he reached out, a stillness, darker than any shadow, rose within him—a quiet refusal, as though the crypts themselves denied him passage to the answers he sought.
A flicker of doubt crossed his mind, but he smothered it as he had countless times before. He would master this power. He would find a way to defy death, to reclaim what had been torn from him. In his desperation, he had risked everything, sacrificed all ties, all earthly pleasures, all companions. Yet here, at the edge of the unknown, even his boundless ambition faltered.
He exhaled, allowing himself to sink deeper into his meditative trance, feeling his consciousness drift into the vastness. A cold, quiet resolve anchored him; he had come too far to turn back.
Torne’s voice barely escaped his lips, yet the question reverberated through the chamber, carried by a quiet urgency that seemed to echo within him more than without.
“Why haven’t you given me this power yet?”
The response came, slipping into his mind like a dark, whispered secret.
“The boy still needs to be trained. Without him, you lack the strength to wield the power promised to you. If I grant it to you now, your very essence will disintegrate, scattered across the cosmos—splintered beyond recovery. Another once attempted, and the fallout nearly tore Dessix and nearby worlds asunder.”
The words landed heavily, coldly; the reality of them lodged in his chest like a dull ache. His gaze drifted back to the crypts. The visions of that day haunted him still, the mountain reduced to ruin, obliterated by a force so overwhelming it had nearly reshaped worlds. He’d seen it all in fragments—a blaze of unimaginable power, devastating and absolute. It was his craving for this very power that had led to the deaths of those he loved, leaving these dark, silent stones as the only testament to them. And yet, the same power might be the key to bringing them back, to restoring the fractured remnants of his mind, if only he could grasp it without being torn apart.
It was for this purpose he had tried to harden Izzar, to strip him of all attachments that might cause him to falter or grieve, knowing firsthand how such emotions could rend a man from within. Torne believed that true mastery required a soul at peace with itself, a heart unshaken by loss or love, a mind free from yearning. He looked to Izzar to bring him that balance, for the voice had promised him that when Izzar’s training was complete, the power would be his to wield safely, his to command.
Rising slowly, he turned away from the crypts, his senses suddenly tingling with a faint disturbance. It was as though a distant ripple had touched the edge of his awareness, unfamiliar yet unmistakably laced with intent. A weight pressed on his shoulders, as if warning him of a danger that lurked just beyond his reach.
“What is this?” he murmured, his gaze narrowing as he tried to decipher the sensation.
The voice slithered back into his mind, cool and unbothered.
“You are sensing a plot against you. It has already been set into motion.”
Torne’s fists clenched, and his eyes darkened, a smouldering wrath threatening to break through his hardened exterior. “Where?” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “And by whom?”
But the voice retreated, unwilling or unable to answer.
“I cannot meddle in these affairs,” it intoned, leaving Torne with a simmering sense of unease.
He stood in the half-light, alone with his thoughts, the quiet in the room growing thick with tension. This unknown threat was a shadow cast across his ambitions, an unforeseen twist in the careful lattice of power he had woven. But he would find it, this plot against him—he would find it, and when he did, it would face a wrath born of centuries.
As Nivshevus’s presence faded, the stillness in the chamber settled like a dense fog, seeping into the silence that followed. Torne’s gaze lingered on the green light above the door, a faint pulse breaking the room’s dim shadows. He let out a sigh, low and edged with restraint, his thoughts heavy.
With a flick of his hand, the chamber door opened, revealing the Grand Modus, Ramon, waiting on the other side. Bowed deeply, his form was still and reverent, as tradition demanded. Torne’s eyes settled on him, probing beneath the surface of the man’s silence, looking for any disturbance, any flicker of hidden intent.
“Why do you disturb my meditation?” Torne’s words came out soft but weighted, a current of tension just beneath them.
Ramon did not raise his head as he replied, his voice unwavering. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. Iphis has made contact and requests an audience with you at once.”
At the mention of Iphis, a shadow passed over Torne’s face, his dark gaze momentarily shifting toward the silent sarcophagi. His jaw clenched, and a cold anger stirred within him, filling the air with an oppressive heaviness. Memories surfaced, unwanted yet persistent, of those he had loved and lost. Those sealed away beyond his reach, reminders of a past he was desperate to reclaim.
Forcing himself back to the present, he turned to Ramon, his voice sharp. “I will take her call. Bring the Gathering of Six to observe. I’ll need your insight as well—should there be any worth offering. Somewhere, someone is scheming against me, and I will eliminate all doubts. No one is above suspicion, not even you, Ramon.”
The Grand Modus nodded deeply, unshaken by Torne’s cold scrutiny. “As you wish, my lord,” he intoned, his voice a calm echo through the chamber, before he turned and disappeared down the shadowed hallway.
Torne stood motionless, the door closing with a whisper behind Ramon. The quiet returned, pressing against him. He cast one last glance at the crypts before he turned away, his face set. The time for vigilance had begun.
A voice brushed against his consciousness, soft and elusive, like a whisper carried on the wind. Torne paused, uncertain if it was his own mind or something far more mysterious. His gaze drifted to the sarcophagi. Could it be? Yet the voice was lighter, gentler than anything he’d known, lacking the oppressive weight of Nivshevus. For a moment, he let himself believe it was coming from within those dark tombs, from the ones he longed to bring back. But as quickly as it had come, the voice vanished, leaving him in a stillness that felt almost tangible.
He breathed in deeply, noticing a subtle aroma filling the air—a faint sweetness, unlike anything he’d encountered in this cold, harsh Citadel. The scent clung to the silence, filling the room with a warmth foreign to Dessix’s gloomy essence. Torne held his breath, attuning his senses to this strange presence, but it soon faded, slipping away as if it had never been there at all. He opened his eyes, scanning the room, but everything lay exactly as it had before—silent, unmoving, cast in the familiar shadows. An instinct, ancient and primal, drew his attention toward the door. He turned, half-expecting to see something waiting for him. But there was only emptiness.
Shaking his head, Torne dismissed it, brushing off the sensation as a trick of his mind. Yet, as he turned to give the sarcophagi a final glance, a flicker caught his eye—a movement, subtle but undeniable, passing just beyond the door. His senses flared, and without hesitation, he drew his blade, its ancient stone glinting even in the dim light. This was no ordinary weapon; it was crafted from the same material as the sacred tablet, an extension of his will and strength. With each battle, the sword grew stronger, an indestructible relic bound to him.
Blade in hand, Torne moved toward the door, every nerve on edge, scanning for any hint of the presence he’d sensed. He stepped across the threshold and, with a wave of his hand, sealed the chamber behind him. The hallway stretched out before him, vast and silent, cloaked in shadows. He exhaled slowly, the tension unwinding from his muscles as he sheathed his sword beneath his robes.
Perhaps he had imagined it. But this feeling, this heightened awareness—he had never felt anything quite like it in all his years.
The moment his sword rested within its holster, a surge of that strange, sweet scent filled the air once more, wrapping around him like an invisible tether. The voice, unmistakably feminine, brushed against his mind, clear and calm—a voice he hadn’t heard in countless years, belonging to someone who once mattered, someone he had thought long gone.
“You need to leave this place,” the voice whispered, echoing through the silent corridors. The words drifted around him, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.
His reply came out as barely a whisper. “I cannot.”
A pause, heavy and weighted, followed by the voice again, more urgent. “Then you will join the two who lay beyond that door within the month. Izzar will not complete his training, and you will never wield the power you crave. But if you listen, if you follow my instruction, you will live—and I will show you a power greater than the destruction of a mountain. Destruction alone will never rule this galaxy.”
The words struck him like a blow, stirring a potent mixture of doubt and curiosity. Who was this voice? Only Nivshevus had ever spoken to him of power, and he had believed Oblivium to be the sole path to dominance and immortality. But this… this was different, its tone light yet commanding, unlike anything Nivshevus had ever offered. He swung his head from side to side, desperate to catch sight of her, the frustration building into a seething rage.
“Who are you?” he muttered under his breath, teeth clenched.
“The Void has truly corrupted you.” The voice faded as quickly as it had come, and with it, the sweet scent dissipated, leaving only the cold, damp chill of the Citadel’s stone walls.
Torne stood motionless, his hands clenching into fists. It had to be a trick, some ploy of those who sought his ruin. How could there be any greater power than Oblivium than the force that could shape entire worlds to his will? The Citadel was his fortress, guarded by the galaxy’s most formidable beings. He dismissed the encounter with a sharp exhale, resolving to seek answers when he next communed with Nivshevus. For now, the presence was gone, and he had other matters demanding his attention.
But even as he turned away, her words lingered in his mind, casting shadows over his unyielding certainty.
Torne glided silently into the shadows of the Council of Six chambers, his mere presence pressing against the dark air like a pulse of cold intent. The Modus Ipsimes waited motionlessly, the disciplined quiet of those who had served and feared him for countless years. They stood in the depths of the room, their faces veiled in shadows, eyes lowered to avoid meeting his gaze—a silent acknowledgement of the sheer weight his presence carried.
He watched her every movement, her every flicker of expression, the subtle shifts in her stance. The feigned vulnerability, the controlled desperation—these were masks he had seen before, worn by those who sought his favour while hiding their true motives. Iphis’s urgency to see him return to full power wasn’t borne of loyalty but something darker. She was concealing a plot, one that likely tied into the strange voice and the warning he had heard only moments ago.
“You may rise… State your case.” He gestured dismissively, his tone cool, but inwardly, he prepared himself.
She straightened, the relief evident in her eyes, and began to speak quickly, each word laden with a sense of urgency that was, he now realised, rehearsed to perfection. “I have come before you now for one reason, my lord. It is of the utmost importance that you resume your full duties as the Epsimus. We need you, Your Majesty; the Order is falling apart.”
Her stance softened, but as she spoke, Torne could almost feel the weight of a hidden agenda pressing behind her gaze. The ease with which she adopted this posture of loyalty struck him as a dangerous echo of Yoreal—yet where Yoreal’s strength had been genuine, forged from fire and discipline, Iphis’s was brittle, crafted for a purpose.
“I hope you will not continue to lay upon my shoulders the burden of this Order’s survival. If there is anyone that could keep this organisation from falling apart, it is you, my lord.” Her voice softened, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of impatience.
A grim satisfaction filled him as he watched her facade waver. The sense of warning he had felt earlier, the sensation of something creeping into his sanctum, seemed to fall into place. Iphis, for all her feigned sincerity, was a pawn in a game he had yet to fully understand—a game whose pieces were moving around him, even within the confines of his own Citadel.
“My lord…” she continued, her tone sharpened by his silence, her control fraying at the edges. “How long before you lead your agents again?”
Torne’s eyes narrowed, fixing her with a penetrating stare that revealed nothing of his thoughts. He let the silence stretch, feeling her discomfort grow. This was no loyal plea; it was a well-disguised manoeuvre, a tactic meant to gauge his response, perhaps even unsettle him. But he would not be baited.
He held her gaze, allowing her tension to mount, watching as her carefully constructed confidence began to crumble. She was not just an echo of the past but a weak imitation of the loyalty he had once commanded—a reminder that even those he trusted most could hide darker intentions beneath layers of respect.
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And now he knew. Iphis had unwittingly confirmed the shadow lurking within the Citadel. Whatever had prompted her appearance, whatever force drove her to press him now, it was connected to the presence he had felt, the voice that had warned him. The real question was whether Iphis understood the full gravity of her actions, or if she, too, was a pawn—one to be observed, manipulated, and, if necessary, silenced.
Torne’s gaze bore into her through the hologram, his presence so intense that even across the vast distance, Iphis could feel the weight of his authority, pressing down like an iron hand upon her very soul. The silence in the chamber stretched ominously as Torne let her squirm, watching every flicker of her expression, every tremor of her lips, taking satisfaction in the fear that blossomed beneath her composed facade.
“Lady White,” he began, his voice a measured blade, cutting through the tension with a slow precision that was far more menacing than any outburst, “you bring before me words only you would be bold enough to utter. Perhaps the long years have dulled your memory, have softened your loyalty—perhaps you have forgotten the mercy I’ve granted you, the freedom you hold only by my will.” His tone darkened, seeping with contempt. “It is not you who stands above this Order, and yet you speak as if it is I who have failed. I remind you, Iphis, that it is I who placed you where you now stand. You hold power, yes—but it is mine to give and mine to take.”
The chill in his words sent shivers even through the silent Modus Ipsimes observing the exchange, their eyes carefully averted but alert to the storm brewing between Torne and his second-in-command. Iphis’s gaze faltered, her usual confidence shattered; a flicker of fear crossed her face, and she turned her head, just a fraction, in the direction of someone hidden from the recorder’s view. But even this tiny movement did not escape Torne’s sharp gaze.
The faintest smile curved his lips, though his eyes remained deadly. “Ah, I see. You are not alone, are you?” he said quietly, his voice laced with a dangerous softness. “Tell me, Lady White—have you found new allies? Is there someone whispering counsel into your ear, someone who thinks they may control you as I do?”
Iphis straightened, her face pale, and hurried to respond, her voice unsteady. “My lord… I-I did not intend to overstep my bounds. I was not trying to insist or demand—"
“Silence!” The force of his command shattered her words, reverberating through the chamber with a power that seemed to reach across the stars. The very walls seemed to resonate with his anger, the dark energy filling the room with an oppressive weight. Iphis flinched, and in her flickering holographic form, the ripple of her fear was visible even to the Modus Ipsimes watching.
“Have you forgotten your training?” Torne’s voice dripped with disdain, a deep, venomous fury she had never heard from him before. It was as if something dark and ancient had surfaced within him, an unrestrained fury that he had previously kept hidden from her. “Did you imagine you could question me without consequence? That you could challenge me without paying the price?”
Iphis swallowed, her throat tight as she struggled to hold her ground. “No, my lord, I—”
He continued, unrelenting, his voice a low growl that sent icy shivers through all who heard. “If you deem yourself unfit to fulfil the office granted to you, then you forfeit your place within this Order. But remember, Lady White, there is only one way to surrender your post among us. Death is the price of your resignation. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” The words came out as a whisper, and though she tried to steady herself, the hesitation in her voice was painfully clear to everyone listening.
Torne leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing, his voice a twisted blend of mockery and menace. “Why the hesitation, Lady White? Does the thought of failure burden you so greatly? Or do you think the laws of this Order were meant for others and not for you? Do we need to amend them to accommodate your… reservations?”
Each word struck with a force that left her visibly shaken. She was too proud to falter entirely, but her poise was crumbling under his relentless gaze. The Modus Ipsimes remained still as statues, sensing the intensity of Torne’s wrath and the lesson he was imparting. To him, it was not merely about her request; it was a reminder, a harsh reminder, of her place and the limits of her power.
Iphis swallowed hard, forcing her voice to steady as she responded. “The laws are clear, my lord. I… I understand.”
Torne’s voice, cold as steel, filled the chamber, each word resonating like the toll of a bell. “Then why do you defy them, Lady White? Do you not understand that these laws were forged in fire—each line a testament to the survival of this Order through bloodshed and betrayal? These are not mere words on parchment. They are sacred oaths, bound by sacrifice and upheld by discipline. And I remind you, these laws bind even the Epsimus more tightly than they bind you or any other agent under my command.”
He paused, his gaze narrowing, assessing her. “These laws are the spine of this Order, the very foundation upon which we stand. To challenge them is to challenge our purpose, our history. To break them is to invite ruin upon us all.”
“My apologies, my lord,” she replied, her voice steady, though her gaze held a glint that unsettled him. Her shoulders squared as if satisfied with the course the conversation had taken, but something in her stance hinted at a darker undercurrent. The brief flicker of satisfaction didn’t escape him, though he feigned ignorance, allowing the Modus Ipsimes around him to observe without comment.
He leaned forward, his voice softening to a lethal murmur. “I sense you have a more… personal matter you wish to bring to my attention. You may speak.”
Iphis straightened, her gaze unwavering. “Yes, my lord. It is about Sorath.”
At the mention of the name, a shadow flickered across Torne’s face. His jaw tightened, though he restrained the storm of frustration threatening to surface. Sorath—the elder brother to Izzar, the one the Order had wanted to claim as heir. The boy who still lingered in the halls of Torne’s mind, an echo of disquiet and rebellion, a constant reminder of the path he had chosen for Izzar.
His voice, now a touch colder, slipped from his lips like venom. “What of him?
Torne’s eyes darkened, shadows flickering across his scarred face as he stared through Iphis, her figure wavering in the hologram. The silence between them stretched, a taut, dangerous stillness.
“He left my ship some days ago,” Iphis began, her tone steady but her eyes betraying a hint of apprehension. “I think he is planning on betraying you.”
Torne tilted his head, his expression unreadable, a spark of amusement flickering in his dark gaze. “You would sell your own son out so readily for what—my favour?”
Iphis’s voice softened a crack in her otherwise guarded demeanour. “No, my lord. I come before you to ask for mercy if he does show up on Dessix. Release him to me, and I will deal with him myself.”
Torne’s hand tightened around his cane, the faint glow of Oblivium creeping into the room, cold and malevolent, as if the entity itself sensed the sinister web tightening around him. A flicker of understanding sparked within him—this was part of the conspiracy, a thread in the tapestry of his enemies’ plans. His need for counsel was now irrelevant; he already knew what must be done.
“You think me a fool, Lady White?” he said, voice low and biting. “If Sorath dares to set foot on this world, it will be uninvited—and grandson or not, I will see him dealt with in the most brutal manner possible. This Order was never built upon sentiment.” His words were like stone, final and unyielding.
“It will be so, my lord.” Iphis’s tone held resignation, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her fear.
Torne’s gaze narrowed, piercing through her trembling image. “Do not mistake your authority for invincibility, Iphis. For thirty-five years, I have exiled myself on this forsaken rock, seeking a power beyond comprehension, one that would elevate this Order to realms you cannot imagine. But in my absence, I see my faith in you has soured.” He paused, letting his words settle, dark and menacing.
“You have opposed Izzar’s succession from the beginning,” he continued, his voice a venomous whisper. “Your ambitions would even see you betray my son to secure Sorath’s claim. Hear me now, Lady White—if I uncover so much as a whisper of conspiracy against Izzar or myself, I will mount Sorath’s head at the pinnacle of this Citadel as a testament to my wrath. I have placed you at the helm not out of loyalty, but because you alone possessed the ruthlessness required to maintain order in my absence. But my patience is wearing thin, Iphis—test it further, and you will regret my decision to entrust you with this Order.”
Before she could stammer a response, Torne flicked his hand, severing the connection. The room fell into an oppressive silence, and the faint glow of Oblivium receded, leaving only shadows and stillness in its wake. The Modus Ipsimes around him were silent, their breaths shallow, barely perceptible in the thick, oppressive air, a quiet testament to the weight of Torne’s fury.
Torne’s eyes flickered with a cold fire as he regarded the Grand Modus before him, the dark figure of Ramon bowing with customary respect.
“Grand Modus, I acknowledge you,” he intoned, his voice carrying a sharp edge, each word a command.
“My lord, we have observed, we have heard, and now, we shall speak.”
With a subtle movement, Torne stepped forward onto the platform where the hologram of Iphis had flickered moments before. Behind him, a dark throne emerged from the shadows, cold and unyielding, its design echoing the Order’s brutalist aesthetic. Torne seated himself, exuding a quiet menace. The chamber around him gradually illuminated, casting an austere light over the Modus Ipsimes, who stood in silent reverence. At that moment, he felt their minds, each thought as clear to him as spoken words, a testament to the power he held over them.
“Speak, and you shall be heard,” Torne said, his voice a whisper that carried like a storm through the vast hall.
Ramon, the Grand Modus, lifted his head slightly, meeting Torne’s gaze with deference. “We, the Elder Modus Ipsimes of the Ipsimus, deem Lady White no longer suited to rule in your absence, my lord. Her very presence, her gestures, her words betray a mind clouded with ambition and folly. We sense a dangerous intention within her—it will not be long before she moves against you.”
Torne’s expression remained unmoved, though a darker gleam appeared in his eyes. “Will her strike come in the form of Sorath?”
“No, my lord. Sorath Velix has taken on another task—a mission to Prion, where he has been sent to take control upon the death of Emperor Valarian. Iphis intends for Sorath to become the new ruler of the Prionian Empire, binding them to her through blood and title. Spies on Prion have confirmed his ship in orbit, where he is presently negotiating terms for the Empire’s succession.”
Torne’s gaze grew colder, his fingers tracing the edge of his throne as if the act grounded him in the dark tide of treachery unfolding before him. Ramon’s voice lowered, every word weighted with consequence.
“In the final hour before her call, four High Modus Ipsimes joined her flagship in the Unawel system. Their actions speak louder than any declaration—Unawel is where the bulk of the fleet has assembled, all converging over the past several days. With what we have seen, we believe Iphis intends to launch a full-scale assault on Dessix within nineteen days. If she orders the fleet into motion now, they will be upon us within that time.”
The chamber pulsed with a tangible tension as Torne absorbed the information, his calculating mind working through each possible outcome. There was no surprise in his expression, only a faintly mocking twist to his mouth, a bitter amusement at Iphis’s brazen ambitions.
“Nineteen days…” he mused, his voice a low growl. He glanced back at Ramon, his dark gaze burning. “Then we have nineteen days to ensure her fleet’s arrival is a foregone conclusion—one that ends in her own ruin.”
The Modus Ipsimes watched, silent yet intent, their loyalty to Torne as steadfast as iron. At that moment, anyone who could perceive his mind would understand: Torne was not a man to be crossed, and Iphis had gambled everything against a force far beyond her reckoning.
Torne’s gaze hardened as he leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, absorbing the gravity of Ramon’s words. The threat from Iphis loomed larger than ever, pressing down on him with an urgency he could no longer ignore. Izzar’s training would have to be accelerated—and not with the conventional methods he had employed thus far.
“Then it must be done. Izzar’s training needs to progress beyond the boundaries of the Citadel. If there is any way to make him ready to face what awaits…he must be prepared,” Torne spoke with quiet finality, his gaze never leaving Ramon, who maintained his deferential posture, eyes downcast.
Ramon’s expression remained unmoving, but Torne’s perception pierced through the Modus’s exterior, detecting the subtle doubt etched on his face.
“You doubt it can be done in time?” Torne’s voice was sharp, like a blade poised to strike.
Ramon hesitated before speaking, his tone respectful yet tinged with a grim realism. “I do not believe so, my lord. However, there may be one way to ensure that young master Izzar gains the strength he needs. If he and his new companions were sent into the wilds—tasked with an impossible mission, one that would test them against Dessix itself…”
Torne leaned back, intrigued. “And what would this ‘impossible mission’ entail?”
A slight shiver passed through Ramon as he proposed his plan. “Send them to retrieve the elusive Black Blade of Oblivium from the lost colonies. The journey will demand their utmost resolve. The terrain, the wild, and the journey itself will forge them—or break them.”
The idea struck Torne like a revelation, his eyes darkening with approval. This wasn’t merely a training exercise; it was a crucible, one that would force Izzar to face the limits of his endurance and either come through reborn or perish. “Yes… the lost colonies. They will be tested by the very heart of Dessix. If he survives, he will be the heir this Order demands. Send Tarium to give them their new task.”
Ramon’s voice dropped to a sombre note. “It will be done, my lord… Yet, my lord, if he is not prepared—if he lacks the strength—it may be the end of him.”
“Then Tarium shall follow from the shadows,” Torne declared, his voice cold with determination. “He will offer no aid unless the boy teeters on the edge of death itself. And if the journey proves too simple for them, Tarium can… heighten their experience with traps along the way. Whatever they face, Izzar will be shaped by it.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Ramon replied, bowing deeper. The reverence in his voice mingled with the gravity of what lay ahead.
“Go, then. Prepare him. I want them to know their task before dusk,” Torne commanded, his gaze distant, already envisioning the trials Izzar would endure.”
Ramon inclined his head, murmuring, “It will be done,” before turning to exit the chamber. The Modus Ipsimes followed in unison, a procession as solemn and silent as spectres. As they filed out, their heads remained bowed, their eyes never once lifting to meet Torne’s. The price of even a fleeting glimpse of their master was a fate none dared to risk.
Alone in the chamber once more, Torne felt a chill settle over him. The air was heavy with the weight of what he had set in motion—an unbreakable test, a harrowing journey that would either secure Izzar’s future as the Epsimus or bury him in the unforgiving depths of Dessix.
The bridge of the was dark, lit only by the low hum of consoles and the ominous blue glow of starlight filtering through the windows. Iphis’s eyes sparkled as the last trace of Torne’s hologram vanished, leaving an electric silence in its wake. Before her, the seven shadowed figures stood, silent yet watchful, their eyes catching the dim light as they met her gaze. Each one was a trusted ally—or as trusted as allies could be in a world of constant power plays and alliances born from necessity.
“You all witnessed it,” Iphis began, her voice smooth and commanding yet with a venomous edge that betrayed her contempt. “The great Epsimus, clinging to shadows and rituals, blinded by his own arrogance. His grip on the Order was slipping, his judgments clouded. And in his isolation on Dessix, he leaves the Order vulnerable, weaker by the day.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembly. Their faces remained unreadable, but their silence was laced with a shared sense of purpose.
“His inability to guide us, to lead with strength, has turned this institution into a relic of itself,” she continued, pacing before them. “He will blame us soon enough, you know—mark my words. When the weight of his failures becomes undeniable, he will seek to cast us as scapegoats, claiming it was
who lost control of this Order. who allowed the galaxy to slip through his fingers.”
One of the figures, a tall and cloaked figure known as Helvas, finally spoke, his voice low and rasping. “You speak the truth, Lady White. The Epsimus has grown detached, lost in his search for power in that godforsaken world. But you… you have shown us another path.”
Iphis’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with a calculated malice. “Yes, Helvas. I do not seek to destroy the Order, but to restore it. To return it to its former might. But first, we must cut away the decay. Only then can the Order rise again.”
Another figure, shorter but no less formidable, stepped forward, his gaze intense. “But he still holds sway over many. If we move against him, his followers may turn on us. We could ignite a civil war within the Order.”
Iphis’s expression hardened, her voice chilling. “A war, if it must come, will be swift and decisive. I have already laid the groundwork. Forces loyal to me await only my signal. Torne has isolated himself—Dessix will be his tomb. He will be alone, and when the time comes, there will be no escape.”
The seven figures exchanged knowing glances. Their loyalty now solidified under her command.
“The time to dethrone him is now,” she declared, her voice ringing with finality. “Prepare the fleets. Dessix will be the first strike, and by the time the dust settles, the galaxy will know that Lady Iphis White holds the future of the Order in her hands.”
The seven bowed in agreement, their allegiance silently pledged, each fully aware of the path they had chosen.
Iphis’s confidence radiated across the bridge, casting a chilling aura over her allies. Every step, every decision, had led her to this moment. She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze finding the admiral in the shadows, his face set with resolve. The Order’s long decline under Torne’s obsessive pursuit of power had left its mark on them all, and today, they would reclaim their vision of its future.
“Knowing Torne…” one of the dark figures ventured, his voice a low rumble that cut through the tense silence. “…he will have a contingency plan. He is no fool, and age has not dulled his foresight. Torne does not wager lightly; he keeps layers upon layers of defence, unseen until he deems it necessary to reveal them.”
Iphis’s smirk widened as she responded, dismissing the concern with a wave of her hand. “Yes, his contingency plan lies in that boy, Izzar. He thinks the child, untested and unworthy, is fit to inherit the mantle. But as soon as Torne falls, Izzar will follow. I will see to that myself. Sorath was meant to take the throne, and I will not let some pet project stand in our way.”
Her words rippled through the assembly, voices murmuring in agreement. They had all witnessed the Order’s decay firsthand, its purpose twisted into Torne’s singular quest for dominance over the Oblivium. What had once united them was now fractured. They hungered for a leader who could restore the Order’s former strength and might—a leader like Iphis, bold and relentless.
She turned fully to the fleet’s admiral, the determination in her gaze piercing. “Admiral, it is time. Move the fleet to Dessix. We will strike the moment we enter orbit. No more waiting. This galaxy will remember the name of Lady Iphis White.”
The admiral gave a sharp nod, his hand moving to his communicator. A hum filled the bridge as commands flowed through the ship’s systems, and the fleet stirred to life, engines roaring to break their hold on the stars. In one coordinated flash, the vessel disappeared into the vastness of space, a phalanx of silent shadows hurtling toward Dessix.
Nineteen days. Nineteen days to bring an end to the old Epsimus and to cement Iphis’s power. She would have her revenge on the boy who had usurped her son’s rightful place, and Torne’s era would finally crumble to dust.
