Torne was deep in meditation. The room around him seemed to have vanished. His thoughts travelled across the galaxy, seeking something, someone. This search always led him to new places, unveiling secrets hidden from humanity. He was not alone, though; the voice in his head, the entity that followed him everywhere, was ever-present. It guided him through the galaxy, showing him everything he needed to see. Even though Torne could see, he could not hear or speak; those were the rules of the Oblivium.
Torne remembered that first encounter vividly. Days after touching the stone, he had felt his thoughts slipping away, his mind wandering uncontrollably, and feared that age was seizing his mind. But then Nivshevus showed him how to control it, and everything Torne had known and understood was altered forever.
He learned to commune through meditation, and Nivshevus taught him new wisdom and knowledge. In his reflections with Nivshevus, Torne was shown just how fragile the galaxy had become, teetering on the brink of disintegration and chaos. Torne resisted believing that the universe was so vulnerable, but the visions Nivshevus shared were too vivid to dismiss. The galaxy was unravelling, and the Order’s grip—long thought unbreakable—was slipping. Though the Order had shaped the galaxy since the dawn of interstellar travel, the idea of their complete control was nothing but a comforting illusion. Now, Torne understood how fragile their dominion truly was.
The few rogue systems that existed had caused countless wars across the galaxy, leading to the deaths of billions, proving to the loyal populations the importance of the Order’s existence. However, for the Order to remain in power, only a very select few were allowed to know of its true nature. Now it seemed as though the galaxy had forgotten what the Order was and what its true purpose had been.
According to Nivshevus, Iphis was the leading cause of the decline of Torne’s clandestine organisation. Yet, she was a necessary evil, meant to allow an awakening of the Oblivium within Torne and Izzar. Centuries of infighting had given Iphis the confidence to defy the Epsimus openly, something that would have warranted execution in earlier years. Though Torne wanted to eliminate Iphis, Nivshevus convinced him that it was in his best interest to keep her alive and in her position.
“Great power is borne from chaos; peace follows the birth of a new era.”
These words were repeated by Nivshevus every time Torne was on the verge of losing patience with her. He understood that the saying referred to the birth of the Oblivium within him—that whatever was transpiring needed to be allowed so that a strong power could emerge from within. Still, Torne struggled to understand why Nivshevus insisted on training Izzar, let alone interfering in a task that Torne himself had given.
“The Oblivium is moving of its own accord; I did not have a hand in what transpired today,” Nivshevus said as thoughts of Izzar being taught about the Oblivium without his approval crossed Torne’s mind.
“I always believed I would be the one to attain this power alone, and then I would pass it on to Izzar,” Torne muttered, unsure if Nivshevus was being truthful.
“The plans of Iphis are ever-evolving. Her fleet is indeed heading to Dessix as we speak. Izzar has a younger mind, open to many new things. It is indeed easier for the Oblivium to manifest within him.”
“How is it possible that the Oblivium has come to him so quickly?” Torne asked.
“In my own attempts to introduce the Oblivium to him, I have visited him in his dreams, subconsciously training him, as I do with you. As a result, his mind has offered far more resistance than yours. It has blocked me from doing so for a while now.”
“Will the boy be able to wield the amount of power that even you have? Would you still be able to train him if I died?”
Torne was concerned; he knew that Izzar’s training would not be complete before he was gone. There was still so much for Izzar to learn, and Torne feared that Izzar would never finish his training after his death.
“He is perfectly capable of wielding an even stronger Oblivium than I do, though I cannot continue his training after you are gone. The stone my essence once called home was destroyed when you touched it; I only managed to survive because of your physical contact. It is forbidden by the Order for anyone but Izzar to touch you while you are alive. In Izzar’s case, it is only during training. Only if you transfer my essence to Izzar at the moment of your death will I be able to survive and teach the boy. I am afraid that once you die, I will die with you. Izzar will not be present to allow the transfer.”
Torne understood; he did not want Izzar to be left alone, not with his training incomplete. However, sending him on this mission carried its own risks.
“Will he restore order to the galaxy?” Torne finally asked.
“No,” Nivshevus answered coldly. “Though I cannot see into the future, I can sense the intentions of people. Izzar is not ready; that is why he has been sent into the wilderness to be prepared. He might not be ready to take up your mantle, but he will be ready to defend himself and survive the coming attack. One day, he will reclaim that which is rightfully his.”
Torne felt uneasy about this plan. He had lived too long and invested too much to watch the Order his ancestors helped create dissolve into nothing more than a cult. In his visions of the galaxy, he could see their influence waning. Countless individuals, factions, and organisations, both aware and unaware of the Order’s existence, were growing in power and drifting further from the ancient institution. Very soon, an uprising against the Order seemed inevitable—it would mark the beginning of the end.
Though many under his control had long desired freedom—to make their own choices, to shape their own destinies—they did not understand the cost. The peace that reigned over the galaxy was maintained by Torne and his people, not by their own doing. Yet they believed it was their own achievement, that they had secured the harmony that persisted over humankind.
Prion, the largest empire in the galaxy, was already losing faith in the Order. Izzar was intended to become their new emperor, to maintain control over that sector of the galaxy, but Torne could not send him to be crowned due to his ongoing training and the very real threat of assassination. The late emperor, loyal to Torne until his final breath, had been young, and it was expected he would live long enough to produce an heir—an outcome that would have spared Izzar from the throne. But circumstances had changed, and Torne’s inability to fulfil his promise had sown distrust among the people of Prion, nearly shattering their faith in the imperial system. Maintaining control over a stellar democracy of Prion’s magnitude had become an almost impossible task.
A new Order was needed; that much, Torne understood. The power of the Oblivium was crucial to the rebirth of both himself and his empire, and Nivshevus was adamant that Torne saw it that way. An entire society of powerful beings, each wielding the Oblivium, could control the galaxy in ways never imagined. They could enter the minds of countless individuals across millions of light-years, eliminating the threat of uprising and disloyalty forever. Though such a power had long been fabled to existence in the cosmos, its existence had never been confirmed—until Torne encountered the strange, enigmatic entity known as Nivshevus.
“I am the definition of both existence and void. I create, and I destroy. That which has been, is no more; but still is. Trapped in a stone for thousands of years, I could not use these powers. Though my essence will disappear with your death, the Oblivium will always exist, waiting for someone to wield it.”
Torne trusted this entity to grant him the power he sought. Whether this trust was well placed remained a fundamental question—one that lingered in his mind, unanswered.
The Order of the Ipsimus was ancient, born from the desperation of spiritual men seeking peace and harmony among humankind. The five hundred founding members came from all walks of power—high-ranking members of religious orders, governments, global organisations, and corporations—all united by a singular vision: to bring unity and peace at a time when war was tearing Earth apart. At that time, humanity had not yet discovered the technology to venture beyond the moon; they were infants in the cosmic expanse, grasping at the boundaries of their own cradle.
When the war finally ended, Earth found itself in a fragile state of peace. The First Earth Council was established, and behind its public facade, the clandestine Order of the Ipsimus held the reins. It had been humankind’s long-held dream to achieve a unified world government, and now that dream was realised—though not without its sacrifices. Beneath the surface, many were resistant, distrustful of the notion of a centralised global power.
The Order had initially believed that a collective council could lead humanity, but the unrest grew, and the concept of their power was challenged. Rogue states began questioning the legitimacy of this newfound peace, and rebellion simmered. One such rogue nation even started its own mission to colonise Earth’s moon, an act of defiance that threatened to splinter the unity they had fought to establish.
Faced with rising dissent, the Order of the Ipsimus knew that they needed more than a collective of voices—they needed a symbol of authority, a single figure to rally behind, someone whose mere presence would silence questions and deter rebellion. Thus, the role of the Epsimus was born—a singular, all-powerful leader who wielded absolute control over the Order and, by extension, the entire Earth Council.
The first to bear this mantle was Primis Velix. He emerged from within the ranks of the Five Hundred, a figure whose charisma and presence were undeniable. He convinced the other four hundred and ninety-nine members of the Order to entrust him with their collective power. The world watched as the Earth Council, once a beacon of cooperative governance, was reshaped under the command of a single man. The Council members were forced to swear loyalty to Velix—not just to his position, but to him personally. It was a vow that spoke of obedience, frailty, and the subjugation of one’s will to the will of another.
But in the shadows of this newfound unity, whispers began to grow. Who was Primis Velix truly? How had he risen so swiftly, and what were his intentions for humankind? The origins of the Velix line were shrouded in mystery, even to the members of the Order. Some claimed that he had been touched by something beyond the earthly realm—an ancient force, perhaps, that had guided his ascent. Others believed that the power a Velix wielded came at a terrible price, a sacrifice that none could fathom.
And thus, the Order of the Ipsimus continued, their influence spreading silently across the galaxy as humanity began its tentative steps into the stars. Yet the questions lingered, unanswered, buried beneath layers of secrecy and time. What truly lay behind the eyes of Primis Velix? What whispers from the void had guided his hand? And what price had the Order paid to bring peace to Earth—a cost that perhaps, even millennia later, was still being paid in ways they could scarcely comprehend?
Primis led the Earth Council into a war—a war that many did not approve of, one that drove the rogue states into the cold reaches of space, birthing the Colony Discovery Era. It was a time of upheaval and uncertainty, as humanity’s future fractured and spread beyond its cradle. Many Ipsimussian agents were deployed, tasked with rooting out these rogue factions, seizing control from within, and bringing them into submission under Primis’s iron rule. For the most part, he succeeded, his agents working in the shadows to ensure that resistance was quelled, and that unity—however forced—was maintained.
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Out of this effort, the First Luna Republic was born, brought under the influence of Primis’s agents and declared a substate to the Earth Council. Immigration to the moon soared, and Luna became a new frontier for those seeking freedom or a fresh start. Yet the moon was still wild and largely ungovernable, its barren landscape harsh and unforgiving. Despite the surge in settlers, control over Luna was tenuous at best. When the first atmospheric generator was installed at the South Pole, transforming a section of the moon’s surface, Luna’s population skyrocketed. People poured into the wastelands, seeking new opportunities, but their arrival put an immense strain on Earth’s resources, particularly its food production. The dream of expanding humanity’s reach beyond Earth came with unforeseen consequences—consequences that Primis and the Order had not fully anticipated.
Torne looked back at that era and saw opportunities—moments that could have been used to strengthen and preserve the Order. He had far more resources at his disposal than his ancestor ever did, yet those resources had become unwieldy. The Order had grown far beyond what it once was, its influence expanding across the galaxy, but with that growth came complexity. The sheer number of agents under Torne’s command was beyond count, and even he struggled to maintain control over the sprawling network of operatives.
The Modus Ipsimes, the four hundred and ninety-nine members who once stood alongside Primis, were now mere shadows of what they had once been. They were all descendants of the original founders, their roles diminished over the millennia. No longer were they leaders; instead, they had become protectors—guardians of the Epsimus. It was a role some considered noble, a responsibility of the highest order, yet Torne saw it as a symptom of the Order’s decline. The Modus Ipsimes were essential to the Order’s survival, but Torne knew their purpose needed to evolve.
He needed more from them. The old customs, the traditions that once served to maintain distance and authority, were no longer effective. One such rule—forbidding the Modus Ipsimes from meeting his gaze—had to change. Torne needed honesty, true counsel from those who served him, and for that, he needed them to look him in the eyes when they spoke. The time for blind obedience was over. If the Order was to survive—if the Oblivium was to rise and reshape the galaxy—then those around him needed to be more than followers. They needed to be allies, capable of seeing the truth and guiding him through the storm that was yet to come.
Ramon was a descendant of one of the most essential figures in the Order of the Ipsimus, second only to the Epsimus himself: the Grand Archon. That title no longer existed, having been absorbed by a past Epsimus to consolidate power. But Ramon yearned to restore that title, to reclaim the authority that had been stripped away and to gain greater influence within the Order. Torne knew that reorganising the Order and stripping away outdated laws would make it far less susceptible to internal dissent, less vulnerable to uprisings. Yet time was not on his side—eighteen days remained before the fleet arrived at Dessix. Reorganising the Order before then was an impossible task, which was why Torne was so desperate to gain the full power of the Oblivium. No human had ever achieved this before, as Nivshevus had reminded him during their countless meditation sessions.
Torne understood Iphis’s plans had been in motion for years, ever since he had chosen to isolate himself on Dessix in pursuit of this great power and use her to birth an heir for him. But she had never known the true reason behind his journey to the planet. The Ipsimussian Fortress on Earth now stood empty; Torne had moved the Order’s leadership away for the first time since its founding, relocating them to a foreign world. In his absence, Iphis had taken control, positioning herself at the head of the Order from Earth—the home of humankind, the place where their influence had first begun. It seemed fitting, almost inevitable, that the Order should be led from there once again. The move had rallied many to her side, and Iphis wielded a power over the Modus Ipsimes that she herself did not fully understand.
While many followed her, seeing in her a suitable heir to the Order, Torne knew that her understanding of the Ipsimus’s legacy was incomplete. The Velix name had ruled the Order since Primis, the line unbroken for over nine thousand years. Every Epsimus, every descendant of the Velix line, held knowledge of the Order’s deepest secrets—secrets that were known to none but them, not even the Modus Ipsimes. Torne had begun to teach Izzar these secrets, but there was still much left untaught, knowledge that would be lost forever if Torne did not have the chance to pass it on.
The weight of the Velix legacy pressed heavily on Torne’s shoulders. He understood that the true power of the Oblivium was not simply in wielding it, but in understanding its nature—its potential to reshape the galaxy. The knowledge that had been passed down through the Velix line was essential for this transformation, for ensuring that the Order’s purpose was fulfilled. But Iphis, despite her growing influence, could never grasp what was required to command such power. She was missing the pieces that Torne held, and without them, her ambitions would falter.
Time was running out. Torne needed to act—to claim the Oblivium, to restore the Order, and to prepare Izzar for what lay ahead. The fate of the Order of the Ipsimus rested not in the hands of those who followed blindly, but in the hands of those who understood—those who carried the weight of its secrets and were willing to do whatever it took to see their vision realised.
Sorath had once been considered a future candidate for the role of Epsimus. Still, the Modus Ipsimes discovered that Iphis had engaged in an extramarital affair and that Sorath was not truly of the Velix line. This revelation stripped Sorath of his inheritance, and the decision enraged Iphis. She despised Torne for it—she had wanted her eldest son to rule, not her youngest.
By tradition, Izzar was taken to be raised by the Modus Ipsimes, a custom that ultimately saved his life. Under their guardianship, no harm came to him. The laws of the Order were clear: the designated heir to the throne was to be treated with the same reverence as the Epsimus himself. Any direct harm inflicted upon Izzar would not result in a swift death for the offender; instead, they would face the most excruciating torture imaginable. The Order had the means to enforce this—experimental technology designed to keep a person alive despite fatal injuries. Though these technologies were still in their prototypical stages and had been banned by governments across the galaxy for their inhumane nature, the Order had never shied away from pushing boundaries. They had conducted countless experiments across a wide array of fields, many of which were now obsolete, while others lay hidden, contingency plans awaiting the day they might be needed when all else had failed.
Torne knew of many of these hidden projects, one on Kerr that lay dormant within the planet’s core—a weapon that might fight a war for him when his army of spies could not. Sorath, stripped of his inheritance, had nevertheless been chosen to oversee the sector that included Kerr. Reports from that world had reached Torne, but he had not yet read them. He wondered if perhaps Sorath could be influenced, turned against his mother, and in doing so, divert the galaxy from its inevitable march toward chaos.
“Sorath might be the key,” Nivshevus mused, his voice deep with thought.
“If Sorath can delay Iphis long enough for Izzar and me to complete our training, then the Order might have a chance at survival,” Torne said, his voice tinged with hope.
“But look where he is,” Nivshevus said, shifting Torne’s mind to the world of Prion. From orbit, the massive city-covered planet came into view, but the vision could not show Torne everything he needed to see.
“He is negotiating on behalf of Izzar to accept the throne of Prion,” Torne said, trying to make sense of what he saw.
Nivshevus laughed, a cold, knowing sound. “Indeed. But not for Izzar. He is there for himself, on behalf of Iphis.”
Torne’s hope wavered, uncertainty creeping in. Sorath’s loyalty was fragile, his intentions unclear. And with each passing day, the path forward seemed more fraught with peril, the line between ally and adversary ever more blurred. The fate of the Order hung in the balance, and Torne knew that to secure its future, he would need to tread carefully—for even those closest to him could not always be trusted.
Torne was unaware of the full extent of Iphis’s machinations; he never knew that she had gone ahead and nominated Sorath for the throne of Prion. Years of planning, negotiation, and careful manipulation had gone into securing the throne for Izzar. It was Torne’s attempt to elevate the Epsimus into a public office, to dispel suspicions about the Order among those who were aware of its existence. Izzar was meant to rule as both the heir to the Order and the sovereign of Prion—two identities, separate yet unified. If Sorath succeeded in his bid, all that careful planning would be for nothing.
“Then I need to send Sorath on this mission immediately; it will distract him from his goal,” Torne said, his voice filled with resolve.
“Indeed, that would be a good plan,” Nivshevus replied, his tone laced with a subtle indignation.
Sorath, despite his ambitions, was still answerable to Torne. No one outranked the Epsimus, and if Torne gave an order, it had to be executed without delay. Defiance was met with swift and harsh consequences. Torne was certain that Sorath would abandon his efforts on Prion to carry out a direct command, but Nivshevus was less convinced. He believed that Sorath had been compromised, brainwashed by Iphis into becoming an enemy of the Order—someone who would do anything to undermine Torne’s carefully laid plans. If Torne was to regain control, he would need to reach out to those with influence over Sorath.
“Archon Tristius is the man for the job. Sorath has a close bond with him because he believes Tristius is his true father,” Nivshevus suggested, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue. The plan was beginning to take shape in Torne’s mind, the pieces falling into place.
Torne opened his eyes. The room around him was pitch dark, his vision only able to distinguish shades of grey. He pressed a button hidden beneath his cloak, summoning Ramon. Moments later, the door behind him opened, light spilling into the room, and Torne closed his eyes against it.
Ramon entered, his eyes still adjusting to the gloom. The silhouette of his master was visible on the floor where Torne sat in meditation, the cloak draped over his head. Ramon wondered, not for the first time, what Torne truly looked like beneath the hood. Though he served his master without hesitation, there was a sense of mystery that always surrounded Torne, a part of him that remained hidden, even from his closest followers. Ramon was loyal to Torne, executing every command without question, respecting the man and the power he wielded.
“Contact Archon Tristius at once,” Torne said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Ramon bowed and exited the room, and Torne could feel his presence fade as the door closed.
Slowly, Torne attempted to rise, his body protesting with every movement. His legs had grown weaker, a troubling sign of the toll the Oblivium was taking on him. He could not allow the Modus Ipsimes to know of this vulnerability—not now, not when the fate of the Order hung in the balance. The path ahead was fraught with danger, and any sign of weakness could be exploited by those waiting in the shadows.
The image of Archon Tristius flickered over the hologram projector; it had been a long time since Torne had contacted him directly. Nevertheless, Tristius appeared pleased by the occasion. He knelt, as was custom, his posture perfect—dutiful, reverent, and, above all, natural.
“Archon Tristius K’unn, I acknowledge you,” Torne intoned, adhering to the ritual that always began their conversations.
“I live and die to serve the Order of the Ipsimus,” Tristius replied. He was an old soul despite his mere seventy-three Earth years. Wise beyond his years, Tristius was fiercely loyal and dutiful, traits shaped by his military background. He approached his role with the same discipline and gravity that he had once held as a general.
“You may rise,” Torne said, acknowledging his devotion. Tristius was the only one who offered those words of loyalty each time they spoke, a testament to his unwavering dedication.
“I have a vital mission for you,” Torne began, his voice weighted with the urgency of the task. “I need you to contact Sorath on Prion. He is currently on an unsanctioned mission to claim the throne. Iphis is enroute to Dessix as we speak, which makes it impossible to send her to handle this matter. Iphis is preparing to betray the Order.”
Tristius’s expression faltered for a moment, the shock evident on his face. The idea that there were members of the Order willing to rise against the Epsimus was almost unthinkable to him. It defied everything he believed in—everything that the Order stood for.
“Do you wish me to rally my sectors and meet her at Dessix, my lord?” Tristius offered, his voice tinged with the steely resolve of a commander ready for action.
“That will not be necessary, Archon. We have the forces to stop her,” Torne replied. “I need you to give Sorath the instruction to take the Morningstar and prevent Iphis from making a mistake. Sorath will see things our way.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Tristius bowed once more, his holographic form flickering with the movement.
Torne’s eyes narrowed, his voice lowering. “The agents of the Order of the Ipsimus are failing me. Do not follow in their footsteps, my dear friend.”
Tristius’s face stiffened, a flash of hurt crossing his features. Torne knew he had offended him—Tristius was one of his most loyal allies within the Order, his loyalty reinforced when he had been elevated to Archon. Nevertheless, Torne needed to convey the gravity of the situation.
“I will not fail you, my lord,” Tristius responded, his voice resolute.
The hologram faded, and the room grew darker once more, the oppressive silence returning. But Torne was not alone; his council remained, still present in the shadows.
“My lord,” came Ramon’s voice from the darkness. “Archon Tristius can be trusted, as always. He will do precisely what needs to be done, even if he must go to Prion himself.”
Torne nodded, though he knew Ramon could not see it. The stakes were rising, and the game was becoming more dangerous. Yet, with allies like Tristius and Ramon, there was still hope—a fragile hope that the Order could be saved, and that the power of the Oblivium would finally be his.
