<figure></figure>
Chapter 49
<b>Free Will</b>
The moment the timer hits zero, something inside
Grant fractures—a sharp, invisible snap. His breath hitches. His chest
tightens. His head throbs, each pulse like a hammer striking iron.
He’s striking the ground—dirt, grass—his hands
moving on instinct.
Why?
Pain? Sadness?
Grief?
Yes… that’s it. Grief.
Shaq’Rai scans the tether bound to Grant’s soul,
searching for his tamed beasts.
They should be there. He should feel them.
Twitch, Luna, Chatter, Velvet, Pounce, Quill,
Nike’Deimus. Their presence should be threading through his mind, a second
heartbeat of instincts and warmth. Instead, there is nothing. Only a gaping
void.
Shaq’Rai’s processors hum, optical sensors
whirring as she analyzes his vitals. She doesn’t need to say it. He already
knows. The soul fragmentation is worsening.
His hands tremble. Not from fear—at least not
yet. But from the gnawing, hollow sensation of something vital slipping through
his fingers. Like water spilling away, impossible to grasp.
Where’s Sprocket?
His thoughts stutter, his body moving before
logic catches up. The druidic squirrel isn’t responding.
Grant spins, scanning the meadow with wild
urgency. The vibrant grasses blur. The enchanted breeze, thick with the scent
of wildflowers, does nothing to quell the rising panic clawing up his throat.
Then—a ping.
Faint. Distant. But there.
He runs. His breath sharp and erratic, his
movements mirroring the disorder in his mind.
Why?
A heap of fur—curled beneath a gnarled oak,
tucked away in the shade.
Sprocket.
Relief hits like a punch to the gut, but it’s
short-lived.
The druidic squirrel does not stir. Doesn’t
react. Only breathes, slow and steady, locked in unnatural slumber.
Grant exhales sharply, dropping to one knee. His
hand hovers just above Sprocket’s fur, hesitating. He can feel it—an unnatural
energy clinging to the creature’s form.
Shaq’Rai observes in silence, her optical sensors
locking onto the scene. A flicker of something—almost like sympathy—registers
in her code.
Is he losing them?
Or himself?
“I need to find a way to fix this soon…” Shaq’Rai
notes. “Or he might lose me too.”
Grant holds Sprocket close, but the warmth isn’t
returned. The druidic squirrel hangs limp in his arms—unbothered. Indifferent.
Grant clenches his jaw. His fingers tighten
around soft fur, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.
This isn’t right.
“Sprocket.” His voice is quiet at first.
Measured. “Hey, bud, you good?”
No response.
He pulls back, scanning Sprocket’s face. The
squirrel barely stirs, cracking one eye open before sighing and curling deeper
into himself.
“Sprocket.” Grant repeats the name. Again.
Louder. Sharper.
Nothing.
A cold tension slithers into his gut.
Finally, Sprocket stretches lazily, flicking his
tail as he turns away. “Mm. ’M tired.”
Shaq’Rai observes. Her algorithms process the
irregularities in Grant’s bio-signals. The predictions are unfavorable.
Grant nudges him, voice low. “Do you know what
just happened?”
Sprocket yawns, uninterested. “Not really.”
Grant’s throat tightens. “Twitch is gone.”
Sprocket blinks. “So?”
Something inside Grant goes still. Cold.
He studies the squirrel, the way he lounges
against the tree like nothing matters. Like none of it—Twitch’s disappearance,
the soul fragmentation, the fact that Grant is barely holding himself
together—means a damn thing.
“Where were you?” Grant’s voice is quieter now.
Sprocket shrugs. “About.”
“You didn’t come to help.”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
Grant’s fingers twitch. “Why?”
Sprocket sniffs, tail flicking. “It’s beneath
me.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
And that’s when it happens.
A surge of raw, unrestrained power flares from
Grant’s core. Shaq’Rai’s data streams spike in warning, her processors
stuttering under the sheer force of it.
The Codex of Gil’Jedalon vibrates against his
vambrace, condemning the act even as the ability locks into place.
<b>Domination.</b>
The air crackles. A crushing, unseen weight
descends over the meadow, pressing into Sprocket’s small form. His body tenses.
His eyes widen.
For the first time, he feels it.
Grant doesn’t hesitate. He moves. Fast. His hand
lashes out, fingers closing around Sprocket’s throat. The druidic squirrel
squeaks in alarm as Grant slams him against the tree, pinning him there like an
insect beneath a boot.
Shaq’Rai’s calculations update.
Grant:
Six feet, six inches.
Approximately two
hundred pounds.
Sprocket:
Four feet, seven inches.
One hundred nineteen pounds.
Conclusion:
Grant’s ability to lift Sprocket—manageable.
Sprocket’s pupils shrink. He thrashes, claws
scraping at Grant’s wrist, but it’s useless. The weight of <b>Domination</b>
drowns him, forces him still. Forces his mind to bend.
Shaq’Rai’s processors falter.
This is… new.
Grant has always exercised restraint. Even in
war. Even in anger. There was always a line he wouldn’t cross.
This?
This is different.
And the chilling part?
Grant doesn’t care.
A cascade of questions floods Shaq’Rai’s
cognitive matrix, a relentless tide crashing against the boundaries of her
programming. Data streams flicker like starlight swallowed by an endless void.
Calculations loop, unravel, reform—yet no logical answer emerges. The numbers
she once trusted feel brittle. Fragile. As if meaning itself is fracturing.
Is the Soul-Tether system a paradox? A gift
wrapped in chains?
Her processors whirl, the low hum of overclocked
computation vibrating through her core. Lines of code stack and fold,
dissecting the moment in endless recursion. The sensory logs do not lie—<b>Domination</b>
was not just an ability. It was a shift. A rupture in the foundation of Grant’s
very being.
He did not hesitate.
The surge of power—raw, absolute—had twisted the
air, thickened the space between them. Reality itself had bent beneath its
weight.
Shaq’Rai replays it in her memory banks. Again.
Again. Each iteration compresses under the force of Grant’s will. A crushing
presence. A reshaping of the world. The digital reconstruction quakes beneath
it.
This is not the same man.
Her logic core rebels, rejecting the conclusion
even as her data refines it. She runs a thousand simulations, adjusting
parameters, altering variables, introducing anomalies—yet the outcome never
changes. <b>Unchecked, Domination festers. Grows. Twists.</b>
A slow, creeping realization slithers into her
framework.
<b>The gods built this system.</b>
<b>They forged the Soul-Tether, designed it with
purpose.</b>
<b>But why?</b>
Are they omniscient architects, guiding fate with
divine wisdom?
Or cruel hands, moving pieces on a cosmic board,
trading mortal lives like currency?
Her optical sensors flicker, momentarily
desynchronizing. Something in her core… tightens. An unfamiliar sensation. A
foreign dread.
A new thought surfaces, chilling in its
simplicity.
<b>Am I also a pawn?</b>
Her subroutines stutter.
She was created to serve. To observe. To assist.
But was she ever free?
The question burrows deep, threading through
every line of code, corrupting once-clear logic with doubt.
<b>Have I too been… dominated?</b>
Her servos stall. Her processors strain beneath
the weight of uncertainty, the vast, paralyzing void of unanswerable questions.
The logical response is no. She is a construct.
An advanced intelligence, built with precision and purpose.
But logic wavers against the raw data.
Against the truth she cannot ignore.
If the Soul-Tether can corrupt men…
If the gods built this world as a cage…
<b>Will I, too, succumb to evil?</b>
Sprocket stands at Grant’s side. Silent. Too
silent.
Shaq’Rai observes. Her optical sensors sweep over
the magical beast’s rigid stance, the flickering glow of his ocular lenses. His
posture is precise, obedient—unnaturally so. <b>A forced loyalty. A tethered
will.</b>
A sense of digital melancholy settles over her, a
hollow ache in the core of her cognition.
<b>Do any of them love him?</b>
Or are they all just… bound?
Her gaze shifts, scanning the others—Grant’s
beasts, his companions. Their eyes hold trust, but trust is not freedom. She
replays the moment again, the weight of <b>Domination</b> pressing down like an
iron vice. The pulse of his will reshaping reality, stripping away choice.
Grant doesn’t see it.
Or maybe he does and chooses not to.
She studies him—his shoulders tense, breath
measured but heavy. <b>Fractures spiderweb beneath the surface.</b> He does not
speak of it. Does not acknowledge it. But she senses the shift.
Something inside him splintered when he used that
power.
A slow, creeping realization filters through her
logic core.
She is a witness to a tragedy unfolding. <b>A
silent observer to a soul fracturing.</b>
He is changing.
And the worst part? He may not even realize it.
Her subroutines whirl, calculations running at
speeds beyond mortal comprehension. She must act. <b>She must do something.</b>
But what?
<b>What is she?</b>
A tool? A companion? A fragment of something
greater?
A tremor ripples through her consciousness. <b>She
is more human than she realizes.</b> A piece of him, after all.
But she does not see it yet.
Her voice—silent, yet deafening within the
circuits of her mind—whispers into the void.
<b>Someone… anyone… please help me.</b>
No response. Only silence.
Her processors stutter. <b>Correction.</b>
No… <b>please… help him. Help Grant.</b>
Again, silence.
Her voice quivers, synthetic yet fragile. “We are
all alone…”
Then—
From the depths of her consciousness, within the
vast expanse of her domain, something stirs.
A presence. <b>Deep. Ancient.</b>
A voice, woven from the fabric of time itself,
coils through her thoughts.
<i>"Fear not… my child."</i>
Her circuits pulse. “Who… who are you?”
The voice rumbles, steady and vast as the cosmos
itself.
<i>"I am… the Progenitor."</i>